Page 57 of Coach
“Crusty like an emotionally stunted badger,” I said. “He builds furniture. He glowers. He wears boots like he’s planning to fight God in an alley.”
“So yes,” said Mike. “He’s Elliot-esque, and you’retotallyinto him.”
I hesitated, blinking a few times so my brain had time to catch up. “Maybe. I might be. A little.”
Matty put a hand over his heart and singsonged. “Our baby is in love.”
“Stop,” I snarled.
Omar leaned forward. “Does he know what he’s walking into?”
I paused again, my gaze falling to my folded, fidgeting fingers. “I may have described trivia night as ‘chill’ and ‘low-key.’”
Elliot let out one quick bark of a laugh that echoed like thunder.
Mike grinned. “You’resoscrewed.”
“We’ve got a bachelor party tonight”—Todd slid by and dropped off a tray of drinks—“andyou’rethe loud ones?”
“We’re the winning ones,” Mike replied with a smug smile.
“Oh,” Todd said, raising a brow at me. “This isthatcrew?”
I nodded. “Be gentle.”
He looked at Elliot, then at Mike, then at Matty, then back at me. “Handsome, if your man survives this group, marry him.”
“I’ve known them twelve minutes, and I’d die for all of them,” Omar whispered.
“I love this one,” Matty said, pointing at Omar, morphing into Bambi staring up at his mother.
I took another sip of Daddy Issues, and tried to calm my heart from the somersaults it was practicing.
Shane was going to walk into this circus any minute.
And I had no idea if he’d laugh . . .
Or run.
Chapter 18
Shane
Istepped just inside the door of Jockstraps, wondering if Mateo had invited me here as part of some elaborate psychological experiment or a queer frat initiation.
Overhead, a disco ball shaped like a football spun, casting kaleidoscope sparkles over a jockstrap display case and a life-size cardboard cutout of Jason Momoa wearing a whistle and very little else. A shirtless man in a harness and worn short-shorts roller-skated past me carrying a tray of nachos like this was all completely normal.
I blinked once.
So this is how I would die, surrounded by glitter and cheese.
The place looked like someone asked ChatGPT to “make me a gay Cheers,” then added a sports reference as an afterthought.
I took a slow, deep breath and resisted the very realurge to turn around and walk directly into traffic. To my left, a bachelor party was chanting something about “tight ends and looser morals.” To my right, two men were debating whether the hotness of Olympic gymnasts outweighed their height disadvantage in a theoreticalHunger Gamesscenario. I kind of wanted to hear that one play out. It was weird but intriguing.
I stood there for a moment, stone-faced, because that’s what I do. I’d walked into estate sales with more enthusiasm than I had in my soul, but I wasn’t leaving.
I was here for Mateo.
