Page 17 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

I ’d successfully fended off Stevie’s nosey attempts to pry information out of me about my date.

Lord, the woman tried—all day, every minute of the day.

I could barely get any work done without her hovering, a snarky grin causing her lip piercing to lift as she glared down in her “older sister” crossed-armed posture.

Worse than her glare were the countless questions that poured forth.

I began to wonder if her inner three-year-old would ever stop asking, “Why?”

Thankfully, around eleven that morning, she straightened from where she’d been leaning against the rough wood planking of my workshop, dusted off her dustless jeans, and declared, “I have a meeting with our accountant. Don’t expect me back.

This may drain me of the will to live. Only good food and better alcohol will repair my spirit. I’ll see you in the morning. ”

Was it unusual for a one-hour meeting that started at noon to consume an employee’s entire afternoon?

Rather than focus on that, I thanked the gods, both old and new, for the peace and quiet that followed in her wake. Four dining room chairs stood in front of me, stripped, sanded, primed, and ready for stain. Everything was how I liked it—orderly, clean lines, nothing to do now but finish the job.

So why the hell couldn’t I focus?

My hands twitched for something to do, so I reached for a rag and gripped it too hard, my knuckles going pale. I didn’t loosen my grip, just twisted tighter. The cloth bunched between my fingers like I was bracing for impact.

A tin of walnut stain clinked as I popped the lid off, then stirred it once, twice, slower than I needed to, but still with a little too much force. The stick scraped the bottom, a deep, gritty sound, familiar and grounding.

I dipped the rag and squeezed until the excess dripped back in—slow, brown beads falling like seconds off a clock I couldn’t read.

Moving to the first chair, I started in on the back slats with even, steady strokes. At least . . . that’s what I was supposed to be doing. Instead, my wrist felt too stiff. My shoulders were tight, and my grip on the rag made my fingers ache by the third pass .

I exhaled through my nose.

It didn’t help.

Shifting my weight, I planted my boots wider, like I was bracing to lift a beam instead of refinish a chair. My jaw had been clenched so long it hurt when I eased it open again.

I stood back and rolled my shoulders, trying to shake it off, this feeling of uncertainty, of an unknown hand gripping my shoulder, demanding attention. The knot at the base of my neck throbbed like it was keeping tempo with my thoughts—fast, uneven, off-key.

Everything about my body felt wrong, like I was forcing calm over something that wanted to pace the length of the shop.

I moved to the second chair, hoping a shift in focus would jar my brain out of whatever muck it had sunk into. Bending too low, my back tensed.

The chair creaked under the pressure of my arm. Still, I didn’t ease up.

I didn’t even notice how hard I was working until the rag slipped in my hand, wet and half folded, leaving a heavy, uneven streak across the grain.

I cursed and snapped upright, taut muscles flaring. I squared my shoulders like I was about to fight the furniture.

It was just stain, I reminded myself .

Just wood.

But my body was acting like it was holding something bigger.

As much as I wanted to believe it was a mystery, some unknown force driving my brain and body mad, I knew what it was.

More accurately, I knew who it was.

Mateo.

His name alone tightened my throat, made my hands itch with nerves I didn’t want to admit I had.

I tossed the rag down like it was a problem, tore the latex gloves off and threw them in the bin, then flexed my fingers.

They ached from how long I’d been clenching.

I shook them out, rolled my wrists, pressed the heels of my palms into my eye sockets until the darkness behind my eyelids swirled like ink.

Breathe.

But even as I returned to the chair and tried again—more careful and more focused—I could feel it.

The tension wasn’t in the wood.

It was in me.

Every line of muscle, every stiff breath, every too-precise motion screamed the same word:

Mateo.

A laugh echoed in my head for the fifth time in an hour. It was rich and deep, yet playful, an Italian lilt giving it a life of its own. Something in that sound made a spark of something flicker in me, made me feel . . . I don’t know . . . happy?

