Page 33 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

T he next couple of weeks passed in a blur.

With tryouts complete, the team was in its annual sprint toward the opening night of the season, a game against one of our school’s chief rivals—a team we hadn’t lost to in over thirty years.

There were no expectations for our first contest beyond utter domination and decimation. That was all.

“Feet!” my assistant coach, Ryan, bellowed from the opposite side of the court, where he ran drills tougher than any Army sergeant. “Move your fu—” He paused. “Move your feet!”

I blew out a breath. Ryan had the mouth of a sailor. I’d asked him to control it, especially in front of the kids, but words slipped out like a lover in the night, sometimes like one leaving through the front door in daylight. Yeah, like that.

In fact, his cursing had become so infamous that our players standing on the sideline, those not running the current drill, would clap three times in unison every time he cursed, earning sideways glances and grins from those on court—those who were supposed to be focused on the task at hand.

Ryan’s almost-F-word earned two claps and a round of teenage chatters and shoulder shoves from the bench. My only reaction was a lowered head and a pinch of the bridge of my nose.

Ryan ignored everyone, bearing down harder on the boys and their faltering drill.

“Gabe, hands up! Stop trying to feel him up. You play defense with your feet, not your hands!”

I pinched harder.

The boys on the sides howled.

Gabe, thankfully, ignored them, his hands shooting up in the universal “Don’t shoot” position as he positioned his body in front of the kid with the ball.

“That’s it!” Ryan shouted. “Don’t let him by!”

For all his bluster, Ryan was a brilliant coach.

He had to be, if he wanted to stay anywhere near the game.

He was quick, sharp as a tack, and could shoot the ball from anywhere on the court.

Still, there wasn’t a college team in America who would put a five-foot-three, slim-as-a-rail man on court with the giants who played the game then.

The only jobs left to him were coaching or officiating—and Ryan hated referees with the passion of a jilted ex .

“Switch!” he yelled, giving the team in yellow pinnies a break while those in purple ran to replace them. The squeals of sneakers on wood echoed off the empty bleachers. That was one of my favorite sounds in the world.

“Coach.” A huffing Gabe stumbled up beside me, then folded over as he sucked in breaths.

“That was better, Gabe, but you’re going to foul out fast if you keep groping your opponent.”

The boy’s head whipped up, and his eyes narrowed.

I chuckled, threw up my hands, and lowered my voice. “Easy. Unless you’ve spread the word, no one here knows anything. I was talking basketball, not dating.”

In the waning days of the last school year, Mike and I helped one of his students form an LGBT support group for the kids in the school.

On the opening night of the group, Gabe had shocked everyone by showing up.

I’d coached the kid since he was in seventh grade and never had a clue he might be gay.

Gabe, already a popular and confident kid around campus, strode through the halls of the school like a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

He’d always been a positive light, that guy others looked up to, the one they wanted in their circle of friends; but something clicked inside him after he came out to me, something that had him walking a little taller, smiling a little more.

It was something to see, like the dawning of a brilliant new day.

We’d grown close after that night with the club. I was still his coach and demanded the respect one might from any student, but Gabe opened up, shared more, spoke of his life in ways I’d never heard before. There was a bond between us. I believed in him. I had his back—and he knew it.

Gabe’s mom even invited me over to their house for dinner, an attempt at an olive branch in a household still struggling to accept their son’s admission.

I hated declining that invitation, but Gabe’s dad made it clear he didn’t support his son’s “deviant ways.” The last thing I wanted was to exacerbate an already tense situation.

As much as he might’ve grown, Gabe still longed for a paternal figure who understood him, who accepted him regardless of his sexuality. In the way only a coach and teacher can, I tried to fill that void while straddling the line of public perception—a very dangerous line to walk.

Gabe glowered a moment before a hint of a smile formed. “Not even Coach Wex?”

“He’s worse than an old woman at church with gossip.” I shook my head. “He’s the last person I would tell. ”

Gabe grunted something akin to a laugh and looked through the practicing players at my counterpart. “It’s just . . . I feel like everyone’s watching me all the time, like they know and just aren’t saying anything.”

“Get a drink,” I said. We couldn’t afford that conversation in that moment, not with our first game only a few days away. Gabe looked up, darkness shrouding his eyes. “Let’s talk tomorrow, all right? We can eat lunch in here, if you like.”

“In the gym?”

I shrugged. “Why not? This gym’s our home, isn’t it? We may as well eat here, too.”

“Yes, Coach.” A broad smile chased the clouds away as he nodded once, then jogged around the court to grab a water bottle and jostle with his teammates.

I shook my head and returned my focus on the players running and dribbling and sweating . . . and fouling.

“Marcus!” I shouted. “If you can’t set a good screen, your butt’s on the bench. Run it again.”

Ryan gave me a thumbs-up from across the court as I jotted a note to add screen drills to our next day’s practice.

The last thing we needed was for our star players to foul out in the first half of our opening night because they couldn’t get to their spots without throwing a shoulder at every passing opponent.

