Page 25 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

“ Y our what?” Sisi gaped.

“My forehead . He kissed my forehead,” I said, unsure whether to puff my chest out or slink away.

“What are you, eight? Did he offer to tuck you in, too? Change your nappy?” she needled.

“He might like his nappy changed. You know, that’s a thing. They call them Littles,” Omar added, trying to be helpful but coming across as a Sisi-adjacent snarky bitch.

My palms covered my face. “It was sweet, guys. He kissed me. Can we just be happy here?”

“You asked us what it means,” Matty said, his accusing forefinger waving through the air like a fencer’s blade. “We are merely exploring the possibilities. I will admit, the signs are usually much easier to read. This Shane character is throwing off my inner Martha Stewart.”

Omar laughed. “Are you trying to read the message in a kiss or plant a rosebush up his ass?”

I had to swallow hard lest I spew coffee across the table. Omar wasn’t quiet or reserved, but he kept his zingers close until he needed them. Then BAM . You never quite saw them—or him—coming.

I looked around the table.

Matty, Omar, and Sisi were the only members of our tribe who could make our traditional brunch.

Elliot had to work, and I wasn’t sure what Mike was up to, but he’d begged out, too.

Knowing him, he was likely planning some elaborate meal that would endanger his entire neighborhood’s safety.

He was a weapon of mass destruction in the kitchen, but he was cute, and he tried.

Ours was an odd mix that morning, the three nurses and the coach. Thankfully, none of the medical peeps chose to talk shop. With the three of them together, it would’ve been easy for our meal to morph into a bad episode of ER , with me sitting on the outside looking in.

Instead, our morning had evolved—quickly—into a “what the hell is with Shane?” conversation. I might’ve been safer with funny ER tales.

“Guys!” I said a little too loudly, earning glares from six eyes. “What does it mean? Does he like me or not? I’ve never had a first kiss on my forehead. There’s no manual or script for this.”

Matty chuckled. “Honey child, there’s no manual for love.”

“Definitely not for you gays,” Sisi added. “Y’all are a mess.”

“Don’t make me start on you women,” Omar said, flexing his LGBTQIA+ card—the one with all the letters no one quite understands. “You take ‘reading between lines’ to a whole different level.”

“There are lines?” Matty asked. “What lines?”

“Exactly.” Omar nodded.

Sisi rolled her eyes. “Just because you men are tone-deaf doesn’t mean there isn’t music playing.”

“See!” Omar pointed across the table. “You hear things that aren’t there. You just admitted it!”

“Guys!” I raised my fork like a crossing guard’s stop sign. “Can we get back to my noggin’ kiss?”

Matty beamed. “Noggin’ love. I love it. It’s very face-forward.”

Sisi cackled. “Face-forward. That’s good, Matty. You win that one.”

I groaned. Talking to them was useless.

“Fine,” Sisi surrendered, reaching over and gripping my hand. “Talk to Auntie Sisi. Did he do anything else? Brush your hair back? Stare longingly?”

“Grab your junk?” Matty chimed in .

I threw my head back on the booth’s cushions. “There was no junk grabbing!”

The waiter chose that exact moment to arrive. His wide eyes and amused grin made me want to run out the door and scream at the world. Matty and Sisi grinned up at him and winked—in unison. A dual wink. Jesus, save me.

When the curious server vanished again, I offered, “He did press his shoulder to mine most of the night.”

“There were six of us in a booth for four. That means nothing,” Matty declared.

“Fine.” I pouted. “His hand brushed mine a few times.”

Sisi leaned in. “Intentionally? Like fingers searching for a hidden gem? Or accidentally, where he yanked back like he’d just touched a hot stove?”

I thought a moment. “No, there wasn’t any yanking back. It felt . . . like his pinky wandered away from the pack to explore the back of my hand.”

“Ooh, the plot thickens.” Sisi steepled her fingers. “That sounds intentional. A near-handhold, I’d call it.”

“Two points max. It was a brush, nothing more. He’s not getting the full five points for a handhold,” Matty said, somehow becoming the official referee of all things body language (and making up the point system and rules as he went).

“Two points. I’ll take it,” I said.

“But that kiss,” Matty continued. “We might need to consult the Gay Manual for that one. There has to be some obscure rule or guideline covering lip-to-head contact.”

“There’s a whole section entitled, Below the Belt, but I’m certain that involves a different head.” Omar smirked.

“Not helpful, Omar,” I drawled.

“But funny.” Matty grinned at his beloved.

God, those two were syrup on top of sugar laced with saccharine.

“All right,” Sisi said in an alarmingly sincere voice. “Let’s set aside our preconceived notions of a child’s bedtime smooch and explore the meaning behind this first-of-its-kind adult emotional evasion technique.”

“Emotional—”

“ Silence , witness!” Sisi cut me off. “We will conduct a scientific inquiry. Now. Possibility one: Forehead kisses are for children, small woodland animals, and people who say ‘bless your heart’ unironically. In which case, we’re in trouble.”

“Possibility two,” Matty chimed in, “it was a soft, tender ‘I care about you, but I’m broken and emotionally stunted’ kiss.”

“Oh! The ‘I’m scared to feel something real’ kiss!” Omar added, nodding. “A classic. That’s a man who’s read one book and it was a furniture manual with feelings repressed between the lines . . . or a comic book. Could be either.”

I slumped forward. “Can I finish my toast before you dismantle my entire psychological makeup?”

“No,” they said in unison.

Sisi leaned in. “Did he look at you after? Like, really look? Like, ‘he kissed you, but he didn’t know how to deal with what he felt and panicked’ kind of look?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose with two fingers. “He blinked at me like a confused dog, kissed right below my hairline, and fled the scene. There was no look, at least not a long, meaningful one laced with clues for Nancy Drew. There was only escape.”

