Page 246 of Coach
Flannel Daddy:You know who Matt Rife is?
Me:The comedian? Sure. He’s funny . . . and super cute.
Damn you, valley girl. Go away!
Flannel Daddy:Right.
Flannel Daddy:He’s in town next week. One week only.
Me:Really?
Flannel Daddy:Yeah. Want to go? With me?
I couldn’t help the smile curling my lips. He was so gruff, so short with his words, but I’d learned in our short time knowing each other that each one carried the weight of a thousand others. He wasn’t unfeeling like I’d originally thought. He just didn’t know how to express those emotions in words. At least, not in very many words.
Me:I’d love to, but I have practice every night until spring.
Flannel Daddy:The show starts at 9:30 at night. If you’re practicing that late, I’m calling CPS.
Me:Ha. No need to call the authorities. We usually stop around six. Some weeks we keep them until seven, especially if there’s a big game coming up. Unless they throw up on their shoes Friday night, next week should be normal.
Flannel Daddy:Good. I already got tickets for Tuesday night.
Presumptive little bastard. I loved it!
Flannel Daddy:I’ll bring dinner to your place around seven-thirty.
Me:I’ll need to shower and change.
There was a long pause before the dots began dancing again.
Flannel Daddy:I’ll be there at seven with soap, a sponge, and a rubber duckie.
Was that . . . a joke?
I gaped at the screen for an eternity before a laugh flew out so loud I startled myself.
Ryan, who was climbing into his Jeep next tome, bent down with scrunched brows and stared through my passenger side window. “Everything all right?”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “Fine. Just . . . something funny. All good.”
He cocked his head, then climbed into his Jeep and drove away.
Me:Tuesday, seven o’clock. You, me, a duckie, and a towel. It’s a date.
Flannel Daddy:Fuck the towel. See you then.
Chapter 30
Shane
The sun was already trying to hide outside, a sure sign of winter sneaking up on us with shorter days and colder nights. I’d been at it for a week and a half, cutting and planing and sawing. Taking on a massive order to fill a family’s third home down in somewhere Florida had been a godsend for my bank account but had left me with even less of a life than before. I’d barely left the shop—barely slept—since the work had begun.
Sawdust clung to my skin like a second layer, and the half-carved table leg in front of me felt more like a hostage than a project.
That’s when Stevie stepped in, her timing impeccable, as always.
Bootsclompedon the floor. I turned my head to find her arms crossed, blood red eyeliner streaked like war paint. “You do realize it’s Friday, right? Normal people stop work, drink, and fuck—or whateverthe hell they can to relax and wash the stink of the week off their bodies. Speaking of stink . . .”