And so practice went, hour after hour, shout after shout, drill after drill. By the time the final buzzer sounded and the players gathered around in a semi-circle of testosterone and exhausted, stinking bodies, it was nearly seven o’clock.

“Good hustle today. Tell your parents we’ll be late again tomorrow.”

A collective groan rose from the boys in acknowledgement of another long, hard practice to come.

I grinned. “Come on, guys. You know we love spending quality time with you.”

“You just love killing us,” a voice I couldn’t identify quipped.

My grin grew. “I can’t kill you before Friday night’s game. After that, we’ll see.”

A few of the guys laughed. Most groaned again.

“Go on. Get cleaned up and get some rest. Stay hydrated. Remember, what you put in your body the night before determines a day’s result.”

“Yes, Coach,” the chorus intoned before my pack of gangly wolves sluffed off to the locker room.

“We’re ready,” Ryan said only loud enough for me to hear.

“For game one, the easy night. We’re a long way from playoff ready.”

“One game at a time, remember?” Ryan nudged me with his elbow. “That’s what you told me last season.”

I was about to say something snarky, just to hear the colorful stream of profanities flow from his mouth, when I noticed my phone screen light up. We had a “no phones” policy during practice, so I hadn’t heard it chime—four times.

“Somebody’s popular,” Ryan said. “New man in your life?”

“New something,” was all I could think to say. Giving Ryan any information was beyond dangerous. I grabbed my clipboard, towel, and phone and turned toward the door. “I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

Two strides into the parking lot, I flicked the screen and flashed it my face to unlock.

Flannel Daddy: Hey.

Flannel Daddy: You’ve been quiet.

Flannel Daddy: Working?

Flannel Daddy: Never mind.

Okay, that was weird, even for Shane.

Clearly, I’d crossed his mind. That made my heart race. Still, his message sounded . . . strained? That wasn’t the right word. It felt so . . . distant .

I laughed as I reached my car. To say the gentle giant was aloof or mysteriously quiet was akin to calling the fire hot or water wet. “Distant” was Shane’s love language.

Without thinking, my fingers began to type.

Me: Just finished practice. Our first game is Friday night. We’re racing against time to whip these kids into shape. Sorry if I’ve been super busy.

Super busy? What teenage girl said that?

I could hear the valley girl voice in my head lisping out the word “super.” God, I was bad at this .

. . this . . . whatever the hell this was.

Shane and I talked most days, but we hadn’t seen each other since our dinner date.

He’d picked up a large order from a super rich (ack, I did it again) family that had kept him locked in his shop fourteen hours each day, and I was buried beneath basketballs and teenage angst.

I could still feel his hardened muscles pressed against my body, taste the tang of his tongue as it teased against my own.

We’d come so close to doing everything, but I was glad we’d held back.

Some things deserved their proper time and place.

Having another man inside me, that was one of those things.

But fuck me if I hadn’t dreamed about it almost every night since.

Flannel Daddy: Right. Big game this week. At home?

Me: Yep. We always open at home and against this same team. We should crush them like bugs, but you never know until we play the game.

Flannel Daddy: Right.

I sat in my car and watched the screen, waiting for more. Surely, he wasn’t ending our conversation there. He wasn’t a talker, but still . . .

Flannel Daddy: You know who Matt Rife is?

Me: The comedian? Sure. He’s funny . . . and super cute.

Damn you, valley girl. Go away!

Flannel Daddy: Right.

Flannel Daddy: He’s in town next week. One week only.

Me: Really?

Flannel Daddy: Yeah. Want to go? With me?

I couldn’t help the smile curling my lips.

He was so gruff, so short with his words, but I’d learned in our short time knowing each other that each one carried the weight of a thousand others.

He wasn’t unfeeling like I’d originally thought.

He just didn’t know how to express those emotions in words. At least, not in very many words.

Me: I’d love to, but I have practice every night until spring.

Flannel Daddy: The show starts at 9:30 at night. If you’re practicing that late, I’m calling CPS.

Me: Ha. No need to call the authorities. We usually stop around six. Some weeks we keep them until seven, especially if there’s a big game coming up. Unless they throw up on their shoes Friday night, next week should be normal.

Flannel Daddy: Good. I already got tickets for Tuesday night.

Presumptive little bastard. I loved it!

Flannel Daddy: I’ll bring dinner to your place around seven-thirty.

Me: I’ll need to shower and change.

There was a long pause before the dots began dancing again.

Flannel Daddy: I’ll be there at seven with soap, a sponge, and a rubber duckie.

Was that . . . a joke?

I gaped at the screen for an eternity before a laugh flew out so loud I startled myself.

Ryan, who was climbing into his Jeep next to me, bent down with scrunched brows and stared through my passenger side window. “Everything all right?”

I gave him a thumbs-up. “Fine. Just . . . something funny. All good.”

He cocked his head, then climbed into his Jeep and drove away.

Me: Tuesday, seven o’clock. You, me, a duckie, and a towel. It’s a date.

Flannel Daddy: Fuck the towel. See you then.