Page 15 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

T he moment we sat, my nerves settled.

When the beer battle began, my confidence swelled.

When Shane smiled, then blushed, the game was on.

And I hated to lose. Like seriously hated it. With a passion only a true Italian understood, I despised second place.

Shane had no idea what was coming for him.

That thought made me giggle . . . inside . . . where the little boy lived and giggled at stupid fart jokes and double entendres. He giggled his little ass off.

“Well,” I said, dragging a hand through my hair, “you already know I talk too much—and we’re drinking—so buckle up.”

He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitched. I was learning how that tiny tic was basically a standing ovation, in Shane-speak.

“I grew up in Italy,” I started, resting my arms on the table. “In a small town you’ve never heard of. Not the picture-perfect vineyard type—more cobblestone alleys and guys named Vito who ran cafés like crime fronts.”

His eyebrow arched, and I grinned. “I’m kidding . . . kind of. My family owns a bakery. Ricci Pane. It’s been there since my grandfather’s grandfather could swing a rolling pin, maybe a few centuries before, if you believe the family tales.”

I paused, sipping my beer.

“You didn’t want to be a baker? Carry on the family legacy?”

I shrugged. “I was supposed to take it over, knead dough, sell cannoli, marry some sweet Italian girl and live above the shop.” I shrugged. “Instead, I fell in love with basketball.”

Shane blinked. “In Italy?”

“Oh yeah,” I said. “We had one tiny court with busted backboards and no nets. I used to sneak out and play until midnight. My mom said I dribbled in my sleep.”

That got him.

A real smile, small but warm, flickered across his face.

I pretended not to notice, though it hit me square in the chest.

“I moved to the States when I was eighteen,” I said.

“Got a partial scholarship to a small college in the South. Nothing fancy. I was fast, scrappy, could shoot from anywhere. A D-I college picked me up in my junior year, but I wasn’t .

. . good enough, not really, certainly not to play at the next level. ”

I let that hang for a second. It still stung, even years later, even though I’d made peace with it.

“I watched a few guys I played with go pro, saw my name vanish from the board. That part hurt like hell. I thought I’d wasted everything.” I traced the condensation on my glass with one finger.

Shane just sat there, watching. His face may as well have been carved of stone for what little much it gave away.

“I’d majored in education, knew I wanted to work with kids if the pros didn’t come calling.

After I graduated, I took the job here in Atlanta and started helping with the JV team.

It wasn’t much, just drills, warm-ups, managing schedules .

. . that sort of thing. I didn’t think much of it until one day, this freshman—tiny kid, fast as hell, but with no aim whatsoever—made his first three-pointer after I adjusted his grip.

” I smiled at the memory. “He lit up like he’d just won the Olympics. ”

I looked up at Shane .

“That was it for me. I was hooked. I wanted that moment, over and over, not just to play, but to teach, to help him—and kids like him—chase the dream that slipped past me.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched me like I was saying something important.

And maybe I was.

I leaned back, exhaling. “So now I teach history, coach basketball, yell at teenage boys for leaving their shoes everywhere, and occasionally get flirted with by someone’s mom during parent-teacher conferences.”

A beat.

“And I love it. All of it, even the cougars. They’re kind of fun.”

Shane’s gaze stayed steady. Unreadable.

Just still . . . like he was storing it all up for later.

The waiter returned with fresh beer, and I took a long sip, hoping it’d cool the heat rising in my chest.

“Did you dream of furniture when you were a kid?” I asked, nudging his foot under the table. “Or were you the broodiest six-year-old ever and just didn’t tell anyone your dreams?”

Shane took a sip of his beer as though he was buying time. His fingers wrapped around the glass and twitched, thumping a rhythm I couldn’t decipher.

I let a few seconds pass, not wanting to come on too strong.

“So,” I said. “What did little Shane want to be when he grew up?”

He exhaled through his nose. “Not this.”

“Furniture guy wasn’t on your vision board?”

“No vision board.”

“Not even a sketch pad?”

He shook his head, eyes on his glass, avoiding my gaze. “Didn’t think that far ahead.”

I smiled and leaned forward on my elbow. “You don’t say.”

He glanced up. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I teach teenagers. Interrogating suspects is my love language.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh and scratched the back of his neck.

I waited.

Eventually, slowly, he spoke. “I grew up in the Midwest, in Ohio, in a one-stoplight town surrounded by a lotta corn.”

“That explains the flannel-forward fashion sense,” I said.

He shot me a glare. “We didn’t all wear flannel.”

“But you did . . . still do.”

