Page 44 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

T he second we stepped inside, I grinned.

The Laughing Cat wasn’t much to look at—little more than low ceilings, exposed brick walls, black-painted ducts overhead—but it had that perfect divey charm.

The smell of beer and fried appetizers hung in the air, mingling with candle wax and the faint scent of too many perfume choices.

Tables were packed in tight, small and round, each with a flickering votive candle that barely lit anything.

Conversation buzzed low across the room, blending with clinks of glass and the occasional burst of laughter from an already tipsy group of women near the bar.

They looked like a bachelorette party, which was perfect, given the comedian du jour.

At the front of the room sprawled the stage.

Atop it rose a single mic stand under a bright spotlight, a battered stool off to one side, and a red velvet curtain drawn open just far enough to frame the brick backdrop.

There was no fanfare, no frills, just the performer, the mic, and a few hundred eyes waiting to be entertained.

And there, front and center as promised, was Mike.

He sat alone at a table for three in the first row, nursing a beer with a shit-eating grin already plastered on his face.

“Come on,” I said to Shane, leading our way through the tangle of tables. “Mike’s already plotting. We’d better not give him too much time alone.”

Shane grunted behind me, the sound sending a little zip straight up my spine.

As we approached, Mike stood, ignored me, and opened his arms wide. “Well, well—if it isn’t my favorite lumberjack!”

“Evening, Mike.” Shane smirked and stuck out a hand, but Mike slapped it away with a dramatic flourish. “ Pfft . We’re past that now.”

Before Shane could react, Mike grabbed him in a tight hug—then kissed his cheek with an obnoxiously loud mwah !

Shane stiffened, his cheeks reddening and eyes going wide for a half second before an embarrassed laugh slipped out like a silent fart gone wrong.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his ears now pink. “ Jesus, Mike.”

“You’re part of the family now, man. Get used to it.” Mike beamed, then leaned closer, as if to impart some secret knowledge. “Just watch out for Matty. He’ll tongue you to death if you let him.”

I elbowed Mike in the ribs, failing to fight a grin. “Mike, can we maybe save some of the humiliation until after our first round of drinks?”

Mike waggled his brows. “What, I’m just welcoming the boyfriend properly.”

Boyfriend?

Oh, shit. Neither of us had used that word—or anything close to it. Hell, we’d just clasped hands for the first time. Okay, wild monkey sex aside, we hadn’t done anything with particular meaning.

Fine, monkey sex had meaning.

Sort of.

Still, we hadn’t used labels or terms or whatever the fuck “boyfriend” was.

I wanted to crawl under the disgusting table and stare up at a dozen years’ worth of dried gum I was sure to find beneath its top.

Shane groaned, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, desperately trying to escape his iron grip.

I shot Mike a look. “You. Behave. Now.”

Mike winked. “Never. ”

With a helpless laugh that sounded more like a gagged hostage’s plea for help, I grabbed the empty chair between them and sat. There was no way in hell I was letting Mike sit beside Shane.

Shane lowered into the seat beside me, still shaking his head but looking far more amused than annoyed. I caught a little glance he gave me as he settled in, a soft flicker of something in his eyes that made my chest go warm.

Then he reached over, grabbed my hand, and wove his fingers with mine. I wanted to shout to the entire audience that Shane Douglas was holding my hand—and he might be my boyfriend, a little, sort of, in a wild-monkey-sex-hand-holding sort of way.

Yeah, the night was off to a ridiculous start.

And honestly?

Whether I was willing to admit it or not, I was loving every second of it.

Drinks arrived.

Drinks vanished.

More drinks arrived.

And so on .

By the time the warmup act finished hyping up the crowd, we were shitfaced and giggling like schoolgirls at anything anyone said.

Hell, the waiter could’ve read the menu and we would’ve found it hilarious.

It didn’t matter what material was used that night, we’d leave thinking it was the funniest show ever.

Shane hadn’t let go of my hand.

Not once.

The warmup act vanished behind the curtain.

The lights brightened for a moment, long enough for servers to deliver drinks and retrieve glasses.

Then the lights dimmed again.

A wave of electricity rippled through the crowd as a booming voice filled the club. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . give it up for MATT RIFE!”

The crowd erupted.

I mean erupted .

People whooped, stomped, and cheered like they’d just won the lottery. The woman two tables over knocked over her martini, screaming his name. One of the bachelorette party shouted an offer that involved her bra, panties, and a margarita.

