Page 94 of Coach
Screw this. I’m going.
I parked my truck in the far corner of the school lot, angled between two massive SUVs like I was hiding between two hulking secret service agents guarding who-knew-who at a high school basketball game.
Then I sat there with the engine off, my keys in the cupholder, and hands glued to the steering wheel. That wheel was my life raft, and I wasnotletting go.
Kids streamed by, backpacks slung low, laughing, shoving, running toward the gym like the game was the most important thing in their lives.
Still, I sat there.
Parents passed in pairs, a few in small clusters, talking about work and weekend plans. A group of moms in matching spirit wear power-walked by with Starbucks cups and homemade pom-poms. I made a mental note to avoid their section. Caffeine and parental adrenaline were a vicious combination.
Still, I didn’t move.
I didn’t know what the hell I was waiting for. I wasn’t one for nerves. I barely had feelings.
Was I waiting so my mind could change? So I could decide this was a terrible idea and the chair leg I left mangled on my workshop floor needed more love than anyone inside the building towering before me?
Maybe I was sitting there for the gym to empty so I could sneak in like a ghost?
Even though the game had yet to start, and no one would be pouring out for hours.
I was such a mess.
This wasn’t like me.
I’d faced down clients with million-dollar furniture orders and contractors who thought they knew better than me. I’d built pieces that took months tocomplete, carved curves that nearly broke my hands.
Hell, I wrestled with Stevie over invoices and legal fees—and that could be considered an Olympic sport, right up there with judo and karate—or whatever martial arts were included in the Games. I didn’t keep up.
But this?
This was one man with a purple polo and a killer smile.
And still, I sat there like a coward, staring at the gym doors across the lot like they might explode if I got too close. I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror—clean shirt, decent hair, eyes a little too hopeful—and shook my head.
“Get out of the truck, Douglas,” I growled, hoping my inner self might be intimidated by my outer self’s rumble.
It didn’t work, but it did make me chuckle.
“You’re such an idiot,” I said to myself, not sure whether it was the inside Shane or the other guy calling me out. I was beginning to lose track of the turbulent personalities vying for supremacy in those moments.
“No more stalling. Move,” I ordered. Without giving myself (either one) time to object, I grabbed my jacket off the passenger seat, shoved open the door, and stepped out into the chilled evening airlike it might slap some sense into me.
Gravel crunched under my boots as I made my way across the lot, slow at first, then faster with each step—like if I didn’t keep moving, I’d bolt right back to the cab and drive away.
The doors loomed ahead. They were glass and steel, but they felt like gates to something heavier. Inside, the lobby buzzed with the familiar chaos of game night. Concessions hawked popcorn and candy. Parents huddled near the walls, nursing giant sodas and shouting at their kids to behave. The smell of floor polish, sweat, and nacho cheese hit me like a brick wall.
And then I pushed through a second set of double doors into the gym.
The moment my boots hit the hardwood, the world narrowed.
There he was.
Mateo.
Standing in front of his bench, shouting some kind of instruction to his team as they performed their pre-game warmup.
And somehow, even in the chaos of squeaking shoes and roaring parents, his gaze found mine.
