Page 97 of Coach
When the last buzzer sounded, the scoreboard read 98–34.
We’d crushed them—politely, respectfully, with handshakes and everything, but crushed them just the same. Some among our parents grumbled that we were “two points away” from some magic number. Others complained that we would’ve shattered every record if only Coach allowed it.
I was somehow a conquering hero and unpopular at the same time. It was a very strange feeling.
Kids cheered, parents stood, the band played something that sounded like Queen if Queen had been raised in a garage.
And I finally let myself look straight at him.
Shane was smiling now. The grin was small and quiet, and I doubted anyone who didn’t know him would even recognize it as a smile rather than some twitch caused by a mental disorder, but it was there, and it was real—and it wasfor me.
That smile hit me harder than the win.
I didn’t dare move, not yet. Instead, I let the boys celebrate and the fans file out.
Because all I could think about was what that smile might mean.
And whether he’d still be wearing it when I reached him.
“You should go talk to him,” a youthful voice whispered from behind. I wheeled around so fast I nearly elbowed Gabe in the jaw.
“Jesus, Gabe. You scared me half to death. Why aren’t you out there high-fiving or whatever you guys do these days?”
“You’re old, but you aren’tthatold. You know how we celebrate.” He smirked and folded his arms. “Besides, I’d rather see the fireworks happening right here.”
My brows bunched together—and for an Italian, that means something serious, like the return of caterpillar season.
“You think you know me, do you?”
Gabe’s smirk grew to impossible proportions. “I know what I see when it’s right in front of me. Do you?”
I opened my mouth to tell him to be a teenager and leave adulting to the adults. Then I realized I wasn’t being very adult about my adult-adjacentsituation.
“I’ll have you know—”
Gabe’s eyes bugged, and his smile . . . shit. Gabe’s gaze shifted past me, over my shoulder.
Something was happening.
“Nice win.” A thundering rumble smacked into my back and clawed into my chest.
I nearly fell over turning around.
Gabe’s hand found my arm. “Have a nice night, Coach. And you”—his finger pointed past me toward Shane—“don’t keep him up too late. He has practice tomorrow.”
Before I could scold the boy for his insolence, he huffed a laugh and vanished, leaving Shane staring from two bleacher rows above.
“Kid’s got balls. Gotta give him that,” was all Shane said. His infuriating mouth didn’t curl or smile or anything, though his eyes twinkled a bit in the brilliance of the gym’s lighting.
“So, you came,” I said, using my words brilliantly.
Shane nodded. “Yep.”
Damn it. Could this guy not throw me a bone?
Wait. No. Not a bone. Don’t think about Shane’s bone. Not in the gym surrounded by moms and kids and . . .
Shit.
