Page 29 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

W e finished dinner slowly, as though neither of us wanted to admit it was over.

I stood, collected the plates, and waved off Shane’s attempt to help like he’d just suggested burning the house down.

He grumbled something under his breath, but I saw the way his eyes lingered on the pasta bowl as if mourning the last bite—and I swear I caught him checking out my ass when I turned toward the kitchen.

A wry smile crept across my face, and I rinsed our plates and set them in the dishwasher.

The evening had gone better than I could’ve hoped.

Given Shane’s inability to string three words together, and his occasional habit of grunting in reply to an open-ended question, the bar had been set lower than for any date I’d ever been on.

But the night had been a success so far, and not just because of the food—though, yeah, I’ll be honest, I crushed that pasta.

It was the energy between us. Shane had relaxed.

He’d stopped gripping the edge of the table like it might sprout wings and fly off.

Even his shoulders had eased, his posture softening, and his face—God, his face—opened in a way I hadn’t seen before.

“C’mon,” I said, nudging him with a smirk. “Let me show you how good that sideboard looks doing its job.”

I led him into the den, proud as hell of the way his eyes swept over the space like it meant something. He’d been here before, sure, but only briefly. Now, though? Now he was seeing it the way I wanted him to.

Wood-paneled walls, warm lamp light, shelves crammed with books and mementos, the rug from Azerbaijan still soft underfoot. And there, beneath the television, his masterpiece of a sideboard, with its dark wood, carved edges, and powerful lines.

“Looks good there,” I said, hands in my pockets like a dope.

He stared at it like it might wink at him—or bite him. “It was always meant to be yours.”

I turned my head so he wouldn’t see my face go stupid.

We crashed onto the couch, a little too close to be casual. My thigh pressed against his, and neither of us moved. Sitting there beside him, I caught myself watching his profile as he focused on the TV. I wasn’t glaring in a creepy way—I hoped. I was just . . . studying him.

He had one of those faces that you didn’t realize was beautiful until you looked too long.

Imperfections made him flawless. A faint scar just above his eyebrow, the shadow of scruff he hadn’t bothered shaving, a bump in the bridge of his nose that told a story I’d yet to hear.

Oh, and the man-scar on his chin that marred ninety percent of American males, likely born of a childhood incident involving a piano stool or table corner.

My quick catalogue was filled with all those tiny things most would miss.

Most people would be too intimidated by the sheer brooding bruteness of Shane to understand him—or the patchwork of tales written across his face.

Suddenly, I couldn’t stop seeing them.

His jaw was tight, like he was chewing over thoughts he’d never say out loud. His fingers drummed against the wine glass, then stilled, one finger repeating the rhythm, as though it missed the memo to stop moving. When he did smile—even barely—it hit me like a freight train.

Was this what it felt like when the slow burn started to catch fire ?

Because I was toast. Absolutely toast.

And somehow, he hadn’t run away screaming yet.

As I refilled both our wine glasses—over his fumbling objections—I watched him shift on his feet like a guy trying to decide if he could relax. It was so strange. He’d seemed so comfortable at the dinner table. Why had moving to the couch reset his calm-meter?

We channel surfed for a few minutes, trading sarcastic commentary, until I found a rerun of Match Game , the original one filled with terrible fashion and laugh tracks from hell. It was the perfect background noise.

“I forgot how unhinged this show was,” I said, grinning as a contestant said “banana” in response to a question about outer space.

“My Nonna would play this over and over. Back then, I spoke little English, so the jokes were lost on me, but the humor was obvious. I can still hear Nonna’s cackle echoing throughout her kitchen. ”

“I think that’s the point,” Shane muttered, taking a sip from his glass. “It’s wacky, mindless humor, the best kind.”

We didn’t even make it past the first commercial break before the show hit us with a question that nearly took us both out.

“Linda was so excited on her honeymoon,” the host read, barely keeping it together. “She told her new husband to put his ___ in her trunk.”

Shane choked on his wine so hard I thought I’d have to perform CPR.

The panel’s answers were pure chaos. Someone said “meat thermometer.” Another, “toolbox.” Betty White raised an eyebrow and said, “Depends on the size of the luggage,” which somehow made it worse.

I was wheezing.

“Are they drunk?” he asked, wiping wine off his lip.

“Drunk, horny, and deeply unserious,” I said. “Which makes this the perfect show.”

His shoulder brushed mine.

He was warm.

Oddly familiar.

And somehow, that small touch felt more dangerous than his forehead kiss had.

Another commercial break shattered our ability to sit staring at the screen. I shifted, tucking one leg under the other as I turned to face Shane.

“Tell me about your family,” I said, realizing his questioning had kept me answering all night without him revealing much of his past. I knew he was a local woodworker, and that was it.

He bristled at the question. Physically flinched, as though I’d just given him a flu shot.

His jaw twitched.

“If it’s off-limits, that’s okay. I’m not trying to—”

“No,” he said too quickly. Then, quieter: “It’s not off-limits.”

I waited.

One breath. Two.

Let him sort it out.

He shifted, his eyes on the rug.

“I haven’t seen them in years.”

