Page 229 of Coach
“Coach?” Gabe asked. I saw his head turn as he followed my gaze. He leaned toward me and whispered, “Coach, do you have a boyfriend?”
My heart threatened to rip out of my chest.
I startled out of whatever trance Shane had me in. “No, of course not. Absolutely not. No. He’s a friend. I mean, not even that. He made a sideboard . . . for my cardboard box . . . my TV . . . for my television.”
Gabe grinned, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “Got it that bad? Cool.”
As if he hadn’t just shaken my world, the kid turned, grabbed a water bottle, and plopped down on the bench, focusing his attention on the court.
Shane didn’t wave. He didn’t nod. He didn’t smile—as if that would ever happen. He just stared back, and I swear there was warmth in his gaze.
Or was that just what I hoped for?
Was the darn man even capable of warmth?
The buzzer sounded, and the wails of screaming sneakers ebbed. I spun around to find I’d missed the last minute of the scrimmage staring into the stands. My kids were clasping hands, bumping fists, and offering bro hugs to their opponents near mid-court. The refs were walking away, toweling off, downing Gatorade.
Before I could gather myself, the opposing coach appeared, hand outstretched. “Nice scrimmage. See you in a couple of months?”
“Back at ya. And yeah, we’ll try to take it easy on you then,” I said with a toothy smile.
The coach laughed, patted my shoulder, and strode away to get his kids loaded onto their bus. Fortunately, we were at home, so my guys could just walk back to the showers, leaving me standing there, on the sideline, unsure where to look or walk or—
“Hey,” Shane’s voice wrapped around me like a fluffy, sandpaper-covered blanket. “Your guys are good. That was fun.”
Nine words. He’d spoken nine whole words. And now, I was speechless.
“I, uh, brought you something. I hope it’s okay.” He hefted a brown paper bag, the kind I brought my lunch in most days. Something round stretched the paper at the bottom, like it was trying to burst out of its confinement.
Shane handed me the bag, and I reached in and removed a fist-sized wooden basketball. Every line, every dimple, was perfect. The hue of the stain even matched an old ball that had been played with and loved for too many years. It was exquisite.
“Shane,” I breathed, turning the ball over in my hands. “Did you . . . did you make this?”
“I had a little time this weekend.” He shrugged. “I thought you could put it on your desk or in one of those cases, you know, a trophy case thing? It’s not much, really.”
I stared at the ball, stunned by the workmanship—and by the man who’dmadeit for me.
That’s when Matty’s overly caffeinated voice started peeping in my brain.
Was this the equivalent of “the forehead kiss wasn’t enough, so I made you this,” or was this some sort of dating consolation prize? Was Shane letting me down and saying he wanted to visit the friend zone? Or was he signaling something more?
Man, I hated dating and reading signals and sending signals and—fuck—why couldn’t adults just saywhat they meant?
“I, uh,” Shane stammered. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and, uh, I guess I express myself best through my hands.”
Nowthatsounded enticing.
Woodworking, idiot. He’s talking about woodworking.
Wait, did he just say he couldn’t stop thinking about me?
My pulse kicked it up a notch.
“This may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me,” I said, meaning every word. “Thank you, Shane.”
I glanced around. Only a few parents remained. Most of my guys had vanished to shower, leaving us virtually alone in the gym.
“I need to check on the guys and clean up a bit, then we can grab dinner.”
