Page 68 of Coach
I pinched the bridge of my nose with two fingers. “He blinked at me like a confused dog, kissed right below my hairline, and fled the scene. There was no look, at least not a long, meaningful one laced with clues for Nancy Drew. There was only escape.”
Matty gasped. “You got forehead-kissed and abandoned? That’s art.”
“He probably panicked,” Omar said. “He seems like the type who’s allergic to joy.”
“Or,” Sisi said, raising a finger, “he’s one of those guys who doesn’t do big gestures. And that forehead kiss? That was him throwing his whole soul into one square inch of just-beginning-to-wrinkle skin.”
Everyone turned to look at me, my forehead, specifically. I’d never been self-conscious about myskin before; but in that moment, I swore to buy cologne and moisturize daily.
I blinked. “I . . . I think I liked it.”
Sisi sat back, stared a moment, then nodded as though confirming her findings. “Then it counts. It’s an official first kiss with all the meanings, insecurities, and silly lovesick hopes assigned to one.”
Matty beamed. “Congratulations. You’ve entered the foreplay of feelings phase.”
Omar raised his coffee. “To forehead kisses. May the next one be two inches lower.”
“To his nose?” Sisi’s whole face screwed up.
“Baby steps,” Omar said, his voice instructional. “A guy like Shane can’t be expected to jump from the cranium straight to swapping spit.”
“He’s got you there,” Matty agreed because, of course, he did. “Nose it is! Let there be nasal love!”
“Hold right there, gents.” Sisi raised a palm, a queen silencing her court. “There’s another question we have yet to explore, and it may be more vital than any silly kiss or handhold.”
My stomach churned. I knew I was in trouble when Sisi entered “professor mode.”
She barreled forward because . . . of course she did. “Mateo, you are a basketball coach, correct? A former collegiate player, yes?”
I sat back, unsure where this was leading, feeling abit like the kid in a horror movie standing at the top of the darkened stairs while deciding whether or not to take the plunge.
“Yes to both,” I answered.
Sisi leaned forward, her elbows planted on the table, chin in her hands. “Why are you acting so not confident? You have never stumbled with your words or sat while we ran over someone, back and forth, again and again. You never let us ram you with the bus.”
“I think he likes being the ram-er, not the ram-ee,” Omar offered.
Matty did a little shimmy thing, like he was cold and excited at the same time, then gripped Omar’s arm like a horny beast marking its territory. “Ram-ee, I love it. Baby, you can be my ram-er anytime.”
“Focus, people!” Sisi snapped. “This is not a sexual conversation . . . yet.”
I groaned.
Sisi continued, “This is about why Mateo has folded in on himself in the face of a brusque—if tasty—woodworker. Out with it, our little rotini noodle. Inquiring minds and all.”
“Rotini noodle?” I couldn’t suppress a grin.
Sisi shrugged. “It was the best I could do on short notice. Now answer or I’ll switch from pasta tocheeses.”
“Like ‘from-under’ cheese?” Matty asked, batting his eyelashes as he did.
“Ew.” I scowled. “No. There will be no ‘taint truffle.’ None whatsoever!”
“Taint truffle?” Sisi clapped through a snorty laugh. “That’s awesome. I may get you a T-shirt with that on the back, like a softball jersey or something. That’s priceless.”
My head banged the wooden back of the booth again.
Then I surrendered to the question, since it would not go away on its own.
