Page 299 of Coach
It was need. Deep, aching need.
I didn’t just want Mateo in my bed. I wanted him on my couch, tossing popcorn at my face during a movie. I wanted him humming off-key in my kitchen, stealing my socks because he never packed his own (or lost one and still needed to borrow a pair). I wanted him in my house—hell,ourhouse—every night and every damn morning.
The time between our dates felt like a punishment.
And I hated it.
Every buzzer-beating win, every late-night text, every hour that ticked by without him made two things clear.
Mateo wasn’t just a fling.
He wasn’t a fun distraction.
He wasn’t casual.
He was everything.
And I was his.
Chapter 46
Mateo
Acertain amount of nerves before a big event or speech or game was always healthy. The energy simmered like fuel waiting to be used, to be spent in just the right moment to seal the deal—or in our case, the victory.
My Mustangs finished the regular season ranked number one in both our district and region. Local newspapers had us ranked third in the state. Third? We were better than those other teams. I knew we were.
Being underestimated was an entirely different fuel.
Despite the healthy benefits of pregame jitters, the annoying shake in my fingers as I pulled my purple polo over my head and tried to fasten the bottom button was, to say the least, annoying.
“Here, let me,” Shane said, shoving my tittering digits out of the way and shoving the plastic throughthe tiny slit. He then smoothed my shirt with both hands, like my mother used to do before sending me off to school. His right hand lingered over the embroidered golden mustang, his fingers tracing its outline as he stared. “You’ve got this, you know?”
Shane rarely talked about the team or our thirteen-game winning streak that finished our regular contests with all the momentum of a runaway train. He hadn’t addressed the importance of each game as we moved into tournament play. We either won or we went home. It was simple as that, and my unflappable constitution was struggling with the concept.
“Thanks,” I said, craning up to kiss his cheek before pulling away and grabbing my notebook and white-surfaced clipboard I used as a mini dry-erase board to draw up plays in real time.
Shane stared a moment, as though thoughts were about to spark to life as actual words, but he nodded, turned, and strode into his den, leaving me standing in his bedroom and staring at the space he’d just occupied.
Shane was no longer a question in my life—he was a constant, as sturdy and dependable as the solid wood he used to craft my sideboard. In the months since we’d started dating, our path had been smooth and even. There hadn’t been any life-altering decisions to be made, no tragedies of family proportionsor agonizing injuries to suffer through. And while those days might come in the future, I knew we’d face them together with the strength of powerful hearts and iron wills.
He wasn’t my rock. He wasn’t my strength. I had my own inner power and would never need anyone to complete me, as romance novels love to claim. He did, however, brace me. His own unyielding resolve served as a crossbeam, supporting me, helping when my confidence faltered or feet strayed from the path. He lifted me up, helped me rise higher, and reveled in each step or win or simple moment of joy.
Shane Douglas was stoic, grumpy, and grounded in monosyllabic utterances that rarely expressed his true thoughts or feelings, but he was everything I could hope a partner might be, far more than I ever dreamed I might enjoy.
And his body . . .
Sweet Baby Jesus.
It was an all-you-can-eat buffet, and I could eat it all!
Or I wanted to eat it all. Actually, eating it all might be more than any one man could accomplish. Though I would happily die trying.
Those first days when Shane showed up to practice or games, I wondered how the kids would take to him, whether they would see this burly Jack Reacherof a man and assume he was an ass, or if they might find him just intriguing enough to give a chance. If I’d learned anything through nearly a decade of teaching, it was that kids were a wholly unpredictable lot. Thankfully, the team had accepted him to the point of razzing me to give him a jersey to wear in the stands.
I did not yield on that point.
The parents, however, were not the quick win we experienced with my boys. Dads acted like they couldn’t decide whether to challenge him, avoid his gaze, or run away. Moms were either insatiable flirts or icy cold . . . but even the cold ones let their gazes roam all six-four of him each time he walked by.
