Page 28 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

T he gym was empty by the time he came back, just the glow of far-off hallway lights and the faint echo of a final bouncing ball somewhere in the past.

Then Mateo stepped out.

His hair still a little damp, freshly brushed, a slight curl at his temples somehow making him look younger and more dangerous all at once.

He wore a fresh shirt—a rich purple one with a golden mustang across the chest like it meant something, and somehow, it suited him better than anything I’d seen.

He walked across the court like it belonged to him, not like a king or a star, just steady and solid, the kind of walk that didn’t ask for attention but always got it.

I stayed frozen, caught somewhere between trying to seem normal and nervously reliving the kiss I’d left on his forehead like an idiot.

He stopped at the edge of the bleachers, looked up at me with that sideways smile that already lived rent-free in my head, and said, “So. What are you hungry for?”

I wanted to say, “You,” but thankfully my stomach answered before my mouth could.

Instead, I stood and muttered, “Something warm and easy.”

I was neither of those things, but if he asked . . .

His smile widened a little as he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Why don’t we head back to my place? I’m the best Italian cook in America. I’ve only lost Top Chef in my dreams.”

I hesitated.

His place. His couch. His kitchen. His space.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. God knew I did. It wasn’t even that I didn’t trust him. It was . . . being inside someone else’s world like that felt too close, too easy to fall into.

I opened my mouth to deflect, but then he flashed me that grin again—the one that made his eyes sparkle just a little, like he was daring me to find a reason to say no.

I swallowed whatever excuse I’d been ready to give and nodded .

“All right,” I said. “But if your pasta’s bad, I’m leaving your texts unread forever.”

He laughed as he turned toward the exit. “You’ll be too busy crying from joy to text anyone.”

I followed him, each step louder than I wanted it to be.

I was so screwed—and for once in my life, I knew it.

Mateo’s house was quiet when we stepped inside. It was the kind of quiet that felt like lived-in comfort, not emptiness. The den was just as I remembered it—wood-paneled warmth, antique rug, the sideboard I’d delivered standing proud against one wall beneath a flat-screen television.

The hallway off the main entrance opened into a small kitchen and dining area.

Both were bathed in warm tones and cluttered just enough to feel real.

Copper pans hung from a rack above an island, and glass-cased shelves were crammed with cookbooks, trinkets from his travels, and what looked like a miniature bust of Julius Caesar wearing a chef’s hat.

Mateo tossed his keys in a bowl by the door and shrugged off his jacket, already moving with purpose. “All right, I’m starving,” he said, ruffling his hair as he headed for the fridge. “You’re lucky I didn’t eat your leg on the drive over. I thought about it a time or two.”

My brain tripped.

Did he just—

What kind of Hannibal Lecter flirting was that? It was flirting, wasn’t it?

He was already pulling out garlic, butter, pasta, and a handful of fresh herbs like this was a normal Tuesday. He didn’t seem to notice he’d broken my brain with those words.

“You ever had cacio e pepe ?” he asked, glancing at me with a grin.

I cleared my throat. “Can’t say I’ve ever had to defend my limbs from an Italian coach . . . and no, I’ve never had anyone’s pepe, much less Cacio’s, whoever he is.”

Mateo laughed, and every shadow that had ever lurked in his home fled.

“Then tonight’s your lucky night.”

He grabbed a skillet, twirled it, and set it on the burner like he was crowning the new king.

“All right, so here’s what’s about to happen: cacio e pepe , Roman-style.

First, butter—salted, because we’re not animals—goes in the pan.

You wait until it melts like it’s whispering secrets, then add freshly cracked pepper—not that pre-ground garbage. This is seduction, not war.”

By the time my eyes shifted from the pan to the counter, he was already tossing garlic cloves onto the cutting board and rolling up his sleeves.

“You let the pepper bloom in the butter—like it’s falling in love—and then you add some of that gorgeous, starchy pasta water. Just a little, kind of like foreplay.”

I blinked.

Did he just say foreplay ?

He’d peeled the garlic and was slicing it, slow and deliberate, the edge of the knife glinting.

“Then in goes the cheese—Pecorino Romano. It’s sharp and salty, like me when someone tries to use pre-shredded mozzarella.

