Page 288 of Coach
It was juvenile, something teenage boys might do right before telling a fart joke or mocking one another; but it was ours,ourjuvenile stupidity,ourtradition. I came to crave his nightly pics, the image of his manhood yearning for me, throbbing for me, sometimes leaking for me.
God, Shane was hot, and he knew how to torment me right down to my soul.
He came to a few home games when he could—sitting way up in the bleachers, his arms crossed, eyes sharp and focused in a way that made my stomach flip every damn time. I’d catch him watching me coach and have to remind myself not to start grinning like a fool mid-play.
The team moms picked up on his presence, like a flock of hawks homing in on their prey. Thankfully, his statue-like posture, monosyllabic responses, and stern gaze sent most of them fluttering away before any real damage could be done—or rumors started.
Well, wilder rumors than had already spread.
We weren’t sneaky. Everyone knew who Shane was, that we were dating. Still, any hint of privacy we might’ve enjoyed was foiled by the PTA and their cadre of former intelligence officers posing as team moms.
At the same time as my season roared to life, his business boomed.
He’d landed three new commissions—high-end pieces for clients who didn’t blink at his waitlist or his escalating price tags. Most days, he was in theshop from dawn till late, covered in sweat with saw blades humming until the stars came out.
We joked that we were dating like retirees—sending each other good morning and goodnight texts, grabbing lunch on random Wednesdays when we could steal an hour.
Mike and Sisi were relentless, especially Mike. His idea of a relationship involved chaining himself to his partner and never violating the “five-foot rule,” meaning they were never more than five feet apart, even if one of them had to pee. I suppose that kind of clingy romanticism was cute in its way, but Shane and I would never know. Our jobs, our schedules, our lives wouldn’t allow it.
And still, somehow, it worked.
Weworked.
Maybe because it mattered more that we were in each other’s lives than how much time we spent. Or maybe our troublesome, separate paths forced us to cherish what time we had together more than we might have otherwise. Whatever the magic formula, the smile Shane gave me each time we saw each other after a few days apart was the brightest ray of sunlight ever to cross the sky, and I knew, with each passing day, my life would never be quite the same without it.
December stormed in with frosty mornings andeven colder gyms. Breath fogged in the locker rooms some mornings before the heat kicked on. Early snows and frozen nights paralyzed much of Atlanta in annoying intervals that promised more makeup games than scheduled ones.
The kids started counting down to break, and I started counting down to a chance to sleep past 6 a.m. We had games during the holiday respite, a tournament across town that, if we won our way through, would consume much of our time off. Still, without classes during the day, I knew the two-week sabbatical would offer much-needed rest for my players and their weary coach.
And still—every text from Shane made me smile.
Every time he showed up to a game—gruff and quietbut there, watching—I felt that now-familiar flutter in my chest.
We weren’t moving fast.
But we were moving.
Together.
Chapter 43
Shane
My house smelled like pine, coffee, and whatever Mateo had just spritzed on himself in the bathroom, something citrusy and warm—and dangerous, because every time he walked past me, I forgot what I was doing.
The last few months had crept up on me, a ninja—or pack of them, whatever you called a group of ninjas—creeping around my house and heart and, damn it, whole life. They’d infiltrated my last defenses, lowered my walls, and thrown me, head-first, into the arms of my Italian stallion.
One minute, I was delivering a sideboard to a too-handsome basketball coach with an accent that fried my brain. Next thing I knew, his shoes lay by my door, his toothbrush was in my bathroom—in the same cup as mine—and my fridge contained actual vegetables. I’d even built a wine rack covered in carved vines and grapes that now held court on thefar wall of my kitchen. It took Mateo no time to fill it, giving the room an even deeper old-world vibe.
The funny thing was I still wasn’t sure how any of that happened.
And now?
Hell, if a day went by without a message from Mateo—or hearing him ramble about his kids or the latest team stats—I felt . . . twitchy . . . like the house was too quiet again.
And the scariest part was how much I liked having him there, in my house, filling my personal space with his smile and twinkling eyes and . . .
I wanted him with me . . . always with me.
