Page 65 of Coach
He kept going. I didn’t stop him.
His accent was like the perfect sauce slathered over the perfect bite of steak . . . and there was something about the way he filled silence that made it feel less like noise and more like a blanket, a ridiculous, frantic, yet charming blanket.
When we reached my truck, he hesitated—just for a second—then turned toward me like he was working up to something.
I braced for a bad dad joke.
What I got instead was: “I really like you.”
There’d been no buildup, no buffer, just words, raw and sudden, hanging there between us like a lit match.
He said it too fast, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them. His face flushed, and his eyes flicked up to mine, then away just as quickly. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric until it bunched at his hip, and his weight shifted from one foot to the other, a nervous shuffle that made him look like he was half a secondfrom bolting—or doubling down, or peeing all over the parking lot.
Then his mouth pressed into a line like he was trying to will it shut, but it was too late. The words were out, free in the world, never to be contained again.
Somewhere in his terrified gaze, there was something hopeful, like he wanted to believe I might catch what he was offering instead of dropping it—or tossing it aside.
I stared.
I blinked.
His eyes were so wide, and his mouth moved like he wanted to take it all back, like he’d said it wrong—or worse, too honestly.
Something in my chest cracked.
Not broke exactly, just . . . shifted. It felt weird, but insistent. I wanted to . . . no . . . Ineededto do something.
I leaned in.
Slowly.
Because I didn’t know how to say anything back. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But I could do this.
My lips were dry, probably cracked beyond repair. Still, I pressed them forward and kissed his forehead. It was quick and gentle, more instinct than planned.
When I pulled back, I didn’t move for a second, just stared down at him.
He stood there, frozen—eyes wide, lips parted like maybe he had something to say but forgot how English worked. His hands hung by his sides, one twitching like it might reach for me, the other still fisted in the fabric of his shirt like it was the only solid thing within reach.
My stomach did something weird. Something flippy.
Shit.
I’d kissed him. I hadactuallykissed him.
On the forehead, sure. But still.
That wasn’t nothing. He had a nice forehead.
It had felt . . . good even. Like maybe I hadn’t ruined everything just by existing near him for too long; but now he just stood there like a deer in very romantic headlights, and I was convinced I’d short-circuited the entire evening, possibly my whole life.
Was the kiss too much? Too soft? Too foreheady?
Was foreheady even a thing?
What if he thought I was being condescending?
