Page 79 of Coach
Because I was toast. Absolutely toast.
And somehow, he hadn’t run away screaming yet.
As I refilled both our wine glasses—over his fumbling objections—I watched him shift on his feet like a guy trying to decide if hecouldrelax. It was so strange. He’d seemed so comfortable at the dinner table. Why had moving to the couch reset his calm-meter?
We channel surfed for a few minutes, trading sarcastic commentary, until I found a rerun ofMatch Game, the original one filled with terrible fashion and laugh tracks from hell. It was the perfect background noise.
“I forgot how unhinged this show was,” I said, grinning as a contestant said “banana” in response to a question about outer space. “My Nonna would play this over and over. Back then, I spoke little English, so the jokes were lost on me, but the humor was obvious. I can still hear Nonna’s cackle echoing throughout her kitchen.”
“I think that’s the point,” Shane muttered, taking a sip from his glass. “It’s wacky, mindless humor, the best kind.”
We didn’t even make it past the first commercial break before the show hit us with a question that nearly took us both out.
“Linda was so excited on her honeymoon,” thehost read, barely keeping it together. “She told her new husband to put his ___ in her trunk.”
Shane choked on his wine so hard I thought I’d have to perform CPR.
The panel’s answers were pure chaos. Someone said “meat thermometer.” Another, “toolbox.” Betty White raised an eyebrow and said, “Depends on the size of the luggage,” which somehow made it worse.
I was wheezing.
“Are they drunk?” he asked, wiping wine off his lip.
“Drunk, horny, and deeply unserious,” I said. “Which makes this the perfect show.”
His shoulder brushed mine.
He was warm.
Oddly familiar.
And somehow, that small touch felt more dangerous than his forehead kiss had.
Another commercial break shattered our ability to sit staring at the screen. I shifted, tucking one leg under the other as I turned to face Shane.
“Tell me about your family,” I said, realizing his questioning had kept me answering all night without him revealing much of his past. I knew he was a local woodworker, and that was it.
He bristled at the question. Physically flinched, asthough I’d just given him a flu shot.
His jaw twitched.
“If it’s off-limits, that’s okay. I’m not trying to—”
“No,” he said too quickly. Then, quieter: “It’s not off-limits.”
I waited.
One breath. Two.
Let him sort it out.
He shifted, his eyes on the rug.
“I haven’t seen them in years.”
I didn’t say anything, just let the silence stretch like I did when one of my players needed to get something off his chest but couldn’t find the words.
“They weren’t . . . bad, not really,” he said. “Just broken, I guess, in too many places, and no one wanted to fix anything. So I left.”
