Page 35 of Coach
My head lowered again as I mumbled, “I’m just quiet . . . and kinda serious, I guess . . . but I smile, inside, where it counts.”
He barked a laugh. “You’ll get an ingrown smile that way. Those are hard to treat.”
My brow furrowed again, then two brain cells collided, and I chuckled.
“See! That’s twice in how many minutes. Maybe you just need the right motivation.”
Huh. Had this man cracked my code in the first half hour of our first date? I’d been searching for the damn combination for thirty years. Who was this freak of nature?
“Enough about me. Who are you? Where are you from? Family? Talk.”
“Stoicandbossy. Noted.” He snickered, uncrossed his arms, and flashed a toothy grin.
And that darned critter tickling the inside of my chest did its dance again, right as the waiter reappeared to take our order.
Chapter 13
Mateo
The moment we sat, my nerves settled.
When the beer battle began, my confidence swelled.
When Shane smiled, then blushed, the game was on.
And I hated to lose. Likeseriouslyhated it. With a passion only a true Italian understood, I despised second place.
Shane had no idea what was coming for him.
That thought made me giggle . . . inside . . . where the little boy lived and giggled at stupid fart jokes and double entendres. He giggled his little ass off.
“Well,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair, “you already know I talk too much—and we’re drinking—so buckle up.”
He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. I was learning how that tiny tic wasbasically a standing ovation, in Shane-speak.
“I grew up in Italy,” I started, resting my arms on the table. “In a small town you’ve never heard of. Not the picture-perfect vineyard type—more cobblestone alleys and guys named Vito who ran cafés like crime fronts.”
His eyebrow arched, and I grinned. “I’m kidding . . . kind of. My family owns a bakery. Ricci Pane. It’s been there since my grandfather’s grandfather could swing a rolling pin, maybe a few centuries before, if you believe the family tales.”
I paused, sipping my beer.
“You didn’t want to be a baker? Carry on the family legacy?”
I shrugged. “I was supposed to take it over, knead dough, sell cannoli, marry some sweet Italian girl and live above the shop.” I shrugged. “Instead, I fell in love with basketball.”
Shane blinked. “In Italy?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “We had one tiny court with busted backboards and no nets. I used to sneak out and play until midnight. My mom said I dribbled in my sleep.”
That got him.
A real smile, small but warm, flickered across his face.
I pretended not to notice, though it hit me squarein the chest.
“I moved to the States when I was eighteen,” I said. “Got a partial scholarship to a small college in the South. Nothing fancy. I was fast, scrappy, could shoot from anywhere. A D-I college picked me up in my junior year, but I wasn’t . . . good enough, not really, certainly not to play at the next level.”
I let that hang for a second. It still stung, even years later, even though I’d made peace with it.
