Page 52 of Coach
I grunted. Fuck my life.
Me:Friends? Trivia? I’ll be useless.
M. Ricci:Then we’ll be useless together. Besides, Mike is a trivia god. The rest of us are just there to look hot and share the prize he wins.
Me:Mike?
M. Ricci:Teacher at school. He’s my work wife. You’ll get to meet his husband, Elliot. You two are a lot alike. Big, beefy, look like you want to chew on a two-by-four. You’ll like him.
Me:I prefer smaller pieces, you know, if I’m going to chew on them.
The dots danced. Then stopped. Then danced again.
M. Ricci:Dear God, thatwas a joke.
Me:I can be funny.
M. Ricci:THAT was funny. Shit, doc is here. Gotta go. I’ll text directions and time later or tomorrow am.
Me:Okay. Great.
Okay. Great.
Stevie beamed as she slipped out the door without a word. She’d been hovering over my shoulder the entire time. I half worried she’d snatch the phone out of my hands and type something I’d regret. Thankfully, she was in more of a looming mood.
I stared at the screen, reread the texts, searched for some hidden meaning, some indication that Mateo was just being nice or polite or . . . that he didn’t want to get together and this was his way of letting me down easy.
But there was nothing there.
Nothing but a sexy Italianwantingto see me, wanting me to meet his friends.
That had to mean something, right?
Chapter 17
Mateo
Ishould’ve turned around the moment I saw the disco ball shaped like a football.
That was my first thought as I pulled open the heavy front door of Jockstraps, the gayest sports bar in the South—and possibly the universe. The sign outside featured a neon jockstrap bouncing rhythmically over a pair of crossed baseball bats, and it was flashing in time to a beat I was almost certain came from a RuPaul remix of the Monday Night Football theme.
Inside, the place looked like the lovechild of an ESPN set and a drag brunch. Flat-screen TVs lined the walls, each broadcasting something different—hockey, gymnastics, a rerun ofThe Golden Girlswith Spanish subtitles, and a men’s diving competition that everyone seemed to be openly enjoying. Rainbow pennants hung between framed jockstraps signed by minor league baseball playersand one very confused Olympic fencer. Above it all spun the disco football, casting sparkles onto everything from the leather-lined bar stools to the massive oil painting of Cher in a referee outfit. For some unknown reason, the artist had given her Dolly Parton’s boobs.
What did gay men know of Cher’s boobs? Or Dolly’s? Or any woman’s, for that matter?
The air smelled like beer, nacho cheese, and horny ambition.
And I was twenty-nine minutes early.
“Whoa, fresh meat,” called a voice so deep it rattled my ribs.
I turned—and my knees threatened to rebel at what I saw.
Behind the bar stood a man who looked like he was sculpted from sex and protein powder. He was shirtless,obviously, with a leather harness crisscrossing his massive pecs and a whistle hanging from his neck like he might call a foul on my entire existence. His arms were the size of small countries, and his jawline could slice deli meat. Dirty blond hair was gelled back like he had a three o’clock modeling shoot and a four o’clock arm-wrestling championship. His name—written in Sharpie across his left pec—read: “Todd (really).”
“Uh,ciao,” I said. Eloquent. Shakespearean, even.
Todd gave me a once-over that started at my sneakers and ended somewhere around my soul. “Your accent’s fucking hot, but you look like you’re either about to cry or confess to a murder.”
