Page 21 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Elliot came in first: six-foot-a-lot, all shoulders and calm menace, like a mountain that tired of being walked on and learned to wear flannel.

He was quiet, stoic, now bearded, and built like he could bend steel rebar just by glaring at it.

Every time he showed up somewhere, it was like a giant exclamation point had just entered the room, but with no actual punctuation, just presence.

Then came Mike: five-foot-ten of hoodie-clad chaos, his hair already sticking up like he’d lost a fight with his pillow, glasses slipping down his nose, and an armful of laminated trivia folders under one arm like a dorky Moses delivering the commandments of obscure knowledge to the Chosen Gays.

As the pair made to join us, a group of guys stood and vacated a prime real-estate booth. Mike and Elliot pounced, turning and waving us over. I raised my glass in a final salute to Todd, then followed Matty and Omar to the booth .

“Oh good,” Mike said the moment he spotted us. “I see we’ve chosen violence tonight.”

He gestured at the glittering jockstrap chandelier above our table.

“I tried to warn you,” I said as we approached.

“No, you didn’t,” Mike replied. “You sent me a winking emoji and a gif of a man getting tackled shirtless.”

“That was the warning.”

Mike slid into the booth beside Omar and began unloading his folders like he was preparing to go to war. “Okay, team. We’re gonna run categories real quick before the quizmaster starts. Elliot, you’re still on sports and obscure eighties horror, right?”

Elliot grunted once. I think it meant “yes,” but it could’ve also meant “I lift tractors for fun.”

“Great,” Mike continued. “Omar, you’ve got geography and Broadway. Matty, you’re on celebrity scandals and fake names of Real Housewives. Mateo—”

“If you assign me math again, I will fake a seizure.” I groaned.

“You’re on mythology, pop culture, and obscure Roman emperors. But not Caligula. Never again.”

“That one time was not my fault.” I pouted.

“You said, and I quote, ‘He was just misunderstood and into orgies.’ ”

“Which is accurate!” I threw up my hands.

“God,” Matty said, fanning himself, “I love this team.”

Elliot had yet to say a word. He just folded himself into the end of the booth, his arms crossed over his chest like a steel sculpture commissioned by someone horny and minimalist. His eyes scanned the bar, landing on the TV showing shirtless rugby. He nodded once, approvingly.

“How’s the beer?” he asked, voice low enough to cause a minor earthquake.

“Strong,” I said.

Elliot nodded again. “Good. Weak beer is for cowards and Republicans.”

Omar gawked.

Mike beamed. “He speaks. We’ve been blessed.”

Matty leaned in. “Speaking of blessings . . . have we interrogated Mateo yet?”

I groaned, “God, not again—”

Mike gasped. “Is he cute?”

I hesitated.

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “I will break him if he hurts you. You know this, right?”

I slapped my forehead then accidentally slammed a palm to the table. “Ow, shit. Wait! I—no! There will be no breaking!”

“Why not?” Matty asked. “Breaking can be fun. At least, a little bending . . . backward . . . so you can get it in all the—”

“Matty!” I tried to turn away, but we were too packed into the booth for me to escape his gaze. “No breaking, no bending. Besides, he’s bigger than Elliot.”

Omar whistled, somehow delivering the sound with a British accent, if only in my head.

“He’s definitely Elliot-esque,” Mike said, already practically vibrating.

“No!” I insisted then thought better of it and said, “Well, yes, actually. He’s huge and . . . crusty.”

“Crusty-hot?” Matty asked.

“Crusty like an emotionally stunted badger,” I said. “He builds furniture. He glowers. He wears boots like he’s planning to fight God in an alley.”

“So yes,” said Mike. “He’s Elliot-esque, and you’re totally into him.”

I hesitated, blinking a few times so my brain had time to catch up. “Maybe. I might be. A little.”

Matty put a hand over his heart and singsonged. “Our baby is in love.”

“Stop,” I snarled.

Omar leaned forward. “Does he know what he’s walking into?”

I paused again, my gaze falling to my folded, fidgeting fingers. “I may have described trivia night as ‘chill’ and ‘low-key.’”

Elliot let out one quick bark of a laugh that echoed like thunder .

Mike grinned. “You’re so screwed.”

“We’ve got a bachelor party tonight”—Todd slid by and dropped off a tray of drinks—“and you’re the loud ones?”

“We’re the winning ones,” Mike replied with a smug smile.

“Oh,” Todd said, raising a brow at me. “This is that crew?”

I nodded. “Be gentle.”

He looked at Elliot, then at Mike, then at Matty, then back at me. “Handsome, if your man survives this group, marry him.”

“I’ve known them twelve minutes, and I’d die for all of them,” Omar whispered.

“I love this one,” Matty said, pointing at Omar, morphing into Bambi staring up at his mother.

I took another sip of Daddy Issues, and tried to calm my heart from the somersaults it was practicing.

Shane was going to walk into this circus any minute.

And I had no idea if he’d laugh . . .

Or run.