Page 23 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

W hen I peeled myself off of Shane—our awkward side-hug complete and my dignity mostly intact—I realized we were standing in front of the table like contestants on The Bachelor: Gay Chaos Edition , facing the tribunal of judgment I called my friends.

And oh, yeah—Elliot was still standing.

Perfect.

Nothing screams “please don’t run away” like a giant, silent man glowering at your crush like a bouncer at a murder club.

I cleared my throat. “Shane, this is Elliot.”

The two of them stared at each other.

There was no handshake.

No smile.

Just pure, unblinking man-to-man ocular assessment.

It was like watching two jaguars meet at a watering hole and silently agree to not eat each other—for now.

Then, simultaneously, they both did the nod. You know, the ’sup head bob—chin tilted upward, minimal expression, full of unspoken bro acknowledgment. A millisecond of nonverbal “I see you. I respect you,” and, given those two, “I could carry a refrigerator farther than you, too.”

Elliot grunted.

Shane gave the world’s tiniest eyebrow raise.

Apparently, that was enough.

“Wow,” Matty breathed from the booth, fanning himself with a laminated trivia sheet. “That turned me on more than it should’ve. I feel like I just watched porn with guys who collect swords.”

“It was like an Attila the Hun sex tape,” Omar muttered, shaking his head.

“I’d stream that!” Mike added.

I ignored them all and gestured toward the others in the booth. “Okay, Shane. That was Elliot. Now, starting clockwise: Mike you met at the fair, Omar, and the chaotic evil goblin on the end is Matty.”

“I am chaotic good, thank you very much,” Matty corrected, faux scowling across the table.

“Good to see you again, Shane.” Mike lifted his glass and smiled. “English teacher, trivia overlord, licensed pedant. I do not accept incorrect grammar, pineapple on pizza, or losing.”

“Also,” Omar added, “he once made a librarian cry during a Scrabble tournament.”

“She used an illegal Q word,” Mike said with zero remorse.

I moved on. “This is Omar.”

Omar gave a small wave. “Geography nerd, recovering theater kid, current baritone with the local gay men’s choir.”

“And Matty’s husband,” Mike supplied.

“Thank you, Mr. Publicist,” Omar said dryly.

Shane’s mouth twitched. I saw it. A twitch. On his face. Specifically, his mouth.

We were so close to a smile I could smell it.

“And finally,” I said, sighing, “ that is Matty.”

Matty leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Hi, I’m your worst nightmare. I’m Mateo’s fashion consultant, emotional support gremlin, and the voice in his head that tells him to moisturize and make bad decisions, not in that order.”

“Ignore him,” I said. “Please.”

“Oh no,” Shane said, deadpan. “I like him.”

Matty squealed and fingertip clapped again. “Mateo, keep him, he’s perfect!”

“He hasn’t even sat down yet,” I muttered. “He could be an axe murderer.”

“But he passed the vibe check,” Mike said .

Elliot, who had reclaimed his seat, nodded once again. “I would’ve sensed evil in him when our eyes met. I have that superpower.”

I was about to make a snarky comeback when Shane locked eyes with Elliot again, then nodded once.

What the heck? Had something passed between them the rest of the world missed? Did they have ESPN?

Apparently, some metaphysical gavel had been struck, and Shane had been deemed worthy—with barely a few words spoken. Either my friends were the quickest judges of character on the planet, or they were useless in assessing men who might be axe murderers—or cuddle bears, or something in between.

Suddenly, there was a spot next to me in the booth again—like it had been waiting all along.

I gestured to it.

Shane slid in beside me without a word.

Elliot folded himself on Shane’s other side, their massive shoulders pressed together. Neither seemed to notice or care.

As the table dissolved into arguments about categories and who called dibs on Broadway, I caught the tiniest hint of warmth in Shane’s eyes as he looked around. Then—miracle of miracles—he turned to me and said under his breath:

“They’re not so bad.”

I smiled.

“You haven’t seen them drunk yet.”

I panicked and ordered cheese fries.

“Fries, yes,” Mike said, nodding like a war general. “And wings. Dry rub. No blue cheese.”

“Two pitchers of beer,” Matty added, “and a round of tequila, because we’re professionals.”

“I want the sliders,” Omar said, flipping the menu like it offended him. “The ones that come with their own nuclear mushroom cloud of spicy heat.”

“You mean the Impossible Sliders,” Elliot grunted.

“God, he speaks in riddles,” Matty whispered, delighted.

Bartender Todd, who had reappeared at our table like a gay smoke genie, scribbled the orders without blinking, winked at Shane, and vanished again into the sweaty chaos of the bar.

Shane didn’t flinch.

Probably because nothing about this place could top what he’d already survived in life. Or because he’d gone catatonic. Either way, I chose to be impressed.

Then Matty leaned over the table, his evil pixie eyes gleaming with nosey intent.

“So, Shane.”

Here we go. Dread welled up in my chest.

“What do you do exactly? You build furniture, yes? Do you have an Instagram? Can you make me a headboard with LED lights and mounts for handcuffs?”

