Page 1 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

I t only took me a hot minute of coaching to realize teenage boys were a terrifying combination of cockiness, hormones, and zero sense of personal space. Our annual varsity tryouts magnified those qualities, slathering them in testosterone, athletic endorphins, and a disgusting layer of sweat.

And I loved every second of it.

I stood at center court, clipboard in hand, whistle around my neck, watching twenty-some high schoolers pretend they knew the difference between a basketball and their ass.

The gym echoed with the sound of bouncing balls, squeaking shoes, and low murmurs of boys hyping themselves up like they were about to storm Normandy instead of, you know, run a simple weave drill.

On the top row of the bleachers, Jessica perched like a queen surveying her queendom, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her index finger, ready to pounce on whichever breathing male emerged as the next star point guard. She was many things; subtle wasn’t one of them.

God bless her overconfident little heart.

“All right, let’s tighten it up!” I barked, my heavy Italian accent causing a few of the boys to squint as they hung on every word. Others whispered and jibed, as though their fearless leader hadn’t just spoken.

I shoved the clipboard under one arm and clapped my hands. Instantly, the chatter died out.

Good.

Respect and fear, Machiavelli’s perfect mix.

Okay, the medieval political operative was referring more to love versus fear for a king or prince, but his point applied, especially where herding a pack of willful teenage boys was concerned.

I adjusted my clipboard and raised my voice. “Mason, Tyler, Jayden, Isaiah—you’re up. Grab a ball and line up behind the cones.”

They scrambled like puppies after a Milk-Bone, desperate not to look slow. I waited a moment, then blew the whistle and stepped back, my arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“Dribble through the cones. Meet at center court. Give me a good bounce pass: clean, sharp, and under control. Footwork matters. Keep your heads up. And for the love of God, if you travel, don’t make eye contact with me—you’ll feel your soul leaving your body.”

A few of the older returning guys chuckled as a larger number of new tryouts shifted in their overpriced tennis shoes.

They’d learn.

I watched the drill unfold.

Mason and Tyler were speed demons—fast hands, quick feet, but sloppy fundamentals.

Jayden? He was built like a linebacker but dribbled like he’d picked up his first ball yesterday.

Isaiah, though—Isaiah moved like butter melting over hot pancakes.

He was smooth, controlled, and patient without being slow.

I needed that kind of athlete on the floor.

Jessica clapped—at Isaiah, naturally—and I shot the boys a look that promised extra conditioning drills if she distracted anyone else.

Jessica smirked, then blew a bubble with her gum and popped it so loudly a few of the young guys jumped.

Satan in lip gloss, that one.

“Reset!” I barked when Mason tried to showboat a behind-the-back pass and nearly took out Jayden’s kneecap. “Clean passes! This isn’t the Harlem Globetrotters, and you’re not that cute. ”

The bench guys snickered.

I blew the whistle again. This time, they gave me a clean run, with sharp feet and crisp passes.

I made notes on my clipboard.

Mason: needs discipline. Tyler: good instincts, needs polish. Jayden: promising if I can fix that dribble. Isaiah: varsity material.

I called the next group of four, then the next, and so on.

Tryouts were fun—and painful. Too many boys who had delusions of grandeur and had never played summer ball or AAU—or even team sports—decided to show up and toss their proverbial hat in the ring.

They even had the gall to be upset when they didn’t make the cut.

They just glared at me, as though I’d crushed their last hope of surviving a world-ending disaster.

Yeah, that was me, Coach Ricci, crusher of dreams and destroyer of youthful hopes.

The next drill was in full swing. I had the guys running a three-man weave, trying to separate the actual ball handlers from the kids who only showed up for the varsity warm-up jackets .

Sweat slicked the floor.

The sound of squeaking sneakers and bouncing balls filled the gym like music—the aggressive, chaotic soundtrack of my soul.

Everything was—dare I say—running smoothly.

Until I spotted a rogue senior, Benji Collins, edging away from the drill line like he was a cartoon burglar sneaking off with a sack of loot over his shoulder.

Fucking Benji.

He was one of my starting guards from last season, my rock-solid ace from behind the three-point arc, an all-state player with offers from multiple D-I university programs—and a real leader on the team—when he wasn’t flirting with the closest cheerleader.

Benji was a beast on the court, and a total Casanova off the hardwood.

Hardwood.

Hard wood.

