Page 87 of Coach
Shane
Onions, celery, and carrots completed the holy trinity of Cajun cooking. Anyone with an ounce of culinary training knew this. However, when it came to woodworking, the scents of cedar, sawdust, and industrial glue were perfection incarnate.
God, I loved my shop in the mornings.
Journey blared through the speakers so loud that I half expected the neighbors to file noise complaints from the next county. “Stone in Love” vibrated through the rafters while I worked a plane across a slab of red oak, smoothing the surface into something worthy of finish.
But that morning, I wasn’t just listening to my favorite band.
Oh, no.
I wasn’t even simply humming along.
My voice was raised in a full-throated, off-keyrendition bad enough to offend even those who did not adhere to the teachings of the mighty Steve Perry. It was like bad shower singing without the water, the plastic curtain, and the walls of tiles to buffer the terrible tones from the outside world.
I should’ve been focused.
The project before me was custom, a curio cabinet with dragon-footed legs and inlaid panels, one of the most elaborate commissions I’d taken in months.
But my head was gone, fully ensconced in the clouds or wherever a goofily grinning man’s mind went when it wasn’t able to focus on anything productive.
I was lost—lost somewhere between sanding and sawing, my mind’s eye drifted into the haze of black curls and brown eyes. Mateo’s laugh, the way his voice dipped when he said something flirty, that tiny mole on the right side of his chest I hadn’t noticed until my mouth was nearly on it.
And the feel of him—dear God.
He felt warm and solid, yet trembled a little when I touched him—almost like he couldn’t believe we were naked, either. My fingers still remembered the line of his waist, the smooth dip between his ribs and hips.
Hell, I could stilltastethe wine on his lips.
“Stop it,” I muttered to myself, glaring at thewood like it had betrayed me.
But I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop.
How could I?
I was a man in his workshop, shirtless, sweating, chest humming from music and muscle memory—and still, all I could think about was a smartass basketball coach with a voice that turned my bones to syrup.
The planer groaned, catching on a knot in the wood. I adjusted, shook my head, and went back to work.
And that’s when the door kicked open.
“Jesus, Douglas. What, did the eighties call and demand their power ballads back?”
I didn’t even look up. “Don’t knock the classics.”
“I’m not knocking anything,” Stevie said, weaving through the cluttered floor like a crow in combat boots. “But if I hear Steve Perry wail about faithful hearts one more time, I’m gonna write him a stern letter.”
She took one look at me—shirtless, red-faced, and halfway into carving a dragon’s claw—and narrowed her eyes.
“What the hell?” she snarled, crossing her arms so tightly I thought she might pinch a vein or artery.
“What?”
“You’re humming . . . and glistening . . .and I could swear I heard you”—she shuddered—“singing.”
“So, a guy can be in a good mood, can’t he?”
“Shane Micheal Douglas.”
