Page 16 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

“Maybe you need a Croc Recovery Group for the fashion blind?” Elliot added, though from the look of his work boots, he was the last man in the room to offer anyone fashion advice.

“I had a kid wear light-up Skechers to my third period,” I offered. “He did a little dance move every time he answered a question. I think it was involuntary. Like a tic. Or possession. The other kids lost their minds at the blinky bling . . . and they’re juniors, not third graders!”

“Better than the one I had in study hall,” Mike said, sipping his ale. “He told me the mitochondria was a government conspiracy and tried to fistfight a biology textbook. ”

“Uh, Mike, you teach literature and English,” I said.

“Exactly!” He speared the air with his fork, as if any of that had just made sense.

Mrs. H clattered in from the kitchen, brandishing a gravy boat that had seen some shit—or contained some shit; the jury was still out. “Oh, let the poor boys dream. If a mitochondria paid rent, I’d let it live in my basement and do my laundry.”

“Please tell me you know what a mitochondria is,” I said.

“Cellular power source.” She winked. “I read, and I’m not dead. Yet.”

Mike snorted. “Her obituary is just going to say, ‘Survived by thirty casserole dishes and the scorched earth she left behind.’”

Mrs. H slapped his shoulder with a dishtowel on her way past. “You’re damn right. Now shut up and eat my stew before it eats you first.”

“You say that like it’s not a genuine concern,” Elliot muttered.

Mike looked over at me. “You got that transfer kid yet? The tall one from North Cobb with the attitude problem?”

I groaned. “Oh, Walker? Yeah. Walks into the gym like he’s already in the NBA. He shot a free throw today with one hand and missed by a solid five feet. ”

“Isn’t five feet a hard miss? There’s only, what, ten feet between the line and the goal?” Elliot asked.

“Okay, Mr. Sparky, I’m impressed.” My brows shot up in appreciation. “There’s fifteen feet from the line to the backboard. That makes missing by five pretty hard to do.”

“Huh,” Mike said, bored by the basketball talk.

“I have him in U.S. history,” I said. “He asked me if World War I came before or after the dinosaurs. It took him three full minutes to realize I wasn’t kidding when I said definitely after.”

Mrs. H laughed so hard she nearly dropped the bread basket. “These children are the future of our nation?”

“They’re going to vote one day, run for office, run the whole place,” I deadpanned. “I wake up sweating about it.”

Homer whined under the table. Elliot reached down and scratched behind his ears while still managing to spear what might’ve been a turnip.

“And yet,” Mike said, lifting his mug, “we keep showing up at school. Every morning.”

“To education,” I said, clinking my glass against his. “Where the mitochondria is fake, the Crocs are foam, and every third kid thinks Lincoln founded TikTok.”

“And where my stew cures heartbreak and hemorrhoids,” Mrs. H declared, plopping down at the head of the table with a gleam in her eye. “Now, tell me who’s got a new boyfriend, or I’ll start guessing . . . and it’ll get inappropriate real fast.”

I froze.

Mike grinned.

Elliot leaned forward like a man about to light a match.

And just like that, dinner took a dangerous turn.

“So,” Mike said, stabbing something beige and unidentifiable, “how was your date?”

“Fuck that,” Mrs. H barked. “How was the sex? Is his cock as big as the rest of him? Mike said he makes Jack Reacher look like a puss.”

Elliot smothered his mouth with a cloth napkin.

Mike’s chair groaned as he sat back.

I couldn’t bring myself to look up.

“It wasn’t a date,” I mumbled. “And there was no sex, not even a peck on the cheek.”

“It was dinner . . . with a hot man you dressed up for,” Elliot said, chewing. “That’s the textbook definition of a date.”

“I wore jeans,” I groused. “Besides, I’m Italian. We always dress well. It’s genetic.”

“He’s got ya there,” Mrs. H agreed, nodding toward me.

Mike ignored her. “You put extra product in your hair. I saw it.”

I pointed my fork at him. “You saw me right after the gym. That was sweat.”

“It was strategically placed perspiration.”

“Purposeful moisture.” Elliot nodded. “That’s date behavior.”

“Wait. Did you say there was no peck on the cheek? Did you even try?” Mike asked, leaning in like this was a live-streamed soap opera.

“No,” I said quickly.

“Did you want to kiss him?” Elliot pressed with a shark’s grin.

I hesitated.

That was enough to make every juror in the room leap to conclusions.

“Oooooh,” they said in tandem, like they’d rehearsed it.

“I hate every last one of you.” Then I looked down at the sleeping dog and added, “Except you. You can stay.”

“If you’re not kissing him, you’re doing it wrong.” Mrs. H cackled. “Ya gotta use the tongue God gave you. Get in there good and root around.”

Mike had devolved into a howling hyena. “Root around!” He snorted.

Mrs. H wasn’t done. “I want smut and scandal, Mateo. Grab that boy and bend him over. Mark your territory. Plant that flag. Make me proud.”

“Oh my God,” I muttered, shoving stew into my mouth so I didn’t have to respond.

“Don’t encourage her,” Elliot stage-whispered before grinning. “But really, tell us about it.”

I sighed, leaned back in my chair, and let my spoon rest against the bowl’s edge. “He’s quiet . . . and kind of grumpy, but not in a jerk sort of way. I think he’s just slow to open up.”

Elliot tilted his head. “But he did open up.”

“You gotta pry ’em open, Mateo,” Mrs. H said. “Lube ’em up, use a finger, maybe two. Get ’em good and used to it before—”

“Mrs. H!” Mike squealed.

“What?” She waved a spoon. “Clearly, the boy needs lessons. He didn’t even get a damned kiss.”

Elliot saved me from whatever that was turning into. “So? Did he open up at all?”

“A little,” I admitted. “It was like pulling teeth through a screen door, but yeah. He told me about growing up in Ohio, how he builds furniture because it’s honest.”

“Damn. That’s a man with a backstory.” Mike gave a low whistle. “We need the Lifetime TV version and a giant bowl of popcorn.”

Homer sighed and thudded his tail against Elliot’s leg, clearly disappointed in all of us .

“You think he likes you?” Elliot asked, half genuine now. “Is he into you at all?”

“I’m not sure he knows how to like someone,” I said.

Mrs. H hopped up, returning a moment later with a tray of some kind of crumbly, buttery disaster pretending to be bread.

She sat again, then reached across and gripped my arm with her bony fingers.

“Mateo, dear, if he’s a good man, give him time.

Be patient. Ask questions, but not too many.

Just let him be, and he will come to you,” she said, a grandmotherly earnestness threading her words.

Then, without warning, her tone returned to what we’d come to expect.

“Life’s short, and sexy carpenters are rare.

Take him to bed and thank me later . . .

and don’t forget the lube and fingers. Those are important, especially for you back-door types. ”

I buried my face in my hands as Mike and Elliot collapsed into laughter. Homer let out a low groan of despair and fled to the safety and quiet of the den.