Page 19 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

T he sun cut through the slats of the workshop windows, slicing golden lines across the bench like it was trying to divide the day into manageable pieces.

It didn’t help.

I’d been standing in front of the lathe for over an hour, pretending I wasn’t glancing at the clock every eight minutes. The block before me was supposed to become round, perfectly round with clean grain.

I’d made six of them.

No, eight.

Every single one ended up in the discard pile.

One was too shallow. Another too warped or too busy or too plain.

My hand twitched on the gouge. The chisel caught, barked across the grain, and bit too deep.

Another ruined edge.

I swore under my breath and pulled the tool away .

“Wow,” came a familiar voice from behind me. “Is this an art installation, or are you starting a collection of round failures?”

I didn’t turn around. “Go away, Stevie.”

She didn’t. Of course.

I felt her nearing before I heard her boots echo across the floor.

I glanced back. She stood behind me, arms crossed, silver rings clicking against her sleeves.

Her eyeliner was heavier than usual—a strange shade of blue that somehow looked electric—and she’d paired her “Don’t Talk to Me Until I’ve Hexed You” sweatshirt with plaid pajama pants.

It was, well, a look.

“I’ve seen a lot of wood in this shop,” she said.

“But this is the saddest graveyard of coasters I’ve ever laid eyes on.

What are you even making? These look like the ball part of a ball-and-claw foot, but I don’t see any pieces needing feet .

. . and those balls are the size of my fist. The furniture would have to be big as a house for those to work. ”

I grunted and reached for another blank, but my hands were stiff. When I picked up the compass, it trembled in my fingers for half a second before I locked my grip.

She caught it.

“Oh, my God.”

“Don’t,” I warned .

“Are you—Shane Douglas—nervous?”

I didn’t answer, just tightened the clamps and measured the center again.

“You are.” Stevie let out a delighted gasp and smacked my shoulder. “You’re freaking out. You’ve got pre-date shakes.”

“It’s not a date,” I muttered, even though it absolutely was.

She walked over to the pile of discarded tops and picked one up, examining the edge like a jeweler appraising a cheap necklace.

“You’ve made seven of these—wait, here’s another—and you haven’t finished one.

Your hands are twitchy, you haven’t said more than ten words since I walked in, and your playlist hasn’t moved past Journey’s Greatest Hits, which means you’ve looped ‘Faithfully’ at least three times. ”

“It’s a good song.”

“It’s a coping mechanism.”

I exhaled, hard, and set the chisel down. My hands curled at my sides, palms still tingling.

“What are you making, anyway?”

“It’s nothing.”

She turned, eyes sharp but not unkind. “Is this about Mateo?”

I didn’t answer.

Which was enough .

“Oh, hell yes it is.” She beamed like she’d just won a prize. “Shane Douglas has a boy crush, a big, swoony, pine-scented, emotionally constipated crush.”

I stared at her. “Do you want to get banned from the shop?”

“You say that every week.”

“And yet you keep testing me.”

She grinned. “Because eventually you admit things. Like the fact that you like this guy . . . and that’s terrifying . . . and adorable . . . and I’m proud of you.”

“I never said—”

“You didn’t have to. I’m a witch. I know things. Besides, you’re sanding furniture like it cheated on you. You’re ruining perfectly good wood because your brain is too full of Italian cheekbones.”

I rubbed the back of my neck and looked away.

She stepped closer, her voice softening more than I thought possible. “You don’t have to be good at this, Shane. You just have to try.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“I am trying.”

A moment passed. I didn’t dare turn to look at her. I could hear her puzzling things out.

“Oh, shit,” she said suddenly, the sound of her hand slapping to cover her mouth spinning me around on my stool. “You’re making . . . whatever this is . . . for him .”

“I am not,” I groused, crossing my arms. My head lowered, sawdust on the floor becoming the most interesting thing in the world. “Okay, fine, yes. I’m making something for him.”

She blinked wide eyes several times, her hand remaining over her mouth. “No fucking way. What have you done with my Shane? Did you bury him out back and all that’s left is a straw poking out of the ground so he can breathe? Is he at least alive?”

“Fuck off.”

Her hand fell, revealing a ridiculously wide grin.

