Page 228 of Coach
I hadn’t expected this . . . weight.
This quiet strength.
And it hit me—sitting up there in the rafters like a man trying not to fall headfirst into something soft and terrifying—that I wasn’t just attracted to him.
I admired him.
Which was so much worse.
Because once admiration was involved, the fall wasn’t just physical.
It was personal.
Chapter 23
Mateo
“Feet set, Cam!” I called. “You’re not dancing at prom; you’re sinking a shot!”
Cam groaned but reset. The ball went up, then rimmed out.
“Board, DeShawn!”
DeShawn snatched the rebound like it owed him money. Then one dribble, a fast pivot, and a clean outlet.
It was better, but still sloppy.
I jotted on my clipboard in my shorthand chicken scratch—transition awareness, spacing on reversal, stagger screen communication: all trash.
Need work. Need drills. Need time.
Time.
The season started for real in only a few weeks. We didn’t have time for sloppiness. We had to work harder, clean things up faster. We had to be ready.
“EYES UP!” I barked as they scrambled into a fastbreak.
The scrimmage drew down to its last few minutes. My voice was hoarse, my clipboard was damp with palm sweat, and my brain had already written half of next week’s practice.
We’d do box-out drills until they hated life, talk-through rotations for the eight thousandth time, and whatever it took to keep Dillon from fouling out of a scrimmage. That boy was a one-man wrecking machine.
Still, I was proud of them.
Not that I’d say it. Not yet.
They were coming together slowly, but it was there. They had the chemistry, the spark, that mystical element that brought a dozen boys from a dozen lives together and forged them into a singular unit, a team, a family. They’d only been wearing the same uniform for a couple of weeks, and already I could see the bonds cementing. It was a beautiful thing.
“Nice!” I banged forearms with Gabe, one of my seniors and the player who might forever be my favorite. Not only was he a good kid, he was sharp, considerate, coachable—and he needed me more as a mentor than any kid I’d ever known. In a surprise turn, he’d come out, attending the first meeting of the LGBT support group Mike and I helped form near the end of the last school year. I’d known Gabefor years and never had a clue he might be gay—or might be struggling. That night, the night he decided to show up and wear all of himself on his sleeve, something akin to a big brother bond formed between us and had only strengthened since.
God, I loved coaching.
I turned and stomped back to the bench with Gabe, chirping in his ear about using his feet and not his hands to play defense. He nodded, listening dutifully, as he always did.
That’s when it happened.
When I looked up and locked eyes . . . with Shane.
I stopped talking.
