Page 34 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

T he sun was already trying to hide outside, a sure sign of winter sneaking up on us with shorter days and colder nights.

I’d been at it for a week and a half, cutting and planing and sawing.

Taking on a massive order to fill a family’s third home down in somewhere Florida had been a godsend for my bank account but had left me with even less of a life than before.

I’d barely left the shop—barely slept—since the work had begun.

Sawdust clung to my skin like a second layer, and the half-carved table leg in front of me felt more like a hostage than a project.

That’s when Stevie stepped in, her timing impeccable, as always.

Boots clomped on the floor. I turned my head to find her arms crossed, blood red eyeliner streaked like war paint.

“You do realize it’s Friday, right? Normal people stop work, drink, and fuck—or whatever the hell they can to relax and wash the stink of the week off their bodies. Speaking of stink . . .”

I didn’t answer. Just turned back to the leg and kept chiseling. I was nearly done with the last of the claw foot curve and wanted to finish before surrendering to the weekend.

She sighed, and I swear I could feel her hand wave through the air behind me.

“Fine, Mr. Asshole Boss. I’m clocking out .

. . or I would be if you paid me hourly, which you should, considering I haven’t eaten since noon and your idea of lunch was stale pretzels someone shoved in your pantry sometime after Reagan left office. ”

“Check the cabinet,” I said, not looking up. “There’s granola bars.”

“Great, we advanced to the Bush years . . . and yeah, we’re talkin’ Bush 41, not the son.”

I snorted. She was on fire.

“Okay, wow. The culinary generosity of a man with a six-pack and no sense of joy.” She stepped closer and tapped my shoulder with her taloned finger. “You’ve been here since five . . . in the morning . . . again.”

“Deadlines. I can’t feed you gourmet cabinet food if the clients don’t pay.”

“And they don’t pay if you don’t finish. Got it,” she huffed .

“Exactly!” Had she just said I was right? Maybe I should take her to a hospital, get her checked out.

“OT’s all lies.” Oh, shit. I heard a storm brewing in her voice. “You’re hiding from your hot Italian.”

My hand froze on the wood. I blinked, not daring to turn to face her.

There was a smirk in her voice. “Don’t act like you’re not thinking about him every time you stroke that wood. Hell, I bet you’ve stroked a lot of wood thinking about him lately.”

I groaned. “You’re the worst.”

She leaned against the worktable, pressing her boobs to my back in a way straight men might love. I, on the other hand, felt nothing but baby feeders smushing into my grungy shirt. As sweaty and gross as I was, she’d come to regret nuzzling her knockers against me.

“So what’s your excuse tonight? Avoiding romance for business? Gonna make out with mahogany instead of Mateo?”

Unwilling to let my shoulder blades ween any longer, I turned to face her again. “He’s coaching tonight.”

“All night?” Her eyebrows shot up.

I didn’t answer. No good came of answering.

She clapped a hand on my shoulder harder than necessary, then turned toward the door. “Try not to sand your feelings off while I’m gone, and for God’s sake, take a shower. You smell like a lumberyard had a nervous breakdown.”

She left with a two-finger salute—apparently feeling a bit European—and the faint sound of a car key fob chirping in her wake.

I sat there, staring into the now-closed door. The shop was too quiet, the tools too still, and all I could think about was the way Mateo looked when he paced the court—commanding, intense, alive.

“Damn it, Shane, you have work to do,” I groused, reaching for the stereo and willing Steve Perry and team into life. If I was going to brood, I was doing it with the dulcet tones of the greatest band ever in the background.

I didn’t have time for this.

Any of it.

And I didn’t have time to drive across town to watch high school boys play basketball.

Definitely not.

Wasn’t going to happen.

I planed a little too hard, shaving a deep gouge in the perfect leg.

“Mother fu—”

I tossed the planer down and ran a hand through my hair, spreading sawdust across my scalp in the process. Great. Just great .

Then Mateo’s infectious smile popped into my head, and his accent curled around me, drifting through Journey’s drumbeats to find its way into my ears.

Fuck me. I want to go to the damn game.

Who did that? What kind of stalker . . .

Just the thought of Mateo on that court, barking out plays, calling drills, pacing like a general in sneakers—it lit something up in my chest. So many foreign feelings flared in my chest: curiosity, admiration, maybe something a little needier.

But also?

I was tired.

Bone-deep tired.

And showing up smelling like desperation and cedar chips didn’t scream romantic follow-up to a shirtless make-out session.

I had time to shower and change. The boys didn’t start until seven-thirty, maybe later if the girls game before them took too long.

Why did I even know that? In what world was I reading the high school sports page and caring about the stories?