Ridiculous. I was being ridiculous.

Something else made me happy when I thought about it: the way he said “fries” like it was a dare.

And the way his eyes crinkled when he smirked.

And how he leaned forward across the table when he talked like the world was on pause and he hadn’t noticed yet.

I scrubbed harder.

The wood didn’t protest, didn’t laugh, didn’t lean forward. God, I loved wood.

Nope. Not going there .

Mateo and I had been on a grand total of one date. One dinner.

Sure, he was a charming teacher with blue-black hair, pearly white teeth, and an accent that could drop a man at fifty paces.

But I did not date.

I didn’t make time for people who smiled like they saw something in me I didn’t . . .

or smelled like the ocean and most aromatic flower on Earth had a baby.

I’d spent most of my life keeping things simple and quiet. It was my work, my shop, and Stevie yelling at me about eating vegetables .

That was enough.

I blinked away visions of chocolate eyes and midnight hair and returned to the chairs before me, putting on gloves again and working the stain into the wood with steady pressure, watching it soak into the grain like it belonged there, like it had always been part of the story.

I smoothed it in with the edge of my palm, and nodded at the depth and texture of its new color.

It looked good. Strong and clean. My customer would be pleased with the work—because I was, and I was the hardest critic possible.

Wood was easy to finish and easy to let go. I didn’t miss it when it was gone. The empty space in my shop never lingered, never longed, never wanted for anything but another piece to fill its void.

People weren’t like that. They needed. They wished. They demanded.

I didn’t do hope. I didn’t do maybe. I didn’t do what if .

Because hope had teeth.

It might look good at first—with its soft edges, bright smiles, and a voice that warmed you from the inside out, but the second you let your guard down, it cut deep and took pieces with it.

I’d learned that the hard way. It was a lesson I swore never to learn again .

So I kept things simple.

I built things that couldn’t leave— wouldn’t leave.

I worked with materials that did what they were told, that didn’t lie, didn’t change their minds, didn’t make promises they couldn’t keep.

Wood was honest. It cracked where it was weak. It showed you where to reinforce it.

People didn’t do that.

People were hard. They were confusing. They were complicated.

Like the chairs before me, my life was simple, clean, and easy. That’s how I liked it. It’s how I wanted it to stay.

But Mateo . . .

Mateo Ricci was a mess in the making.

He was loud, bright, and warm in ways I didn’t know how to hold.

Worse—he made me want to hold them.

His damned smile flashed every time I closed my eyes, all bright and chipper and inviting, surrounded by those perfect lips, just plump enough to need kissing and sucking and . . .

Damn it.

I shook my head and turned toward the stereo in the corner, flipping it on and punching in a playlist like it owed me money.

Journey .

Always Journey.

Something about the way Steve Perry sang felt safe, like someone else was willing to carry whatever I couldn’t say. The songs knew how to bleed, but they didn’t ask me to. They filled the space just enough to drown the thoughts while demanding nothing in return.

“Don’t Stop Believin’” kicked in with its bright piano and crisp rhythm. Usually that opening was enough. It got me back into my body.

But not that day.

In those moments, the melody felt thin, the drums hit too sharp, the lyrics rang hollow, like they belonged to someone younger, softer, someone who still believed in things like new beginnings and happy endings .

It wasn’t Journey’s fault. They just weren’t built to save a man from himself.

I leaned against the workbench and let the chorus hit.

“Streetlights, people. Livin’ just to find emotion . . .”

I used to believe that. A little. I think I did. Back before everything got so quiet in my chest. Now the song just felt like a memory I couldn’t live up to.

Even Steve Perry—with a voice that could belt longing into concrete—sounded too far away to reach me tonight .

I turned it down, just a notch.

Then turned it up again.

It still didn’t help . . . because it wasn’t the music that was failing me.

It was the fact that no matter how loud I played it, I still saw Mateo, still heard his voice when the verses dropped low, still felt his grin in the tempo.