Shane leaned toward me and whispered, “Must be a popular guy.”

I grinned. “You have no idea.”

Matt jogged onstage, lean and grinning, dressed in black jeans and a fitted tee that clung to all the right places. The man was pure charisma—swagger without arrogance and sharp eyes that missed nothing.

He grabbed the mic and paced a few steps. “Damn! You guys ready to have fun tonight, or what?”

More cheers.

“Good.” He smirked. “Because I am tired.”

A round of confused chuckles.

“I’ve been doing shows five nights a week, and my manager still thinks I can do CrossFit after this. Like, bro—I lift one bad Yelp review and I’m sore for three days.”

Polite laughter.

“Let’s do something different. Rather than starting with me, let’s start with you.” He grinned wider. “Who’ve we got tonight . . .”

And then the room tensed the way it always did when a comedian started exploring the crowd. Matt’s eyes scanned left and locked onto a table three over from us—from the look of them, a straight couple, both early forties, the guy wearing an aggressively pink polo.

Matt pointed, grinning. “Yo—you guys together?”

The man nodded.

Matt tilted his head. “Blink twice if you were forced into that shirt.”

The room howled.

The woman laughed and smacked her husband’s arm.

Matt leaned forward conspiratorially. “You bought it for him, didn’t you?”

She nodded through tears of laughter.

“And yet he still wore it.” Matt clutched his chest. “That’s love, folks. Or Stockholm Syndrome. It’s hard to tell with the inside of a pussy wrapped around the outside of that man.”

Squeals mixed with groans.

“Well, despite the shirt, I’m glad you’re here,” Matt said. Just as he made to turn, he looked back and added, “Just try to keep that pussy shirt in check, okay?”

The crowd was his. Just like that, he commanded the room.

He pivoted, scanning further, spotting the bachelorette party at the far end of the room.

“Oh, shit.” He grinned, eyes lighting up. “We’ve got a bachelorette table? Y’all trying to black out before the second comic?”

The women screamed, waving pink sashes and plastic tiaras.

Matt laughed. “Who’s the lucky one?”

A woman in the center raised her hand. She was already three—or six—cocktails in.

Matt pointed. “I know it’s you, honey. You’re the only one wearing a tiara the size of a car tire.”

More laughter.

He leaned on the stool, smirking. “So how long you been with your man?”

She shouted something incoherent.

Matt cupped his ear. “Two years? Ten? Since fifth grade? I need a number, girl!”

“Three!” she yelled.

Matt nodded sagely. “Three years . . . and he still proposed? You must be doing something right . . . probably something illegal in three states, but I respect it. Do what ya gotta do, that’s what I say.”

The place lost it again.

Shane was chuckling beside me, enjoying the show.

Me? I was trying not to vibrate out of my chair.

Because Matt’s eyes kept roaming. He was just warming up, working left to right.

And we were next in the sweep.

I could feel it.

I glanced at Shane, my heart racing. The man looked like a goddamn centerfold tonight—flannel sleeves pushed up, forearms flexed, jaw carved from stone. And me? Sitting beside him like a deer in headlights .

If Matt’s gaze lands on us next . . . oh God . . . why had I brought us here?

I was not prepared to be publicly roasted about dating a hot woodworker in front of an entire club.

“Please skip us. Please skip us. Please skip us,” I intoned under my breath.

Shane arched a brow. “What?”

“Nothing,” I whispered, eyes locked on Matt as he straightened, mic in hand, scanning for his next target. He’d left the women wetting themselves and was now searching for a new victim.

And all I could think was: Dear God, please pick anyone but us . . .

But fate was a cruel bitch.

Matt straightened, cocked his head—and locked on.

“Oh, what do we have here?” He grinned, pacing to the edge of the stage and squinting toward our table. “Couple good-looking dudes sitting in the front row like they own the place. What’re your names, fellas?”

I wanted to melt into the floor.

But my mouth, traitorous thing, worked on autopilot. “Mateo.”

Matt lit up. “Mateo? Oh, well, shit—now we’re talking.

” He sauntered to the edge of the stage, leaning in like we were old friends and shielding his eyes from the spotlight.

“That’s a dangerous name right there. You hear that roll off the tongue?

That’s the kind of name that sounds like a cock sliding into a hole with every syllable. ”

The crowd howled.

My face went nuclear.

Mike cackled beside me, completely unhelpful. Shane snorted once—but I could feel his hand squeeze mine tighter under the table.