The double entendre tugged at the corner of my mouth.

Not only was Benji my star player and next in line to become team captain, he was currently abandoning a live tryout to sneak over to the bleachers like we were in the middle of recess instead of a bloodthirsty state-title program.

Who is he making a beeline toward?

My gaze slipped ahead of him, then up the bleachers.

Jessica, of course.

High school’s answer to a human tractor beam.

I watched, my mouth now slightly agape, as Benji leaned one elbow against the railing at the end of the bleachers, all long limbs and misplaced confidence. Jessica, sensing fresh prey, flipped her hair and smiled like she’d just been named queen of the county fair.

I couldn’t hear them, but I didn’t need to.

Benji grinned, flexed a bicep, and said something that made Jessica giggle and bat her lashes so hard it generated enough wind to flutter the paper on my clipboard.

My eyes narrowed.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no.

Not today, Satan.

Not at my tryout.

Without a word, I blew the whistle so hard I might’ve triggered early hearing loss in half the gym.

The ball stopped bouncing.

Sneakers stopped squeaking.

Boys who’d been chatting halted mid-sentence and stared .

Everyone froze.

Even Benji.

Mid-flex.

Jessica blinked up from her perch like she wasn’t actively trying to seduce half my roster.

I started walking.

Stalking, really.

And let me tell you: There’s something very satisfying about the sound of your own sneakers squeaking on a polished gym floor while every single boy within arm’s reach watches you like they’re about to be called into the principal’s office.

Benji straightened, panic setting in a little too late.

“Uh, hey, Coach,” he said, voice climbing several octaves into the land of poor decisions. “I was just—”

“You were just what?” I cut him off, crossing my arms, clipboard tucked tight to my side. “Giving private lessons in the middle of tryouts? Practicing your layup game on the bleachers? Recruiting Jessica for the boy’s varsity team?”

A snort escaped from somewhere behind us. Someone was going to run suicides until they puked for that later.

Benji had the audacity— the audacity —to grin.

“Just saying hey. You know, school spirit and all.”

“Uh-huh,” I deadpanned. “ Your school spirit is gonna get you very familiar with the concept of bench warming if you don’t haul your not-so-charming butt back to the court right now.”

Jessica gave Benji a sympathetic pout, but he wasn’t stupid. He peeled himself off the bleachers and shuffled back onto the court. His face was pink, and his shoulders slumped like a kid who’d just been caught drawing boobs in his math notebook.

I clapped him on the back as he passed me—hard enough to nearly knock the breath out of him. “Good hustle, Casanova. Now, go run the drill before I make you run it backward.”

Benji took off like his shorts were on fire.

I turned back to Jessica, who offered me her most angelic smile.

“Eyes forward, young lady,” I called up to her. “Unless you want to run the cones, too.”

She laughed as if I’d just complimented her. “Talk to me with that accent, and I’ll do anything you like with your, um, cone.”

I blinked a few times, unable to process whatever terrifying words the girl had spoken.

God help whoever married that one.

I blew the whistle again and barked, “Reset! Let’s try acting like a basketball team instead of extras in a teen soap opera, all right?”

The boys snapped into position with terrifying speed.

Good.

State titles weren’t won with flirting. And if one more of them even thought about flexing near the bleachers again, I was gonna make them all practice free throws until their arms fell off.

Before Benji could get the next group to the end line, the buzzer sounded, and the digital clock flipped to six.

We’d been at it for three hours, and there were still a dozen boys to go.

Parents would be sitting in cars lined up outside, probably wondering what was so special about tryouts or practices that I kept them locked out of the gym.

In truth, they were just a pain in the ass, questioning everything like they’d won an NCAA Championship instead of me.

I loved coaching—picking the team, not as much. And working with parents was my least favorite part of the gig.

I blew the final whistle sharp and short, the boys scattering like someone had dropped a live grenade at center court.

“Good work today, men,” I called after them. “Tryouts continue tomorrow—same time, same gym. And remember: Hydration is not a myth, gentlemen!”

A few muttered, “Later, Coach,” while others just offered exhausted waves before dragging themselves toward the locker rooms, sneakers squeaking sad final notes across the court.

I was jotting down some final notes on the clipboard when movement caught my eye by the main entrance doors. There, leaning against the gym doorframe like he had a right to look that smug in my gym was my fellow teacher and best friend, Mike Albert.