Even the damn lyrics betrayed me.

“Some will win. Some will lose . . .”

And suddenly I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let myself try.

I cranked up the volume loud enough to scare wildlife into the next county, then closed my eyes, threw my head back, and let it wash over me. The drums hit, the guitar wailed, Steve-the-god-of-tones held a note measured in lifetimes—

And all I could see was Mateo sitting across from me in that restaurant, grinning like a man who’d never been told he was too much. Hell, I’d even liked the way he talked too much, the way he filled every silence I let hang between us.

I swore under my breath, opened my eyes, and moved on to the last chair, dragging the rag a little too aggressively across the leg. The wood groaned in protest.

“Don’t you start,” I snapped, squeezing the rag a little harder, as if forcing the stain into the wood’s soul.

This was stupid.

I wasn’t built for soft things—for laughter over dinner or first kisses that might mean something. I wasn’t built for wanting someone to text me just because . . . because they wanted to, not because they needed a delivery schedule.

I didn’t need this, this bullshit, these fucking feelings.

I didn’t want any of it—any of them.

I—

My phone dinged.

Loud. Clear. Sharp.

The sound chimed over Steve Perry and his band of angels.

It was the sound that made most teens quiver with delight and dive across a couch to retrieve their sacred device. For me, it was the sound of pure terror.

I froze mid-stroke.

The rag dripped, staining uneven tears of brown on the wooden seat.

Fuck my life.

I turned toward my phone sitting on the nearby workbench.

There was one new text.

One notification.

My gut twisted .

There was no reason for it to be him, no logical expectation. It had been two days after our date, well outside the timeframe for a follow-up. Surely, he’d realized I was the emotional equivalent of The Titanic and moved on, deleted my number, forgotten my name.

It couldn’t be him texting. It just couldn’t.

But somehow I knew.

I knew it was him.

M. Ricci: Hey, Shane. It’s me, Mateo. You know, from the other night . . . and the sideboard . . . but not in that order, obviously.

I tried not to chuckle, not to be amused, not to enjoy hearing his babble on the screen.

Damn it, I tried.

But my lips curled in a most unfamiliar way, and warmth bloomed in my chest.

My phone dinged again.

M. Ricci: The sideboard looks great.

M. Ricci: Image of the sideboard with a flatscreen television atop it

M. Ricci: You should come see it. I think it misses you. I could cook you dinner to say thank you for the fine craftmanship.

Dear God, was he flirting with me using a sideboard?

And was that the cutest thing I’d ever heard?

Who was this man, and what was he turning me into? I was not a guy who flirted. I was not a flirtee. There was no flirting in my life, damn it.

But a part of me really—and I mean really —liked it.

So I typed.

Me: Have you named it?

God, that was stupid. He’s probably laughing at me, showing someone at school the stupid thing I just said. What kind of complete idiot does he think—

M. Ricci: OMG! You made a joke! I just snort-laughed at practice, and a dozen high schoolers are staring at me like I have four heads.

M. Ricci: I need to go. The demons need me. Just say yes and show up at my place Friday night around six. Wear that white T-shirt again . . . please.

My cheeks ached. Why the fuck were my cheeks aching? What was that feeling?

I glanced up at a large mirror mounted to a dresser, the next project in queue, to find my face contorted, my lips curled upward, and my teeth showing. My fucking teeth were showing.

What the hell?

I was smiling . . . at a text message.

What devilry was this? What witchcraft?

Me: Fine. That T-shirt may not be clean, but I have others. No sushi or I’m out.

M. Ricci: No sushi. The T-shirt is non-negotiable . . . unless you just want to go without. I’m good with that as a Plan B.

My phone leaped out of my hand, bobbled in the air, then fell to the ground. I stood there, above it, staring down at the thankfully uncracked screen and wondering what the hell I’d just agreed to.

And I smiled again.