Had I lost the last marble rattling around in my thick, impenetrable skull?

Then again, if I stayed in the shop, I’d just end up sanding through this table leg like it owed me money, blasting more Journey—possibly resorting to Styx and spiraling about whether he thought last night meant something.

Or worse—whether I thought it did.

I dragged a hand through my hair again and glanced toward the half-finished project, then toward the door. It was like watching a match at Wimbledon from the front row at the net.

Back and forth and back and forth.

Damn it.

It wasn’t a question of if anymore.

Only how fast I could shower, throw on clean jeans, and pretend I hadn’t spent the last hour carving mahogany while daydreaming about a man who kissed me like he meant it.

Screw this. I’m going.

I parked my truck in the far corner of the school lot, angled between two massive SUVs like I was hiding between two hulking secret service agents guarding who-knew-who at a high school basketball game.

Then I sat there with the engine off, my keys in the cupholder, and hands glued to the steering wheel. That wheel was my life raft, and I was not letting go .

Kids streamed by, backpacks slung low, laughing, shoving, running toward the gym like the game was the most important thing in their lives.

Still, I sat there.

Parents passed in pairs, a few in small clusters, talking about work and weekend plans. A group of moms in matching spirit wear power-walked by with Starbucks cups and homemade pom-poms. I made a mental note to avoid their section. Caffeine and parental adrenaline were a vicious combination.

Still, I didn’t move.

I didn’t know what the hell I was waiting for. I wasn’t one for nerves. I barely had feelings.

Was I waiting so my mind could change? So I could decide this was a terrible idea and the chair leg I left mangled on my workshop floor needed more love than anyone inside the building towering before me?

Maybe I was sitting there for the gym to empty so I could sneak in like a ghost?

Even though the game had yet to start, and no one would be pouring out for hours.

I was such a mess.

This wasn’t like me.

I’d faced down clients with million-dollar furniture orders and contractors who thought they knew better than me. I’d built pieces that took months to complete, carved curves that nearly broke my hands.

Hell, I wrestled with Stevie over invoices and legal fees—and that could be considered an Olympic sport, right up there with judo and karate—or whatever martial arts were included in the Games. I didn’t keep up.

But this?

This was one man with a purple polo and a killer smile.

And still, I sat there like a coward, staring at the gym doors across the lot like they might explode if I got too close. I glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror—clean shirt, decent hair, eyes a little too hopeful—and shook my head.

“Get out of the truck, Douglas,” I growled, hoping my inner self might be intimidated by my outer self’s rumble.

It didn’t work, but it did make me chuckle.

“You’re such an idiot,” I said to myself, not sure whether it was the inside Shane or the other guy calling me out. I was beginning to lose track of the turbulent personalities vying for supremacy in those moments.

“No more stalling. Move,” I ordered. Without giving myself (either one) time to object, I grabbed my jacket off the passenger seat, shoved open the door, and stepped out into the chilled evening air like it might slap some sense into me.

Gravel crunched under my boots as I made my way across the lot, slow at first, then faster with each step—like if I didn’t keep moving, I’d bolt right back to the cab and drive away.

The doors loomed ahead. They were glass and steel, but they felt like gates to something heavier.

Inside, the lobby buzzed with the familiar chaos of game night.

Concessions hawked popcorn and candy. Parents huddled near the walls, nursing giant sodas and shouting at their kids to behave.

The smell of floor polish, sweat, and nacho cheese hit me like a brick wall.

And then I pushed through a second set of double doors into the gym.

The moment my boots hit the hardwood, the world narrowed.

There he was.

Mateo.

Standing in front of his bench, shouting some kind of instruction to his team as they performed their pre-game warmup.

And somehow, even in the chaos of squeaking shoes and roaring parents, his gaze found mine.

Just like that.

Like he’d known I was coming all along.

And my heart? My traitorous pulse ?

It wasn’t just racing.

It was breaking every speed limit there had ever been.

So, caught breaking and entering a public space, I did what any sane man would do in my position. I bolted to the top of the bleachers where Mateo would have to turn away from the court to look at me.

There.

Safe.

He couldn’t turn. Wouldn’t turn. He had a team to coach and a game—

Damn it. He turned.

And smiled.

And raised his hand in the most adorable wave.

Just in time for every mom in the stands to follow his gaze, turn, and swoon, a chorus of “oos” and “awws” followed by whispers of “Is that Coach’s boyfriend?” and “Who’s the new hottie?”

I wanted to slink beneath the bleachers, to curl into a ball and hide from the world, but Mateo was still staring, still smiling, still had his hand raised.

There was nothing to be done.

No escape.

No slinking away.

So I waved back.

And the home crowd erupted.