You stir it all together and you don’t stop stirring until it’s smooth, creamy, and practically moaning.

And boom!” He looked up. “You’re welcome. ”

I may have blacked out.

Because I was not prepared to be turned on by pasta.

Or the way he was talking about it.

Or how he was looking at me while doing both.

I swear the way my pants tightened and throbbed had nothing at all to do with the quirk of his mouth or flex of his bicep as he stirred.

“You good over there, woodsman?” His grin widened. “Or did I break your brain with dairy?”

“All good. Really. Great, even,” I babbled.

His eyes glinted in the fluorescent light.

I watched him bustle around the kitchen like he belonged there—because he did. He was confident, effortless, and completely at home. And somehow, with every flick of his wrist or curse in Italian under his breath when he dropped a spoon, he pulled me a little closer to something I hadn’t expected.

It wasn’t just the food. Or the flirtation.

It was the life here.

It was him.

I’d tried to resist the pull, the gravitational weight that drew me into his orbit, but everything I said or thought or did led me back to his doorstep—or, in this case, his kitchen.

Watching him, the lines of him, seeing his hair bob as he moved from stove to sink to cutting board, I grew more at ease than I thought possible only a few hours before.

This man—this infuriatingly charming, handsome man—didn’t seem to notice or care that I was a stone wall of emotional vacancy.

He seemed to see past my bluster, past my grunts and snarls.

I wasn’t sure he’d seen me yet—that would be something I’d have to show him, something I hadn’t done with anyone in a very long time—but he was beginning to see the shape of me.

At least, that’s what I hoped.

For once in my life, I wanted to be seen.

I wanted to be more than my work, than my profession.

I wanted him to see me, to know me, to want me as much as I craved his infectious smile.

God, I craved his smile. Just admitting that sent chills down my spine. Who did that? Especially after only a few days? Was I some freak of gay nature, some outcast of outcasts, a baby deer who couldn’t learn to walk on his wobbly legs despite being nearly thirty years old?

The chair groaned as I leaned back, watching him move with determination, whipping some kind of Italian goodness into shape.

Then he plated the pasta.

He didn’t just scoop it—he twirled it into these perfect, restaurant-worthy mounds and sprinkled more cheese on top like he was conducting a goddamn symphony. Then he added a dash of parsley, a flick of pepper, topped by a low, satisfied hum that did things to me.

He carried both plates to the table and set mine down with a shallow bow. “ Mangia ,” he said, like he was blessing the meal.

The smell hit me like a Mack truck .

Pepper, cheese, butter—it was so simple, but unreal. Warm steam, sharp and rich enough to make my knees buckle, drifted upward, and my stomach growled so loudly I almost apologized to the pasta for making it wait.

I picked up the fork and took my first bite.

Sweet mother of carbs.

Flavor exploded across my tongue, rich and creamy and perfectly seasoned, and I closed my eyes for a second—just to process, to grieve for every inferior noodle I’d eaten before this.

Then my pants got tight.

Real tight.

Like, someone-was-going-to-have-to-ice-me-down tight.

Mateo was smiling at me across the table like he knew what he’d done.

The traitorous bastard leaned forward on his elbows and grinned. “Good?”

I nodded.

I couldn’t speak.

Mostly because I wasn’t sure if the sound I’d make would be words or a literal moan.

Good didn’t begin to cover it.

I was pretty sure I’d just experienced a pasta-induced religious awakening—and my pants were seconds away from becoming an SVU crime scene.

“Where did you learn to cook like this? It’s incredible.”

Mateo beamed, then ducked his head as he twirled pasta onto his fork. “My Nonna was the best. I mean it, the absolute best. And that’s saying a lot in a country where everyone cooks like an Iron Chef on crack . . . or mozzarella. Definitely mozzarella.”

“Were you close? You and your Nonna?”

And somehow, just like that, over pasta and mid-priced wine, Mateo and I settled into a comfortable rhythm, talking and, most importantly, eating until my waist ached against my jeans.

Forgotten were all my fears, my insecurities, my worries that he wouldn’t find me interesting or smart or anything he found attractive.

Somehow, we became two guys enjoying each other’s company and not wanting the day to end.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt anything like it.

Or the last time I smiled so easily.