Page 249 of Coach
Hell, I wrestled with Stevie over invoices and legal fees—and that could be considered an Olympic sport, right up there with judo and karate—or whatever martial arts were included in the Games. I didn’t keep up.
But this?
This was one man with a purple polo and a killer smile.
And still, I sat there like a coward, staring at the gym doors across the lot like they might explode if I got too close. I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror—clean shirt, decent hair, eyes a little too hopeful—and shook my head.
“Get out of the truck, Douglas,” I growled, hoping my inner self might be intimidated by my outer self’s rumble.
It didn’t work, but it did make me chuckle.
“You’re such an idiot,” I said to myself, not sure whether it was the inside Shane or the other guy calling me out. I was beginning to lose track of the turbulent personalities vying for supremacy in those moments.
“No more stalling. Move,” I ordered. Without giving myself (either one) time to object, I grabbed my jacket off the passenger seat, shoved open the door, and stepped out into the chilled evening airlike it might slap some sense into me.
Gravel crunched under my boots as I made my way across the lot, slow at first, then faster with each step—like if I didn’t keep moving, I’d bolt right back to the cab and drive away.
The doors loomed ahead. They were glass and steel, but they felt like gates to something heavier. Inside, the lobby buzzed with the familiar chaos of game night. Concessions hawked popcorn and candy. Parents huddled near the walls, nursing giant sodas and shouting at their kids to behave. The smell of floor polish, sweat, and nacho cheese hit me like a brick wall.
And then I pushed through a second set of double doors into the gym.
The moment my boots hit the hardwood, the world narrowed.
There he was.
Mateo.
Standing in front of his bench, shouting some kind of instruction to his team as they performed their pre-game warmup.
And somehow, even in the chaos of squeaking shoes and roaring parents, his gaze found mine.
Just like that.
Like he’d known I was coming all along.
And my heart? My traitorous pulse?
It wasn’t just racing.
It was breaking every speed limit there had ever been.
So, caught breaking and entering a public space, I did what any sane man would do in my position. I bolted to the top of the bleachers where Mateo would have to turn away from the court to look at me.
There.
Safe.
He couldn’t turn. Wouldn’t turn. He had a team to coach and a game—
Damn it. He turned.
And smiled.
And raised his hand in the most adorable wave.
Just in time for every mom in the stands to follow his gaze, turn, and swoon, a chorus of “oos” and “awws” followed by whispers of “Is that Coach’s boyfriend?” and “Who’s the new hottie?”
I wanted to slink beneath the bleachers, to curl into a ball and hide from the world, but Mateo was still staring, still smiling, still had his hand raised.