“Your date’s tonight, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“I guess . . . he’s cooking and . . . I don’t know . . . I wanted to bring him something, like a housewarming gift or a trinket to say thank you for feeding me. It’s polite, isn’t it, to bring a gift when you’re invited into someone’s home? That’s a thing, right?”

That might’ve been more words in one breath than I’d spoken to anyone in years.

She glared.

“Wine is a gift. A cheese board would work. Hell, Shane, a simple card would do the trick.” She surveyed the wooden wasteland. “You’re making him something. That’s the act of a guy who’s . . . a guy who’s caught feelings.”

“Feelings aren’t the flu.”

“Have you met yourself?” She snort-laughed. “I’m not sure you’ve had feelings since the eighties—and that was before you were born.”

I rolled my eyes and spun so my back faced her again.

The warmth of her hand pressed into my shoulder.

“I think it’s sweet. I mean, you know me, I hate sweet things. But you’re a gay guy, and you’re supposed to be a little fruity.”

I groaned. “I am not fucking fruity.”

She snorted again. “Whatever. Just—”

Ding .

My phone.

Neither of us moved.

“Well, are you going to check it, or do I have to crack your password?”

Reluctantly, I reached over and grabbed my phone, flicking the screen to life.

M. Ricci: Hey. I have shitty news. One of my kids got hurt at practice. I’m at the hospital with him and his parents. Looks like we’re going to be here a while.

M. Ricci: I’m so sorry. I was making something awesome for dinner tonight.

I slumped down on my stool.

“What?” Stevie asked.

“He’s canceling.”

She blew out a low breath.

M. Ricci: I know this is going to sound weird, and feel free to say no, but I have a group of friends getting together to do trivia night tomorrow night. It’s not exactly second date material, but it is fun, and I kinda want to see you again.

M. Ricci: Want to join us?

M. Ricci: My friends aren’t totally scary.

“What? Talk to me. I need to know.” Stevie’s voice was insistent.

I handed her my phone. It was easier than trying to recap. Besides, I didn’t trust my voice. For some reason, I was caught between disappointment, relief, curiosity, and abject terror.

And for a guy who shied away from feelings in general, that was a lot.

Stevie let out a whistle.

“Meeting the friends? Holy shit. Dude, he likes you. I mean, shit.”

“He’s just being nice because he had to cancel. It’s nothing.”

She slapped my shoulder. “Don’t be an idiot. He’s goofy over you and your big-ass chest. I bet he jerked off thinking about—”

“Stevie!”

She laughed. “Bet he did.”

I shook my head and ran a hand through my hair. “Now what do I do?

“What do you mean?” She sounded like I just asked if the Earth should continue to spin. “You go meet his friends like a normal person.”

“But I’m not—”

“Oh, I know you’re not normal. You’ll have to pretend.” She winked. My goth witch weirdo bestie winked at me. It might’ve been the most horrifying thing I’d ever seen. “Better text back quick or he’ll think you don’t want to go.”

I grunted. Fuck my life.

Me: Friends? Trivia? I’ll be useless.

M. Ricci: Then we’ll be useless together. Besides, Mike is a trivia god. The rest of us are just there to look hot and share the prize he wins.

Me: Mike?

M. Ricci: Teacher at school. He’s my work wife. You’ll get to meet his husband, Elliot. You two are a lot alike. Big, beefy, look like you want to chew on a two-by-four. You’ll like him.

Me: I prefer smaller pieces, you know, if I’m going to chew on them.

The dots danced. Then stopped. Then danced again.

M. Ricci: Dear God, that was a joke.

Me: I can be funny.

M. Ricci: THAT was funny. Shit, doc is here. Gotta go. I’ll text directions and time later or tomorrow am.

Me: Okay. Great.

Okay. Great.

Stevie beamed as she slipped out the door without a word. She’d been hovering over my shoulder the entire time. I half worried she’d snatch the phone out of my hands and type something I’d regret. Thankfully, she was in more of a looming mood.

I stared at the screen, reread the texts, searched for some hidden meaning, some indication that Mateo was just being nice or polite or . . . that he didn’t want to get together and this was his way of letting me down easy.

But there was nothing there.

Nothing but a sexy Italian wanting to see me, wanting me to meet his friends.

That had to mean something, right?