Omar chimed in, grinning. “And a sling. We need a four-poster bed that can handle the weight of a sling . . . and a grown-ass man . . . a naked, grown-ass man.”

“I—” Shane started, caught mid-sip.

“Did you meet in the wild?” Matty pressed, skipping past Omar’s line of questioning. “Online? At one of those sexy farmers markets?”

“We met at the Decatur Antique Fair. I told you that,” I said, a little more defensively than intended.

“Right,” Matty said, like an inspector ruling out suspects.

“God, I hope you’re sleeping with him,” Omar said with a smirk.

I glared across the table. “I swear to Beyoncé, I will knock this table over. ”

“Don’t waste the food.” Elliot lifted a single chicken wing in warning, raised one brow, and added, “Besides, the vow’s worth shit if it’s not sworn on the OG.”

“Betty White?” Omar asked.

Elliot shook his head. “Madonna. Pure and simple.”

“What about Cher?” Omar’s brow furrowed.

Elliot shrugged. “She’d do. I count them in the same class.”

I leaned in and whispered to Shane, “They’re entertaining themselves. Do not engage. Trust me on this.”

“Oh, he’s engaging,” Matty said, a triumphant smile on his lips. Apparently, eavesdropping had become an Olympic sport, and Matty held the record. “Time to play ‘Get to Know Shane’ everyone!”

Omar—our quiet, shy Brit—began humming the theme song to one of those old game shows; I think it was Match Game .

I tried to not slink below the table.

Shane sat ramrod straight, his face impassive, his eyes barely blinking. For a moment, I thought I might need one of our resident nurses to check for a pulse.

Matty would not be deterred. “Do you like dogs?”

Shane cocked his head. “Yes.”

“Cats?”

“Not really.”

Elliot chimed in, “Getting humped by a dog?”

Mike leaned all the way across the two of us to slap Elliot’s arm. “Not appropriate. Besides, Homer doesn’t do that anymore.”

“The hell he doesn’t,” Elliot groused. “He tried to make a whole new litter this morning.”

“Aww, you bonded,” Matty singsonged. “But tonight is about grilling Mateo’s fine slab of beef, not your dog daddy issues.”

“We are not—” I tried to say but was cut off.

“We are,” Matty declared. “Now, let me see, Shane, are you single?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t just mean not taken. Are you dating-Mateo single? Or like processing-a-divorce-from-your-emotionally-distant-ex-husband-who-stole-your-cat single?”

Shane stared a moment, then said, “Yes and no, and I’ve never owned a cat.”

“Do you wear flannel for aesthetic reasons or because you work with wood in a barn?”

“He does work with wood,” I muttered, cheeks burning.

“HE’S GAY. OF COURSE HE DOES,” Matty shouted, his eyes gleaming. “God, you’re manifesting your own erotic novella.”

Shane blinked. “I just make furniture.”

Matty fanned himself with a napkin. “With those forearms? That’s obscene. You should be arrested.”

“He could come work some wood at our place,” Omar offered.

“Absolutely not!” I snapped, far too forcefully.

Matty, Omar, and Elliot grinned in unison. Their shared glory rippled through me, and I knew beyond all doubt I’d just made the night a hell of a lot longer.

Shane, undaunted, said, “I have room for more clients. Sure.”

Matty’s smile fell, and his mouth quirked.

Omar’s caterpillar returned.

Elliot’s mouth fell open.

“He means for actual woodwork,” I said, desperate to get their minds out of the gutter. “None of you get to see his mighty oak.”

Oh, shit. I’d done it.

“Mighty oak?” Matty squealed. “So, you have seen it. Is it as big as he is? I bet it’s bigger than those meaty forearms. Did you need poppers just to get it in or—”

“Jesus, take the wheel,” I groaned.

Shane, still showing zero reaction to anything, said, “It is mighty, though not an oak. No, it’s smaller than my forearm, but poppers are always welcome. And no, Mateo hasn’t seen it. This is only our second date, and he’s a gentleman.”

Matty had just lifted his tequila shot to his lips and spat it across the table.

“Our boy? A gentleman?” His grin grew lecherous.

“I am, thank you very much, not at all like you sluts who sucked and spanked on your first date!” I said.

“They spank?” Shane deadpanned.

The entire table froze, as though someone had pressed the pause button on life. Only eyes moved, flicking from me to Shane and back.

Then everyone burst out laughing.

Except Shane.

He sat there like, well, an oak.

The bar lights dimmed as the DJ-slash-host-slash-shirtless-man-in-a-referee-uniform climbed up onto a small stage and tapped his mic. “Welcome to trivia night, you knowledge-thirsty heathens!”

The bar roared.

Mike clapped his hands, cutting through the chaos. “Okay! Trivia time, hookers!” He then passed out laminated scorecards like SAT proctors pass out doom.

Then he cleared his throat. “Trivia. Focus, people.”

And that’s when it happened.

Shane’s hand, resting on his thigh, brushed mine.

Not in a full-on hand-holding way—not even in a proper flirt—just a casual brush. His pinky, the soft, calloused side of it, grazing the back of my hand like it was no big deal.

Except it was.

Possibly the biggest deal ever.