Page 22 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

I stepped just inside the door of Jockstraps, wondering if Mateo had invited me here as part of some elaborate psychological experiment or a queer frat initiation.

Overhead, a disco ball shaped like a football spun, casting kaleidoscope sparkles over a jockstrap display case and a life-size cardboard cutout of Jason Momoa wearing a whistle and very little else.

A shirtless man in a harness and worn short-shorts roller-skated past me carrying a tray of nachos like this was all completely normal.

I blinked once.

So this is how I would die, surrounded by glitter and cheese.

The place looked like someone asked ChatGPT to “make me a gay Cheers,” then added a sports reference as an afterthought.

I took a slow, deep breath and resisted the very real urge to turn around and walk directly into traffic.

To my left, a bachelor party was chanting something about “tight ends and looser morals.” To my right, two men were debating whether the hotness of Olympic gymnasts outweighed their height disadvantage in a theoretical Hunger Games scenario.

I kind of wanted to hear that one play out. It was weird but intriguing.

I stood there for a moment, stone-faced, because that’s what I do. I’d walked into estate sales with more enthusiasm than I had in my soul, but I wasn’t leaving.

I was here for Mateo.

And I promised myself I’d try.

Besides, Stevie would kill me if I backed out now, and death-by-Stevie was worse than anything these queens could cook up.

Eventually, I spotted him.

Across the bar, packed into a red vinyl booth with four other guys, he looked like the sun had decided to wear charcoal gray and worry.

One of the guys—a tiny tornado of a man with perfect hair—was half in Mateo’s lap.

Another guy sat beside a scholarly-looking dude with folders spread out like they were war plans.

And then there was the fourth man. He was massive, bearded, and staring at a TV like he was calculating whether he could body-slam a linebacker through the screen.

This was the cast of a Netflix show I hadn’t auditioned for.

From across the room, Mateo laughed at something. His face tilted up, cheeks flushed, as his hand fluttered like he couldn’t decide whether to shoo the guy off his lap or hug him tighter.

And then . . . he looked up.

His eyes met mine.

And something inside me cracked.

I felt it deep inside, where nothing should crack, where everything was supposed to be solid and impervious and impenetrable.

Whatever it was didn’t crack all the way.

Just a fracture.

A line forming like pressure building behind glass.

He lit up when he saw me—bright, unguarded, just for a second.

His mouth opened like he was about to say something, even though I was half a bar away.

It was so Mateo—that impulsive joy, that realness—that I forgot the disco football, forgot the man in the referee jockstrap doing body shots, forgot how many exits I’d already mentally mapped.

He looked at me like . . . I was wanted .

Not tolerated. Not put up with.

Wanted.

My chest tightened in that weird, stupidly inconvenient way it sometimes did around him.

And suddenly, the bar didn’t seem so loud.

The glittery football didn’t seem so absurd.

Still, crossing the bar felt like stepping into a gay fever dream.

There was a TV showing men’s wrestling with commentary dubbed in French.

A drag queen in cleats was straddling a pool table while refereeing a darts game with a glitter whistle.

Somewhere, someone was chanting, “BOTTOMS UNITE,” which I chose not to unpack.

And then there was the booth.

As I neared, I saw him elbowing the guy on the end—a mountain of a man who looked like he bench-pressed cattle for recreation.

“Elliot, move,” Mateo hissed.

Elliot didn’t budge.

“Seriously. You’re blocking me in.”

Still nothing.

The blond guy—and I mean really blond—was dressed like he’d been styled by a fashion-forward raccoon with access to a Nordstrom clearance rack and zero sense of chill.

With him seated at the table, I couldn’t see his pants, but his shirt was black mesh and see-through—and covered in tiny glittering footballs that sparkled every time he moved—which, to be clear, was constantly.

Over that, he wore a cropped faux-leather bomber jacket with leopard print lining, pushed up to the elbows for maximum drama.

Around his neck was a thin silver chain with a tiny whistle charm that may or may not have been functional.

His platinum hair was tousled, as though he’d spent an hour making it look like he hadn’t tried at all. Eyeliner sharp enough to file a restraining order framed clear gray eyes, and his cheekbones glowed with the power of a thousand strategically placed highlighters.

He leaned across the table with his index finger pointed like an angry nun, and said, “Elliot, you are functionally a dam and Mateo is the river of destiny. Get out of his way before I toss my beer and lick it off your ridiculously hard body.”

The bushy brows of the black-haired guy beside him bunched into one giant caterpillar, as he snapped, “Hey, you’re mine. No licking the monster.”

The blond smiled, batted his eyelashes, and patted his arm, “Babe, you can lick, too. It’ll be like an Elliot popsicle. So tasty!”

The nerd with the cards—Mike, if I remembered right from the fair—looked up. “There will be no licking of my popsicle!”

“Aww, popsicle pooper,” the blond said .

The mountain—Elliot—blinked, turned to Mateo, and finally stood with a groan like tectonic plates shifting.

I stopped a foot from the table. Elliot squared to face me. For a half second, I thought he might try to scare me off.

“Holy shit.” The blond’s voice shattered whatever was happening between us. “He’s bigger than you, El, and you’re freakin’ huge.”

The others mumbled their agreement, awe threading their grunts.

Mateo popped out from the booth with a flustered exhale, shoved Elliot with all his weight, dislodging him from our predator standoff, and looked up at me, smiling like he’d just been caught sneaking into an adult toy store by his favorite priest. His eyes darted to my chest, my face, my hands—then away again.

I stood there, hands hovering somewhere between my front pockets and my sides, frozen with the worst indecision tree of all time. Stevie had not prepared me for this moment.

My mind reeled.

Do I hug him?

Is a handshake weird? Too formal?

A kiss? Too much? Are kisses a thing we do now? Did we ever do kisses ?

He reached out slightly.

So did I.

We both hesitated.

I stepped forward at the same time he shifted to the side.

And then—

“TONGUE! TONGUE! TONGUE!” The blond shrieked a chant like a frat boy possessed by the ghost of a Vegas showgirl. The others joined in, slamming the table in time with their words. Before I could think, tables around us filled with guys began doing the same.

The whole bar had turned to watch.

Mateo turned bright red. Even his ears glowed like Rudolph’s nose.

I tried to blink, to process, to not crawl under the table.

Mateo looked up at me, his eyes wide and pleading. It was strange. I swear I could hear a tiny voice whisper, “Please don’t bolt, please don’t hate this, please still like me.”

Something tugged at the corners of my mouth.

Not a full smile.

Just . . . the ghost of one.

“Should we do the European hello?” I asked, deadpan.

He groaned. “God, no, Matty used tongue, and I’m still recovering my dignity.”

I nodded solemnly. “Dangerous tradition.”

“Fatal, if you’re wearing lip balm,” he muttered, then paused.

“Is your lip balm laced with cyanide?” I asked.

He blinked. Then blinked again.

“Did you just make a joke?” he asked.

I shrugged.

We stood there for another beat, then both gave up and went in for a one-armed “I’m a guy, but I’m not gay” hug that somehow felt awkward and weirdly good.

When I pulled back, the warmth of him lingered under my skin.

“Hi,” he said, a little breathlessly.

“Hi.”

“They’re so freakin’ adorable,” I heard the blond whisper. “And so doomed.”