Page 58 of Coach
And I promised myself I’d try.
Besides, Stevie would kill me if I backed out now, and death-by-Stevie was worse than anything these queens could cook up.
Eventually, I spotted him.
Across the bar, packed into a red vinyl booth with four other guys, he looked like the sun had decided to wear charcoal gray and worry. One of the guys—a tiny tornado of a man with perfect hair—was half in Mateo’s lap. Another guy sat beside a scholarly-looking dude with folders spread out like they were war plans.
And then there was the fourth man. He was massive, bearded, and staring at a TV like he wascalculating whether he could body-slam a linebacker through the screen.
This was the cast of a Netflix show I hadn’t auditioned for.
From across the room, Mateo laughed at something. His face tilted up, cheeks flushed, as his hand fluttered like he couldn’t decide whether to shoo the guy off his lap or hug him tighter.
And then . . . he looked up.
His eyes met mine.
And something inside me cracked.
I felt it deep inside, where nothing should crack, where everything was supposed to be solid and impervious and impenetrable.
Whatever it was didn’t crack all the way.
Just a fracture.
A line forming like pressure building behind glass.
He lit up when he saw me—bright, unguarded, just for a second. His mouth opened like he was about to say something, even though I was half a bar away. It was so Mateo—that impulsive joy, that realness—that I forgot the disco football, forgot the man in the referee jockstrap doing body shots, forgot how many exits I’d already mentally mapped.
He looked at me like . . . I waswanted.
Not tolerated. Not put upwith.
Wanted.
My chest tightened in that weird, stupidly inconvenient way it sometimes did around him.
And suddenly, the bar didn’t seem so loud.
The glittery football didn’t seem so absurd.
Still, crossing the bar felt like stepping into a gay fever dream. There was a TV showing men’s wrestling with commentary dubbed in French. A drag queen in cleats was straddling a pool table while refereeing a darts game with a glitter whistle. Somewhere, someone was chanting, “BOTTOMS UNITE,” which I chose not to unpack.
And then there was the booth.
As I neared, I saw him elbowing the guy on the end—a mountain of a man who looked like he bench-pressed cattle for recreation.
“Elliot, move,” Mateo hissed.
Elliot didn’t budge.
“Seriously. You’re blocking me in.”
Still nothing.
The blond guy—and I meanreallyblond—was dressed like he’d been styled by a fashion-forward raccoon with access to a Nordstrom clearance rack and zero sense of chill. With him seated at the table, I couldn’t see his pants, but his shirt was black mesh and see-through—and covered in tiny glittering footballs that sparkled every time he moved—which, to be clear, was constantly. Over that, he wore acropped faux-leather bomber jacket with leopard print lining, pushed up to the elbows for maximum drama. Around his neck was a thin silver chain with a tiny whistle charm that may or may not have been functional.
His platinum hair was tousled, as though he’d spent an hour making it look like he hadn’t tried at all. Eyeliner sharp enough to file a restraining order framed clear gray eyes, and his cheekbones glowed with the power of a thousand strategically placed highlighters.
