Page 24 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)
Shane
T rivia night ended in a mess of laughter and half-spilled beer, everyone riding that post-win buzz like they’d just taken State. Mateo’s team had edged out the win—barely—and only because Elliot pulled Shakespeare knowledge out of his back pocket like a magic trick.
I said little. I never did things like this. But I didn’t mind the noise. Or the company. Or Mateo’s smile lighting up every corner of the bar like it owned the place.
When the last of our mugs were drained and the tab was paid, we clamored out of our booth like a stampeding herd and headed to the parking lot.
Outside, the night was cooler than I expected, the kind of Georgia breeze that made the parking lot feel wider and quieter, despite the waves of rowdy gays pouring out of the bar.
We all funneled out together—Matty and Elliot bickering about the final round, Omar heckling someone about a spelling bee incident I didn’t quite understand, and Mike yelling something scandalous about winning “like a woman on a mission with a wine spritzer.”
Mateo stuck close to me, and I let him. Not because I had anything clever to say, but because I didn’t want to not be near him. His shoulder brushed mine every so often. It felt deliberate. He wasn’t subtle.
I didn’t mind.
We stopped near Matty’s car, everyone peeling off in different directions. Mike gave me a look—half amusement, half warning—and slapped Mateo on the back before heading to his own car with Elliot in tow. Matty winked at me like he knew every secret I’d ever tried to bury.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t videotape,” he called over his shoulder.
Then it was just us.
Mateo ambled beside me as we crossed the gravel lot toward my truck.
He talked the whole way—soft, rapid-fire commentary about trivia, the boys, how Matty thought Australia was in Europe.
His hands moved as much as his mouth, painting shapes in the air like punctuation marks, brushing his curls back every few sentences like they were impeding his thoughts.
His shoulder bumped mine again, then again, like he wasn’t quite ready to stop being near me, like proximity was another kind of question.
And every few seconds, he’d glance at me, just to check I was still there. Like he wasn’t sure what I was thinking but hoped it wasn’t bad.
I grunted. Twice.
He kept going. I didn’t stop him.
His accent was like the perfect sauce slathered over the perfect bite of steak . . . and there was something about the way he filled silence that made it feel less like noise and more like a blanket, a ridiculous, frantic, yet charming blanket.
When we reached my truck, he hesitated—just for a second—then turned toward me like he was working up to something.
I braced for a bad dad joke.
What I got instead was: “I really like you.”
There’d been no buildup, no buffer, just words, raw and sudden, hanging there between us like a lit match.
He said it too fast, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them.
His face flushed, and his eyes flicked up to mine, then away just as quickly.
His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, twisting the fabric until it bunched at his hip, and his weight shifted from one foot to the other, a nervous shuffle that made him look like he was half a second from bolting—or doubling down, or peeing all over the parking lot.
Then his mouth pressed into a line like he was trying to will it shut, but it was too late. The words were out, free in the world, never to be contained again.
Somewhere in his terrified gaze, there was something hopeful, like he wanted to believe I might catch what he was offering instead of dropping it—or tossing it aside.
I stared.
I blinked.
His eyes were so wide, and his mouth moved like he wanted to take it all back, like he’d said it wrong—or worse, too honestly.
Something in my chest cracked.
Not broke exactly, just . . . shifted. It felt weird, but insistent. I wanted to . . . no . . . I needed to do something.
I leaned in.
Slowly.
Because I didn’t know how to say anything back. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But I could do this.
My lips were dry, probably cracked beyond repair. Still, I pressed them forward and kissed his forehead. It was quick and gentle, more instinct than planned .
When I pulled back, I didn’t move for a second, just stared down at him.
He stood there, frozen—eyes wide, lips parted like maybe he had something to say but forgot how English worked. His hands hung by his sides, one twitching like it might reach for me, the other still fisted in the fabric of his shirt like it was the only solid thing within reach.
My stomach did something weird. Something flippy.
Shit.
I’d kissed him. I had actually kissed him.
On the forehead, sure. But still.
That wasn’t nothing. He had a nice forehead.
It had felt . . . good even. Like maybe I hadn’t ruined everything just by existing near him for too long; but now he just stood there like a deer in very romantic headlights, and I was convinced I’d short-circuited the entire evening, possibly my whole life.
Was the kiss too much? Too soft? Too foreheady?
Was foreheady even a thing?
What if he thought I was being condescending?
What if he hated it? What if he hated me despite his words?
What if he thought I only liked him in the adorable pet store puppy sort of way and not the actual feelings, actual danger way?
And what the fuck did I actually feel about this guy? In all my worries about his feelings, I hadn’t dared explore my own. Looking inside myself invoked a different terror, one far more deep and dark. It was like that horrible childhood nightmare no one wanted to revisit.
God, I was not good at this.
I panicked.
I didn’t look back as I climbed into my truck, slammed the door behind me, and turned the key as quickly as my fingers would move.
As I drove away, I saw him in the rearview mirror.
He stood there like I’d just dropped a plot twist on him he hadn’t prepared for. His body was rigid, his face still froze, like a bug in amber. Slowly, his hand raised in a weak, stunned wave.
I drove off with my heart still stuck in my throat, and the shape of his smile burning behind my eyes.