Page 23 of Coach
Get it together, Shane.
I was a grown man, not a teenager with a crush.
So what if he was stupidly handsome?
Who cared if his voice made my knees feel like they’d forgotten their job?
I was here to drop off a piece of furniture, and then I was leaving.
It was simple as that. Clean. Professional.
So why the hell was I adjusting my shirt?
He took so long inside I was halfway convinced he’d bolted out the back door to escape the awkward tension when the screen creaked open again and Mateo reappeared, holding a glass of ice water in both hands like it was a peace offering to the gods.
“Sorry,” he said, handing it over. “I had to wash a glass. With tryouts keeping me at school late, the house has gotten a little out of control.”
I took the glass with a nod, careful not to let my fingers brush his. It was real glass, cold and beaded with sweat, like everything else today.
“Thanks,” I said, and lifted it to my lips.
The water was ice-cold—shockingly good. I mean, it was water, but sometimes, on a hot day,water tasted better than it should. Mateo’s water was perfection.
I drained half the glass in three gulps before my hand shifted wrong and the rest dumped straight down the front of me. I jumped and squealed—yes, I squealed — like a teenage girl who’d just been poked in the ribs. I froze as the cold hit—sharp, rude, soaking through the front of my shirt in one splash that clung to skin and fabric alike. My tank top was already thin from age. Now it was glued to my chest, outlining every inch of me like a crime scene.
The glass flew out of my hand as ice found its way into the front of my jeans. That sent me into a not-so-happy dance as I struggled to get the ice to fall down a leg rather than lodge itself into my crotch—the crotch that hadn’t seen underwear in decades.
I failed.
Ice clung to my balls with bitter, angry, frigid fingers.
My hand shot south so fast, I forgot Mateo was watching. He’d somehow managed to catch the glass I’d flung and was gaping as my hand disappeared down the front of my pants, reappearing a moment later with the offending ice—now smaller—squishing for freedom between two fingers. It fell to the ground before I could lift it in victory.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
“So, drink often?” Mateo smirked.
I exhaled through my nose and resisted the urge to curse out loud. When I glanced back up, Mateo was staring at my stomach, which was now as exposed as if I’d ripped my shirt off like a stripper readying to mount his pole.
His mouth was parted, eyes fixed like he couldn’t decide whether to hand me a towel or throw himself into traffic.
I cleared my throat.
His gaze jerked upward, eyes widening, ears going red.
“Sorry,” he blurted. “That was—sorry, that looked cold.”
“It was . . . still is,” I said flatly, trying not to react to the way his voice cracked.
I reached down, gripped my tank top in both hands, and wrung it out like a dish towel. Only after it hung limply again did I realize two things: first, I’d wrinkled it in ways that might never be repaired; and second, Mateo’s eyes had snapped to my abs the moment I’d lifted my shirt. His expression had morphed into that of a man who was dying of thirst, and he’d just seen his first hint of an oasis.
Fine, I had great abs. It was genetics. I think I wasborn with them.
Still, guys lost their shit over them, and, in this case, a very sexy Italian was in the process of shitting . . . losing . . . whatever . . . right in front of me.
This is just a delivery, I reminded myself, clearing my throat. “Let’s get this inside,” I said while reaching up and tugging the blanket off the piece.