I didn’t say anything, just let the silence stretch like I did when one of my players needed to get something off his chest but couldn’t find the words.

“They weren’t . . . bad, not really,” he said. “Just broken, I guess, in too many places, and no one wanted to fix anything. So I left.”

“Left where?” I asked.

“I went to live in a farm town in Minnesota. I have cousins up there. Jesus, it’s cold enough to freeze your teeth off in January.”

I smiled but didn’t interrupt. He looked like a man lost in time.

“My dad worked with his hands, built barns, fences, houses—anything needing building. He didn’t talk much unless he was mad. My mom . . .” He paused, swallowing. “She was tired—always so damn tired—like life had worn her out by thirty. ”

“Tired?”

He sucked in a breath like it pained him. For a moment, I didn’t think he’d say any more, but then words began to tumble out, more words than I thought possible for the stoic man.

“My mom wasn’t weak. People always think tired means weak, but it doesn’t.

She was just . . . worn. Life wore her down like water over stone.

She raised three kids while working nights at the packing plant and still made breakfast every morning like it mattered.

My dad didn’t lift a finger inside the house, and he sure as hell didn’t lift one for her, but she kept going.

She never smiled much, not because she wasn’t happy—maybe she was once—but because there wasn’t any room left in her for things like joy or softness.

“Or dreaming.

“I used to watch her nod off at the kitchen table, coffee in one hand, bills in the other. That kind of tired doesn’t come from just work; it comes from being invisible too long.”

It wasn’t until we sat in silence for a long stretch—the kind of silence that no longer felt charged, just comfortable—that I asked, “What made your mom so tired?”

Shane’s mouth tightened. I saw it happen in real time, the muscle in his jaw working like he was chewing through memories.

“She carried everything,” he said. “Bills, groceries, bruised feelings, expectations. My dad wasn’t cruel—not really—but he made sure his silence did the talking.

She worked nights at a packing plant for twenty years, came home before the sunrise, made breakfast for three kids, did the laundry, and still packed our lunch every day—even my dad’s—like she owed him something. ”

I wanted to reach out, to grip his hand, to offer some kind of support, but his whole demeanor kept me frozen in place.

“I’d find her asleep at the table sometimes, her elbows on the bills, a cup of coffee gone cold in her hand. She’d wake up and pretend it didn’t happen, pretend she wasn’t carrying us kids and the whole damn house on her back.”

Shane shook his head, his gaze drifting far away. “She never complained, never yelled. She just . . . faded, like the color draining out of a photograph. By the time I was sixteen, I realized she hadn’t laughed in years, not really, not a deep-in-your-belly laugh that fills a soul.”

“When did you leave?”

“As soon as I graduated high school,” he said in a whisper. “I told myself I was doing it for me, for something better, but I think I just couldn’t watch her disappear anymore.”

He looked down at his hands—those hands that built things, that held tools with precision and strength—and for a second, I saw the boy he must’ve been.

“We used to be so close,” he said, his voice somewhere in a past decade. “I think that might’ve been the last time I was close with anyone.”

I cocked my head. “You and Stevie seem close.”

That made him chuckle. “Stevie’s like a badass, uncontained ball of fire. In some ways, she’s like my sister, but we work together. There’s still a line there, you know?”

I shrugged, understanding—but not really.

“She’s great and all. I couldn’t run my shop without her, but she’s not family, not like . . . like what I saw the other night at trivia. Hell, you’re closer to your players than I am to anyone in my life—and they’re kids. I’m too messed up for anyone to want—”

I reached out and let my fingers brush his, then placed my hand over his.

His body stiffened, and his mouth clamped tight, but he didn’t pull away.

“She . . . Mom needed me, and I . . . I just left.” His voice cracked, breaking my heart with it. “I didn’t have to go . . . I just . . . couldn’t stay. I left her to carry it all by herself. And the worst part? I didn’t even look back or visit or offer to help. God, I’m awful.”

“Shane—”

“I’m sorry. God, Mateo . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to go into all that.” He blinked, then looked at me like he’d surprised himself.

“I’m glad you did.” I shook my head. “I like the man I’m learning about.”

His gaze intensified, a laser homing in on its target, then he exhaled like he’d been holding it for hours and let his eyes wander again.

“I used to think I’d go back someday, make peace or prove something, maybe just help her out a little.

I don’t know what I planned to do—or when, or how.

I guess . . . I built something here instead. ”

“With your own hands,” I said.

“Yeah, something that didn’t need fixing.” His eyes flicked up again. “Even if . . .”

I waited a heartbeat, leaning forward, into his space. “If what?”

A tiny boy answered, “If I still need to be fixed.”

The room went quiet again, not feeling heavy, just full.

The closing credits began crawling across the screen, and the stars, clearly drunk, were laughing and joking in the background.

Neither of us moved .

Was it inertia? The stillness of the moment? The weight of his words?

I’m not sure why he remained still, my hand atop his, but I wasn’t ready to lose the warmth of him next to me. He’d only begun to open up, to let me see inside his crusty shell, and I wasn’t ready for him to pull back into himself once more.