Page 10 of Coach
Mike grinned so wide I could hear it in the dark cab of the truck. “Mateo, he’s tall, built like a Mack truck, and can probably chop firewood shirtless without breaking a sweat . . . or maybe he sweats likea beast. That would be even better, right? He soundsexactlylike your type.”
“Exactly!” I flailed a hand in his direction. “Aside from the whole lack of conversing thing, he’stooperfect—and that’s how Iknowhe’s a serial killer.”
Mike barked out a laugh. “A serial killer?”
“Yes,” I said. “He probably has tiny jars of old boyfriends’ bits in his workshop freezer. Like, ‘Here’s Derek’s pinky toe; it annoyed me, all bent and gnarly. Here’s Brian’s left earlobe; I used to nibble this. Here’s Kevin’s—’”
Mike was full-on wheezing now, trying to drive with one hand while the other wiped tears from his eyes.
“Face it,” he said when he could breathe again, “you’d love to get chopped up by him.”
“I would not!” I gaped at him. “I like my toes and lobes where they are, thank you very much.”
“Yousowould,” Mike said, voice gleeful. “You’d show up at his cabin in the woods like, ‘Hi, yes, I brought cookies and my own duct tape. Do you prefer vanilla-scented or standard-issue trash bags?’”
“I hate you.”
He just laughed harder, speeding up a little as we hit the main road back toward Mount Vernon High.
“You’re mad because I’m right,” he said. “You want him to install your fancy old TV stand, thenwreck your life against it, leave a butt print for all to see when they watchReal Housewives, tear open your asshole like a bad Ziploc bag that refuses to open . . . respectfully, of course.”
“Of course.” I rolled my eyes and crossed my arms tighter, staring out the window. “EvenifI wanted to flirt with him—and I’m not saying I did—he wouldn’t have noticed. His personality was flatter than the top of that furniture. Hell, he had that whole ‘emotionally unavailable but hot enough to ruin your GPA’ vibe down better than most of my players—and they know how to play the emotional idiot card.”
Mike snickered. “And yet you still almost proposed marriage over a walnut sideboard.”
“I was making a responsible adult purchase!” I snapped. “There was no proposing. None. Not even a hint of one.”
“Sure, whatever you say,” he said, like I was a toddler insisting I didn’t need a nap.
We rode in silence for a few miles, Mike still chuckling under his breath now and then, me pretending I wasn’t re-living every single second of that encounter and cringing. Finally, we turned into the empty school parking lot, where my beat-up Jeep sat under one of the flickering light posts.
Mike coasted to a stop and put the car in park.Before I could open the door, he leaned over and smirked.
“Next time we see Flannel Daddy,” he said, voice low and mischievous, “you’re gonna talk to him like a real adult, maybe lick his lobe for good measure.”
“Iama real adult, damn it!”
Mike cocked one brow—like he did when one of his students offered some lame excuse for failing to complete an assignment. “You’re a real adult who described antique shopping as ‘too gay, even for us.’”
“Do you ever forget anything? I mean . . . anything?” I muttered.
“Nope. Never.” He poked me hard in the ribs. “Flirt, dumbass, or at least try. I refuse to attend your wedding if the vows involve you sobbing, ‘I wanted to say hi, but I was scared you’d freeze my toes off and sell them at an auction.’”
I flipped him off as I climbed out of the truck.
He just laughed, leaning out the window.
“Be safe, my little pasta princess!” he called as I slammed the door.
I fired back anotherverymature hand gesture as I stomped toward my Wrangler; but under all the embarrassment and denial, deep in the traitorous, aching part of me I liked to pretend didn’t exist . . .
I hoped we might see Flannel Daddy again.
Chapter 4
Shane
The chisel hissed across the wood, the blade shaving off thin curls that drifted down like lazy smoke.