Another pause.

“Yeah.”

That was progress, I supposed .

“What about family?” I asked. “Brothers? Sisters? Are you close?”

“Yes, and”—he shrugged—“not really.”

And just like that, the door slammed shut again. What was this guy’s deal?

I tried to keep my face neutral, but inside I was cataloguing every word, every silence, every deflection.

Shane didn’t just keep his cards close to his chest—he laminated them and locked them in a fireproof safe.

The guy could make “I’m fine” sound like classified intel worthy of a death sentence if shared.

Still, I’d never been one to give up.

The waiter reappeared like a poorly timed punchline. “Y’all ready to order?”

I smiled up at him. “Yeah. I’ll do the grilled chicken sandwich and a side salad with raspberry vinaigrette.”

The waiter turned to Shane.

“Burger. Medium rare. Fries.”

“Fries,” I repeated. “That screams bold and classic for the man of mystery.”

“Potatoes don’t lie,” he said, deadpan.

The waiter snorted, glancing between us, then left us alone again.

“Okay, Mr. Idaho. What brought you to Georgia?”

“Mr. Ohio,” he corrected, then added, “Work.”

“Of course,” I said. “That answers so much.”

He rolled his eyes, and I was pretty sure he was trying not to smile.

“I came here to help a friend build a studio,” he said. “Stayed longer than planned and ended up building furniture out of my garage. People started buying it.”

“Just like that?”

“No, not just like that. It took years to build up enough clients to scrape out a living.”

He took another slow sip, then set the glass down carefully.

“I like working with my hands,” he said. “I like quiet, and wood doesn’t lie to you.”

“Okay, that’s the most poetically intimidating thing anyone’s ever said to me at a restaurant,” I said through a nervous chuckle. “First, honest potatoes, now non-lying wood? Might there be a trust issue or two in there, Mr. Ohio?”

“Might be. Might not. Depends on who’s trying to earn it.” He didn’t flinch. “My work’s honest. I either do the work or I don’t. If I mess it up, it tells you. If I fix it, it holds.” He looked down at the table for a second like he was embarrassed by how much he’d said.

And that was when a few pieces slid together .

Shane wasn’t cold. He was careful.

He didn’t throw words around like my kids tossed basketballs. When he gave you one, it meant something. He didn’t open up because once he did, he couldn’t take it back.

Shane Douglas didn’t hide because he had nothing to say.

He held back because there was too much.

Mrs. H’s house smelled like impending gastrointestinal regret.

Her kitchen was a battlefield of cast iron, questionable herbs, and the occasional puff of smoke that wasn’t sanctioned by the fire department. She’d already slapped my hand twice with a wooden spoon and muttered something about “soft-handed pretty boys” when I tried to help.

We’d been there less than ten minutes.

“I call this one Caledonian stew,” she announced, plopping a bubbling cauldron onto a cork mat. “It’s named after the Scots who survived by eating boiled shoe leather and their feelings.”

Mike leaned in and whispered, “Translation: whatever was in the fridge plus two full sticks of butter.”

Elliot made a sound like he just remembered to draft his will.

I took the spot next to him while Mike grabbed the other end of the table, because no one wanted to sit in front of Mrs. H while she doled out portions like a wartime lunch lady with no regard for personal safety.

Homer, Mike’s spastic pup, heaved a sigh and slid down next to Elliot’s boot. I looked down to find him staring at Elliot’s leg, a faint whine escaping his lips. After a moment, his head drifted to land on Elliot’s foot. His eyes closed and breathing steadied.

“Don’t you dare give him any of this,” Elliot muttered, smiling down at the sleeping terrier.

“I love that you think Homer would eat it,” I whispered back. “Dogs are smarter than people. They can sense poison.”

Mrs. H clanged a ladle against the pot. “If I hear one more whisper about my food, you can go outside and gnaw on the lawn like proper beasts!”

We snapped to attention like schoolboys.

Once we had plates piled with whatever Frankenstein stew she’d invented, she filled our mugs with something that might have been ale but smelled of cough syrup .

Mike, while poking at his mystery brew with a fork as though it might leap out of the bowl and attack, broke the silence. “I swear, if one more freshman wanders into my classroom wearing Crocs and the will to die, I’m filing for retirement.”

“You’re twenty-nine,” I said, digging into something that might have been lamb, or possibly squirrel. “What would you even do in retirement? Yell at clouds?”

Mike gestured with his fork. “I’d yell at Crocs. We should start a campaign, save the youth.”

“We already started an LGBT support group,” I countered.