“Are you the hole or is he?” Matt gestured with the microphone to Mike.

I shook my head, leaning closer to Shane.

“Oh!” Matt’s eyes widened. “Not into gingers. You’re more of a David dates Goliath kind of guy. I get that.”

I tried to say something. I really tried.

Shane’s shoulders shook with laughter.

Traitor.

Matt grinned wider, eyes glittering. “Say your name again for me, baby. Say it slow, like you mean it, like you’re makin’ love . . . or pasta . . . I don’t care which. Both go down just right.”

I shook my head, heat climbing my neck. “I’m good, thanks.”

More laughter. Mike was doubled over.

Matt wagged a finger. “Spoil sport.” He looked to the audience. “Can you imagine that voice whispering in your ear? ‘ Ciao, bella . . .’ Boom—pregnant.”

I groaned, wishing for death.

But Matt wasn’t done.

Oh no.

His eyes slid to Shane.

And then he took a step back.

“Holy shit!” Matt said, blinking in mock awe. “Are you sitting next to a mountain, Mateo? What the hell—look at this guy!”

The audience whooped.

"I didn't know gays came in that size." Matt pointed between us. “Are you two together? Is this your man, Mateo?”

My mouth opened. Closed. I glanced at Shane—who looked equally deer-in-headlights. I couldn’t answer without, well, answering a question we had yet to even ask each other.

Fuck my life.

Matt grinned wickedly. “Ohhhh, I love this—neither of them knows how to answer!”

The crowd cracked up again.

Matt paced, working it. “Boyfriends? Lovers? Clients with benefits? Come on, give us something!”

Shane muttered, his voice carrying all the warmth of a lion’s roar. “We’re . . . seeing each other.”

Cue more cheers.

Matt beamed. “Fucking adorable! And look at this guy!” He gestured to Shane. “Dude, how big are you? Like, you’re built like the bench press is afraid of you.”

Laughter swelled again.

And then—of course—it escalated.

“Seriously, how tall are you? I mean, I could see your pecs from space, but now I’m curious.” Matt shaded his eyes. “Stand up, man. Come on—let us appreciate this.”

I barely had time to react as Shane squeezed my hand once, then pulled away and rose to his feet.

Our first moment apart all night.

And good Lord—he was huge.

The crowd went wild, whistles and shouts echoing off the walls.

Matt gaped up at him. “Jesus. You’re what, six-four? Six-five?”

Shane gave a shy grin. “Six-four . . . and change.”

Matt looked to the audience. “And Mateo’s just sitting there all smug like, ‘Yeah, this is mine.’ I bet he gives it to ya good, doesn’t he? Big and thick, and throbbing and vainly like those bodybuilder arms.”

The girls in the gaggle lost their shit.

Even the married woman he’d picked on first screamed and clapped, her pink-clad hubby wiping tears from his eyes.

“If you can take it, damn, you take it. Respect, man. Respect,” Matt said. “I’m not gay, but dude makes me wish I was. I'd climb that tree like a cat on a mission.”

That’s when it happened.

A voice from the bachelorette table shrieked, “Take it off!”

Matt didn’t miss a beat. “You hear that, big guy? Your fans wanna see the goods!”

The other bachelorettes picked up the chant, and before I could think, the whole place was howling, “TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF!”

Matt stepped to the edge of the stage and leaned toward Shane. “Tell you what, dude—I’ll buy their table a round if you do it!”

The club exploded in cheers and chants.

I leaned toward Shane, half panicked. “You don’t have to—”

He gave me a calm look, one brow lifting ever so slightly.

Beside me, Mike muttered, “Oh, shit.”

And then—cool as you please—Shane popped the first button.

The crowd lost their minds.

One of the bachelorettes screamed, “I want to do one!”

Thankfully, Matt waved her off. “You do you, boo. The big man’s mine. ”

One after another, the buttons came undone until Shane shrugged off the shirt, waved it over his head like he was auditioning for Magic Mike , and let it fly onto the chair behind him.

The production team even cued stripper music in time with his motion, making the whole thing that much funnier—and more terrifying.

Every inch of that chiseled chest and those carved arms was on full display.

Matt staggered, clutching his chest. “I am intimidated as fuck, y’all!” He turned back to the crowd. “That is a man . Like, if he hugs you, you either feel safe or you die. No in between!”

Laughter and cheers echoed again.

I covered my face, equal parts dying and swooning.

Because good God . . . this was my life now.

And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run away—

—or jump him the second the lights dimmed.