Matty gasped. “You got forehead-kissed and abandoned? That’s art.”

“He probably panicked,” Omar said. “He seems like the type who’s allergic to joy.”

“Or,” Sisi said, raising a finger, “he’s one of those guys who doesn’t do big gestures. And that forehead kiss? That was him throwing his whole soul into one square inch of just-beginning-to-wrinkle skin.”

Everyone turned to look at me, my forehead, specifically. I’d never been self-conscious about my skin before; but in that moment, I swore to buy cologne and moisturize daily.

I blinked. “I . . . I think I liked it.”

Sisi sat back, stared a moment, then nodded as though confirming her findings. “Then it counts. It’s an official first kiss with all the meanings, insecurities, and silly lovesick hopes assigned to one.”

Matty beamed. “Congratulations. You’ve entered the foreplay of feelings phase.”

Omar raised his coffee. “To forehead kisses. May the next one be two inches lower.”

“To his nose?” Sisi’s whole face screwed up.

“Baby steps,” Omar said, his voice instructional. “A guy like Shane can’t be expected to jump from the cranium straight to swapping spit.”

“He’s got you there,” Matty agreed because, of course, he did. “Nose it is! Let there be nasal love!”

“Hold right there, gents.” Sisi raised a palm, a queen silencing her court. “There’s another question we have yet to explore, and it may be more vital than any silly kiss or handhold.”

My stomach churned. I knew I was in trouble when Sisi entered “professor mode.”

She barreled forward because . . . of course she did. “Mateo, you are a basketball coach, correct? A former collegiate player, yes?”

I sat back, unsure where this was leading, feeling a bit like the kid in a horror movie standing at the top of the darkened stairs while deciding whether or not to take the plunge.

“Yes to both,” I answered.

Sisi leaned forward, her elbows planted on the table, chin in her hands. “Why are you acting so not confident? You have never stumbled with your words or sat while we ran over someone, back and forth, again and again. You never let us ram you with the bus.”

“I think he likes being the ram-er, not the ram-ee,” Omar offered.

Matty did a little shimmy thing, like he was cold and excited at the same time, then gripped Omar’s arm like a horny beast marking its territory. “Ram-ee, I love it. Baby, you can be my ram-er anytime.”

“Focus, people!” Sisi snapped. “This is not a sexual conversation . . . yet.”

I groaned.

Sisi continued, “This is about why Mateo has folded in on himself in the face of a brusque—if tasty—woodworker. Out with it, our little rotini noodle. Inquiring minds and all.”

“Rotini noodle?” I couldn’t suppress a grin.

Sisi shrugged. “It was the best I could do on short notice. Now answer or I’ll switch from pasta to cheeses.”

“Like ‘from-under’ cheese?” Matty asked, batting his eyelashes as he did.

“Ew.” I scowled. “No. There will be no ‘taint truffle.’ None whatsoever!”

“Taint truffle?” Sisi clapped through a snorty laugh. “That’s awesome. I may get you a T-shirt with that on the back, like a softball jersey or something. That’s priceless.”

My head banged the wooden back of the booth again.

Then I surrendered to the question, since it would not go away on its own.

“I don’t know,” I said, my voice shrinking into the tiny ball I felt like in that moment. “Shane is just so . . . so big and strong and . . . stern? I mean, other than his muscles and abs and chiseled jaw, he’s not my normal type.”

“Other than all the hot parts? What’s left?” Matty asked.

I rolled my eyes. “He’s just so weird. That’s not what I mean.

He’s not weird; he’s reserved, like stone statue reserved.

I think I’ve seen him smile twice now, and neither of those was on purpose.

And shit, he can’t seem to say more than two words without needing to take a break.

It’s as though communicating is torture. ”

“And this draws you to him?” Omar asked, his tone contemplative rather than teasing.

“I . . . well . . . maybe. I don’t know.” I ran a hand through my hair and stared at the center of the table, avoiding every gaze focused on me. “I see something there, something underneath all that hardness—”

Matty giggled.

Omar elbowed him. Sisi grinned and winked, sharing a look with Matty.

I ignored them. “He’s a nice guy, and there’s something about him that just . . . just makes me want to see him again. I can’t explain it.”

“But why does all that make you turn so shy and babbly and, I don’t know, like Mike?” Sisi asked.

I grinned at the reference to my favorite ginger. He was a disaster when he got flustered, and it was adorable.

It was my turn to shrug. “He just makes me nervous. Shit, I’ve coached in the State Championships, played in the NCAA Tournament three times. I’ve felt pressure most people will never understand. Why does this one guy make me feel like a six-year-old who’s afraid of the dark?”

Omar’s smile was gentle, his eyes kind. “Just be you, Mateo. You’re one of the most amazing guys I know. If he doesn’t see that, he’s not worth your time. ”

“Hear, hear,” Matty said, clapping the fingertips of one hand on the palm of the other. “What my sexy little Brit said.”

Sisi, for once in her existence, remained quiet.

“You’re freaking me out, Sisi,” I said. “What?”

She stared down at her folded hands a moment, then shook herself and glanced up.

“Do what makes you happy, Mateo. If chasing this emotionally unavailable brute floats your boat, go for it. Just keep your eyes open, all right? We’re the ones who will have to pick up the pieces if he shatters your sweet, basil-and-ricotta-filled heart. ”

“Basil and ricotta—?”

Matty shot forward, eyes electric. “Maybe you just want to see the rest of his hardness .”

“His massive plank of wood,” Omar added.

“His mighty oak, if I remember correctly,” Sisi piled on.

I dropped my head onto the table with a thud and wished for an asteroid to strike Earth.