Page 60 of Coach
I nodded solemnly. “Dangerous tradition.”
“Fatal, if you’re wearing lip balm,” he muttered, then paused.
“Is your lip balm laced with cyanide?” I asked.
He blinked. Then blinked again.
“Did you just make a joke?” he asked.
I shrugged.
We stood there for another beat, then both gave up and went in for a one-armed “I’m a guy, but I’m not gay” hug that somehow felt awkward and weirdly good.
When I pulled back, the warmth of him lingered under my skin.
“Hi,” he said, a little breathlessly.
“Hi.”
“They’re so freakin’ adorable,” I heard the blond whisper. “Andsodoomed.”
Chapter 19
Mateo
When I peeled myself off of Shane—our awkward side-hug complete and my dignity mostly intact—I realized we were standing in front of the table like contestants onThe Bachelor: Gay Chaos Edition, facing the tribunal of judgment I called my friends.
And oh, yeah—Elliot was still standing.
Perfect.
Nothing screams “please don’t run away” like a giant, silent man glowering at your crush like a bouncer at a murder club.
I cleared my throat. “Shane, this is Elliot.”
The two of them stared at each other.
There was no handshake.
No smile.
Just pure, unblinking man-to-man ocular assessment.
It was like watching two jaguars meet at a wateringhole and silently agree to not eat each other—for now.
Then, simultaneously, they both did the nod. You know, the ’sup head bob—chin tilted upward, minimal expression, full of unspoken bro acknowledgment. A millisecond of nonverbal “I see you. I respect you,” and, given those two, “I could carry a refrigerator farther than you, too.”
Elliot grunted.
Shane gave the world’s tiniest eyebrow raise.
Apparently, that was enough.
“Wow,” Matty breathed from the booth, fanning himself with a laminated trivia sheet. “That turned me on more than it should’ve. I feel like I just watched porn with guys who collect swords.”
“It was like an Attila the Hun sex tape,” Omar muttered, shaking his head.
“I’d stream that!” Mike added.
