Page 27 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

“ F eet set, Cam!” I called. “You’re not dancing at prom; you’re sinking a shot!”

Cam groaned but reset. The ball went up, then rimmed out.

“Board, DeShawn!”

DeShawn snatched the rebound like it owed him money. Then one dribble, a fast pivot, and a clean outlet.

It was better, but still sloppy.

I jotted on my clipboard in my shorthand chicken scratch—transition awareness, spacing on reversal, stagger screen communication: all trash.

Need work. Need drills. Need time.

Time.

The season started for real in only a few weeks. We didn’t have time for sloppiness. We had to work harder, clean things up faster. We had to be ready.

“EYES UP!” I barked as they scrambled into a fast break.

The scrimmage drew down to its last few minutes. My voice was hoarse, my clipboard was damp with palm sweat, and my brain had already written half of next week’s practice.

We’d do box-out drills until they hated life, talk-through rotations for the eight thousandth time, and whatever it took to keep Dillon from fouling out of a scrimmage. That boy was a one-man wrecking machine.

Still, I was proud of them.

Not that I’d say it. Not yet.

They were coming together slowly, but it was there.

They had the chemistry, the spark, that mystical element that brought a dozen boys from a dozen lives together and forged them into a singular unit, a team, a family.

They’d only been wearing the same uniform for a couple of weeks, and already I could see the bonds cementing. It was a beautiful thing.

“Nice!” I banged forearms with Gabe, one of my seniors and the player who might forever be my favorite.

Not only was he a good kid, he was sharp, considerate, coachable—and he needed me more as a mentor than any kid I’d ever known.

In a surprise turn, he’d come out, attending the first meeting of the LGBT support group Mike and I helped form near the end of the last school year.

I’d known Gabe for years and never had a clue he might be gay—or might be struggling.

That night, the night he decided to show up and wear all of himself on his sleeve, something akin to a big brother bond formed between us and had only strengthened since.

God, I loved coaching.

I turned and stomped back to the bench with Gabe, chirping in his ear about using his feet and not his hands to play defense. He nodded, listening dutifully, as he always did.

That’s when it happened.

When I looked up and locked eyes . . . with Shane.

I stopped talking.

“Coach?” Gabe asked. I saw his head turn as he followed my gaze. He leaned toward me and whispered, “Coach, do you have a boyfriend?”

My heart threatened to rip out of my chest.

I startled out of whatever trance Shane had me in. “No, of course not. Absolutely not. No. He’s a friend. I mean, not even that. He made a sideboard . . . for my cardboard box . . . my TV . . . for my television.”

Gabe grinned, his eyes crinkling around the edges. “Got it that bad? Cool.”

As if he hadn’t just shaken my world, the kid turned, grabbed a water bottle, and plopped down on the bench, focusing his attention on the court .

Shane didn’t wave. He didn’t nod. He didn’t smile—as if that would ever happen. He just stared back, and I swear there was warmth in his gaze.

Or was that just what I hoped for?

Was the darn man even capable of warmth?

The buzzer sounded, and the wails of screaming sneakers ebbed.

I spun around to find I’d missed the last minute of the scrimmage staring into the stands.

My kids were clasping hands, bumping fists, and offering bro hugs to their opponents near mid-court.

The refs were walking away, toweling off, downing Gatorade.

Before I could gather myself, the opposing coach appeared, hand outstretched. “Nice scrimmage. See you in a couple of months?”

“Back at ya. And yeah, we’ll try to take it easy on you then,” I said with a toothy smile.

The coach laughed, patted my shoulder, and strode away to get his kids loaded onto their bus. Fortunately, we were at home, so my guys could just walk back to the showers, leaving me standing there, on the sideline, unsure where to look or walk or—

“Hey,” Shane’s voice wrapped around me like a fluffy, sandpaper-covered blanket. “Your guys are good. That was fun.”

Nine words. He’d spoken nine whole words. And now, I was speechless .

“I, uh, brought you something. I hope it’s okay.” He hefted a brown paper bag, the kind I brought my lunch in most days. Something round stretched the paper at the bottom, like it was trying to burst out of its confinement.

Shane handed me the bag, and I reached in and removed a fist-sized wooden basketball. Every line, every dimple, was perfect. The hue of the stain even matched an old ball that had been played with and loved for too many years. It was exquisite.

“Shane,” I breathed, turning the ball over in my hands. “Did you . . . did you make this?”

“I had a little time this weekend.” He shrugged. “I thought you could put it on your desk or in one of those cases, you know, a trophy case thing? It’s not much, really.”

I stared at the ball, stunned by the workmanship—and by the man who’d made it for me.

That’s when Matty’s overly caffeinated voice started peeping in my brain.

Was this the equivalent of “the forehead kiss wasn’t enough, so I made you this,” or was this some sort of dating consolation prize? Was Shane letting me down and saying he wanted to visit the friend zone? Or was he signaling something more?

Man, I hated dating and reading signals and sending signals and—fuck—why couldn’t adults just say what they meant?

“I, uh,” Shane stammered. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and, uh, I guess I express myself best through my hands.”

Now that sounded enticing.

Woodworking, idiot. He’s talking about woodworking.

Wait, did he just say he couldn’t stop thinking about me?

My pulse kicked it up a notch.

“This may be the nicest thing anyone’s ever given me,” I said, meaning every word. “Thank you, Shane.”

I glanced around. Only a few parents remained. Most of my guys had vanished to shower, leaving us virtually alone in the gym.

“I need to check on the guys and clean up a bit, then we can grab dinner.”

Shane turned and dropped onto a bleacher. “I’ll be here. Take your time.”

I tossed the wooden ball into the air a few inches above my palm as I headed to the locker room. It felt good, better than good. It felt like a piece of Shane in my hands, like the guy had carved out a sliver of himself and handed it to me—like he wanted me to carry a piece of him with me.

The locker room door flew open, almost smacking me in the head because I was too busy staring at my new toy to pay attention.

Gabe appeared, hair wet, bag slung over his shoulder.

His gaze landed on the ball in my hands.

Then he looked up at my face, and past me to where Shane sat across the court. A broad grin spread across his face.

“The non-boyfriend give you something?”

“Not a word, you hear me?”

Gabe’s grin grew. “You’ve kept my secrets. I would never tell yours. Although, silence might have its price.”

I glared at the boy.

“Just kidding. It’s good to see you happy, Coach. You deserve it.”

And with that teenage proclamation, Gabe strode away, leaving me standing in the doorway of the locker room with a wooden basketball cradled in both hands.