Page 35 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

T he ref blew his whistle, tossed the ball high above the players, and the gym exploded.

Not literally, not with pressure or nerves, but with sheer lopsided dominance.

This was a team we beat every year. Badly.

Their coach was a nice guy, and their kids tried hard—but try-hard didn’t stop fast breaks and tight zone defense.

It didn’t stop Cam when he decided the paint belonged to him.

It didn’t stop Will from running circles around defenders who couldn’t keep up with a traffic cone.

“Get ready,” I muttered to Ryan, already stepping onto the court as the first bucket dropped with ten seconds off the clock. “It’s going to be ugly.”

By the time we hit four minutes into the first quarter, we were up 12–0, and the Bobcats had barely taken a shot, much less scored.

And that’s when I turned and looked up .

I’d seen him when he walked in; it was hard not to.

Shane wasn’t a background kind of man. From the grunts, groans, and whispers that followed his entrance, I was sure every mom—and a few dads—had noticed him, too.

I could’ve warned him that would happen, that he would become the talk of the PTA the moment they set eyes on him.

I could’ve told him that—if he’d let me know he was coming.

Jesus, I was glad to see him, but what in the name of Madonna and her dancers was he thinking?

I’d shoved it all aside, put my mental blinders on.

Now, as we subbed out two starters to give the bench some early burn, I let my eyes flick toward the top row of the bleachers.

There he was.

Same flannel from earlier.

Same white T-shirt.

His beefy arms were crossed over his chest, face unmoving, expression unreadable.

He was staring . . . hard.

Not at the game.

At me.

My throat dried out.

I turned back toward the court before I did something ridiculous, like grin in front of two hundred screaming parents.

“Ethan, get in there,” I barked. “And stop fiddling with your jersey like it owes you rent—tuck it in and get out there.”

The boy jogged on.

Our second string could’ve taken the rest of the game and still pulled the win, doubling the other team’s score. That’s how far ahead we were.

Ryan leaned over. “You wanna call off the dogs at some point?”

“After halftime,” I said, my eyes still flicking toward the scoreboard. “Let them run the full playbook. They earned the reps.”

By the end of the second quarter, it was 47–12.

The gym had turned into a party. The student section was doing the wave—badly—and even the opposing fans looked like they were ready to cut their losses and hit Applebee’s.

Shane hadn’t moved.

He was still standing, still watching, still managing to make leaning against a cement wall look like an act of war and poetry all at once.

I blew out a breath, bent over my clipboard, and muttered, “Focus, Ricci. You are a professional.”

Except I wasn’t. Not where he was concerned.

Halftime gave our kids a rest and my beleaguered brain a reprieve.

I wanted to race out of our locker room, run up the stairs, and wrap that man in my arms, but a few obstacles stood in the way of that made-for-Hollywood moment, not the least of which were the female members of the PTA who would never let me hear the end of it if I acknowledged him more than I already had—and that had been barely a wave!

Those ladies were amazing and supportive, but they were relentless when they caught whiff of a juicy rumor—and what could be more juicy than their head coach landing a new hot, super broody boyfriend?

Fucking valley girl and her super whatever.

In the third quarter, I gave the bench the reins.

Beating another team was one thing, grinding them into the dust was unsportsmanlike.

The crowd didn’t like it. They smelled blood in the water—and on the floor and on the walls—and definitely all over the ball.

They wanted us to break one hundred, to score more than any team ever had.

They didn’t have to face the opposing coach at conferences or district meetings.

Their kids wouldn’t be on the losing end of game-night emotions. At least, not that night.

I knew all those things too well, had felt them too often, to allow a victory to become a slaughter.

“Have them practice killing the clock. No more fast breaks. Everything walks.”

Ryan nodded, then turned and barked orders to the team. They didn’t like it, caught up in the fervor of the night, but they would do as instructed. They were good kids.

The game became a blur of substitutions and clock management. Ryan joked that we should let the team vote on their own plays. I laughed harder than I should’ve.

Every so often, I looked back.

Every time, Shane was still there.

When the last buzzer sounded, the scoreboard read 98–34.

We’d crushed them—politely, respectfully, with handshakes and everything, but crushed them just the same. Some among our parents grumbled that we were “two points away” from some magic number. Others complained that we would’ve shattered every record if only Coach allowed it.

I was somehow a conquering hero and unpopular at the same time. It was a very strange feeling.

Kids cheered, parents stood, the band played something that sounded like Queen if Queen had been raised in a garage.

And I finally let myself look straight at him.

Shane was smiling now. The grin was small and quiet, and I doubted anyone who didn’t know him would even recognize it as a smile rather than some twitch caused by a mental disorder, but it was there, and it was real—and it was for me .

That smile hit me harder than the win.

I didn’t dare move, not yet. Instead, I let the boys celebrate and the fans file out.

Because all I could think about was what that smile might mean.

And whether he’d still be wearing it when I reached him.

“You should go talk to him,” a youthful voice whispered from behind. I wheeled around so fast I nearly elbowed Gabe in the jaw.

“Jesus, Gabe. You scared me half to death. Why aren’t you out there high-fiving or whatever you guys do these days?”

“You’re old, but you aren’t that old. You know how we celebrate.” He smirked and folded his arms. “Besides, I’d rather see the fireworks happening right here.”

My brows bunched together—and for an Italian, that means something serious, like the return of caterpillar season.

“You think you know me, do you?”

Gabe’s smirk grew to impossible proportions. “I know what I see when it’s right in front of me. Do you?”

I opened my mouth to tell him to be a teenager and leave adulting to the adults. Then I realized I wasn’t being very adult about my adult-adjacent situation.

“I’ll have you know—”

Gabe’s eyes bugged, and his smile . . . shit. Gabe’s gaze shifted past me, over my shoulder.

Something was happening.

“Nice win.” A thundering rumble smacked into my back and clawed into my chest.

I nearly fell over turning around.

Gabe’s hand found my arm. “Have a nice night, Coach. And you”—his finger pointed past me toward Shane—“don’t keep him up too late. He has practice tomorrow.”

Before I could scold the boy for his insolence, he huffed a laugh and vanished, leaving Shane staring from two bleacher rows above.

“Kid’s got balls. Gotta give him that,” was all Shane said. His infuriating mouth didn’t curl or smile or anything, though his eyes twinkled a bit in the brilliance of the gym’s lighting.

“So, you came,” I said, using my words brilliantly.

Shane nodded. “Yep.”

Damn it. Could this guy not throw me a bone?

Wait. No. Not a bone. Don’t think about Shane’s bone. Not in the gym surrounded by moms and kids and . . .

Shit.

I covered my lower body with my clipboard .

Shane’s eyes tracked the movement, and one brow shot up.

“Sorry, I, uh, was just thinking about . . . never mind. It doesn’t matter. Hi.”

“Hi.” Shane smiled. “Are you done?”

I looked around. The gym was nearly empty.

“I need to—”

“Got it,” Ryan cut me off from a couple of steps behind. Where had he come from, and why was he siding with Shane? “I’ll lock up. Go on. It was a good night. One of us should celebrate.”

I blinked, first at Ryan, then at the floor, then back at Shane.

“Can I buy a winner a drink?” Shane asked, and I swear his eyes were laughing.

“I, uh, sure. Yeah. That sounds great. Let me grab my jacket out of my office.”

“I’ll wait right here,” he said, plopping down onto the bleacher, leaning back, and spreading his arms in both directions like he owned the place.