Page 72 of Coach
Because I needed a minute.
I hadn’t seen him since the kiss, since that night in the parking lot where I did the most reckless thing I’d done in years and pressed my mouth to the one place on him I thought wouldn’t scare us both too badly.
I’d played it cool afterward and drove away like my insides weren’t still vibrating. But now, I was sitting there with my arms braced on my knees, suddenly nervous in a way that didn’t fit, not for a guy like me.
I didn’t do nerves.
I did structure.
I maintained control.
But Mateo made all that feel like scaffolding over something bigger, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what lay underneath.
So yeah, I sat still, letting my eyes track him like I was studying blueprints. Watching. Waiting.
Okay, I wasn’t still. My right leg bobbed so fast someone probably thought I was keeping time to some hyper-speed dance remix in my head. I couldn’t decide whether to clasp my fingers together, sit back and let them hang at my sides, or lock them behind my head and lean back against the wall like some too-casual, almost-asleep idiot on the back row of gym class.
I settled for leaning forward, feet on the bleacher in front of me, just like I’d sat a million times while watching my high school team compete. I was a football guy, but that meant our pack of muscled beasts traveled together to support whatever other team wore our colors and battled with an enemy. We went to every game, meet, and contest the school could come up with. And we loved it.
Mateo shouted something to one of his players, a kid who looked like he wanted to vomit in the corner. I was certain the kid’s conditioning wasn’t up to snuff by the way he hunched over desperate for air.
My eyes fixed on Mateo, standing in his coaching box, hands planted on his hips like a disappointed mom discovering her children’s crayon drawing all over her dining room wall.
That’s when my mind kicked into overdrive, hounding me with question after question.
What would he be like with his kids?
Would he be too soft? Too hard on them?
Was he a good coach or one of those teachers who’d been forced to wear a whistle because no one else wanted the gig?
I doubted the last held weight. Mateo had played ball at a pretty high level, I’d gathered from the banter the other night. Still . . .
I’d pictured him as the nice-guy coach—the one who got walked over, the one the kids joked about behind his back.
But what I saw didn’t match that picture, not even a little.
Clipboard in one hand, whistle around his neck, Mateo paced the sideline like a man born for it. He wasn’t yelling, not exactly—he coached like he spoke, with his whole body, bouncing on the balls of his feet, gesturing wildly. The few times he turned toward his bench to grab another player or coach his second team, his eyes were alive, sharp, and focused.
And somehow, throughout it all,he was smiling.
His team moved like they knew he expected everything from them, like they wanted to give it their all, even when they stumbled, even when they missed.
He clapped when someone boxed out right,barked praise when a kid made a clean steal, shouted encouragement without fluff, without apology.
And when they screwed up?
He didn’t tear them down.
He corrected—firm and direct—but never cruel.
He didn’t coach like he wanted to be in the spotlight. He coached like he wantedthemto shine brightly, to believe they could be better than they were yesterday.
And damn it, it was working.
The scariest part was that it might’ve been working a little on me, too. The longer I watched, the more my nerves settled into something far worse than anxiety.
It felt like . . . hope.
