Page 45 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

“ I think Matt would’ve taken you home,” Mateo said the moment my car door shut.

"Jealous much?" I shrugged with a sloppy, whisky-induced grin. “Maybe I would’ve let him.”

Something flashed in Mateo’s eyes that made me giggle.

His eyes widened. “Did you just . . . giggle?”

I doubled over in my car seat, unable to control the waves of hilarity racking my body.

It had been a long time since I’d gotten this drunk.

Some get sleepy; others dance on tables.

Give me tequila or whiskey or any other liquor, and I morph into a ball of uncontrollable glee.

I had no idea why. It had always been that way.

Mateo’s laughter matched mine as he struggled to turn and face me with the steering wheel blocking his way. When I came up for air, I saw tears streaming down his face .

“My big, burly, Walker Texas Ranger man is a closet giggler. Who knew?”

That wasn’t funny. It wasn’t a joke. There was no reason for me to laugh so hard my side hurt and I felt like I might pee all over Mateo’s car, but . . .

“Oh . . . my . . . God. I need to record this,” Mateo said, snatching up his phone and fumbling with the screen. “Mike and Sisi will never believe me.”

“Don’t you dare!” I rumbled, a little too loudly and sounding like an abuser about to take a swing.

That made me giggle again.

I don’t know why.

Mateo tossed down his phone, stared a moment longer, a goofy grin making his beautiful face even more stunning than it already was.

Then his hands flew across the front seat, gripped my head, and spun me toward him.

Next thing I knew, our lips were locked, tongues dancing, and everything vanished but my feelings for that amazing Italian.

Except my need to pee.

That definitely did not vanish.

For some reason, kissing made it worse. Maybe it was the angle. Maybe I was bent against my prostate or lung or bladder . . . that made me snort-laugh into his mouth. Who peed out their lung?

Mateo jerked back. “My kissing you is funny?”

“No . . . No! I love your kisses,” I said between snorts. “I just have to pee. I think my lungs are full.”

The utter bafflement on his face sent me spiraling again.

My vison blurred as I gripped my sides. I was pretty sure Mateo was still staring, probably with his perky lips parted in disbelief, but I couldn’t think.

All I could do was laugh, snort, and pray to the god of body parts that my lungs—or bladder, if you prefer—didn’t choose that moment to empty.

With all I’d drunk that night, I could’ve flooded his poor car.

“All right, Alan Ritchson, let’s get you home,” Mateo said in his best disapproving mom voice, though there was a heavy undertone of amusement beneath his words.

“Home?” I said, unable to wrap my mind around the simplest of words.

“Yes,” Mateo said, cranking the car to life. “You can sleep at my place. There’s no way you’re in any shape to drive.”

I sat upright. “Ooh. Yay. We haven’t slept at your place yet. Is your bed fluffy?”

Mateo chuckled. “Very.”

“And do you have cookies?”

Mateo cocked his head. “Cookies?”

“I’m hungry,” I said. “I’m always hungry. Do you think it’s because I’m so big?”

Mateo’s head fell back to the headrest as he laughed again, then blew out the biggest sigh. I swear even his sigh had an accent. It was so damn cute.

“I’ll get you cookies,” he said, surrendering to my drunken state. “Buckle up, okay?”

I did as instructed as Mateo pulled the car out of the lot.

The next thing I remembered was Mateo leaning over me.

He stood on the passenger’s side of the car, my door open, gripping my shoulder and shaking, maybe half pulling, like he wanted to drag me out.

Whatever he was doing, it wasn’t working.

I was too heavy, and he had no leverage. It did, however, wake me up.

“Did I fall asleep?” I said, my head clearing a bit. I no longer felt the urge to laugh between breaths, but my bladder—definitely my bladder—was screaming with all its powerful might. “I really have to pee. Like bad. Don’t make me do a pee-pee dance.”

“I’d love to see that.” Mateo huffed a laugh. “For now, I’ll settle for you standing and walking inside. Come on. I’ll help you.”

I lurched out the door and nearly took us both down with me.

Mateo was stronger than he looked, but I was, well, bigger than most. He managed to keep us upright, and we staggered toward the door.

He’d already unlocked everything and had the door open.

As quickly as possible, I stumbled, Mateo propping up my shoulder, as we wove between the coffee table and sideboard toward the back of his house.

“Oh, look. I made that,” I said, pointing at the sideboard as we passed.

Mateo’s amusement vibrated through my chest. “Yes, and you did a beautiful job.”

“I know. I’m great with wood.”

Mateo grunted again.

“Do you want my wood? You seemed to like it last night. Both times.”

He patted my chest with his off-hand as we entered his bedroom. “Let’s focus on peeing. We can worry about your wood after I find you some cookies.”

“Oh, cookies! Did I tell you I like cookies? You’re so smart.”

He shoved me into the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

“How am I supposed to pee without you?” I called through the door.

An Italian-laced groan was followed by, “Aim for the toilet. You’ll be fine. I promise.”

Aw, he promised. That was sweet.

So I aimed.

And missed.

I fired again . . . and missed again.

By the time I was done peeing an entire bar out of my body, I’d made a complete mess of the tile around his toilet.

The door creaked open for Mateo to find me on my knees, scrubbing furiously with wads of toilet paper. The roll looked like a cat had decided to play and unspool as much as possible, but the pee disaster had been cleaned . . . mostly.

“I take it your aim is off tonight?” Mateo said through a smirk.

I looked up. He was so pretty. A tear dribbled down my cheek. Then another. Before I knew it, I was full-on ugly-crying on the floor of his bathroom.

Mateo was on the ground in a flash.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I . . . Mateo . . . you’re so nice and sweet and handsome and . . . your accent makes me feel like Journey’s singing inside my chest.”

He stroked my hair and wiped a few tears from my face. “That sounds good, doesn’t it?”

I heaved. The tears were uncontrollable.

“Yeah, I guess, but Mateo . . . I did something terrible.”

His face sobered. “What’s that?”

“It’s really, really bad.”

“Just breathe,” he said with the gentleness of a parent. “What did you do? ”

“I . . . I . . . oh, God.” I sobbed. “I peed on your floor.”

I doubled over, bawling like a baby.

Mateo, no longer sympathetic to my plight, fell onto his side and laughed harder than he had any time that night. His own tears fell freely as he gasped for breath.

“I tried to clean it up, but I think I used a lot of toilet paper. I’m so sorry, Matey. I’ll get you a fresh roll. I promise.”

I was trying to be nice, to apologize, to save what was left of my dignity, but Mateo only laughed harder, louder, his snorts echoing off the now-clean tiles.

Somehow, I recovered before he did, pushing myself to sit with my back against one wall while facing him. He looked up a few times, but each time he did, whatever he saw on my face had him howling all over again. I was glad I could make him happy, but the whole doubling over thing was—

“Shane, I have more toilet paper. It’s all right.” Mateo reached out and cupped my cheek, his eyes laden with tears. “Do you want some cookies now?”