Page 52 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

I wasn’t sure when it happened—somewhere between Mateo stealing my fries at every meal and me pretending to be mad about it—but somehow, the man had fully embedded himself in every part of my day.

The vast majority of my life had been spent avoiding close contact with the human kind; and yet, there I was, daydreaming about spending more time with someone, feeling his hands on my skin, his lips brushing against my own.

We spent every waking moment together through the holidays.

If he wasn’t at my place—barefoot, with tousled hair and humming some old Italian tune while he raided my fridge—I was at his, dodging flying laundry or watching him scribble plays in a dog-eared notebook like he was mapping out a war campaign.

Basketball season hadn’t slowed him down. In fact, it was just revving up .

And it had revved him up.

And I—God help me—loved watching him in his element.

Every game, I was there, perched in my center bleacher on the top row, just left of the bench. The parents stopped asking who I was. The kids started calling me Coach Ricci’s friend, like we were in high school again. Ryan even tossed me a chin nod each time I entered the gym.

When they won the Holiday Tournament, the whole damn team piled into cars and caravaned to Frankie’s Pizza like we’d just won a state championship.

Mateo tried to keep it low-key—he even warned me we’d “just be grabbing slices”—but that lie unraveled quicker than the fast breaks that had won them the trophy.

And when they hoisted the silver and gold atrocity they received for winning, a rickety rendition of “We Are the Champions” was bellowed into the restaurant’s lone karaoke mic.

And Mateo?

Mateo was radiant.

His cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining. He laughed so hard he spilled soda down the front of his shirt. I wanted to kiss him right there in front of everyone, but I didn’t.

Instead, I stayed close and let my arm brush his when we sat.

I watched his every expression.

And when the kids pulled him up to take a thousand photos with the trophy, I snapped one for myself, not of the team, just of him.

I’d worried so much about how we would be perceived.

I wasn’t too worried about the kids. Gay couples were so common among their generation that I doubted they’d blink twice if we made out on center court.

It was the parents who terrified me. They had power over their kids.

Worse, they had it over the school and district.

If they thought their children were at risk to a predatory coach, Mateo’s career would suffer.

It wouldn’t matter if the claims were baseless—the lie would tarnish his reputation forever.

The welcome I received—no, the welcome we received—was beyond any I could’ve dreamed.

Kids high-fived and fist-bumped us both.

Dads shook my hand and clapped my shoulder, a few going so far as to offer a solid bro-hug.

Moms insisted on hugging me, some gripping my chest—though I doubt that was a sign of acceptance as much as cougar curiosity.

Either way, they were warm, open-hearted, and more curious about when we’d make things official and public than anything else.

I’d been on the outside looking in for most of my life. Their acceptance was almost more than I could stomach. By the end of the night, I found myself sitting at the edge of the group, watching from my comfy bleacher seat a good distance away.

One lone boy pulled up a chair beside me.

“Hey, Mr. Douglas.”

“Just Shane, okay?” I would never get used to being called that.

The kid’s face brightened. “You make Coach really happy.”

Something caught in my throat.

“He’s been my coach since I was in middle school. I’m a senior, so I guess that means we’ve been together for over six years.”

I grunted, not trusting my words, not knowing what to say.

“He’s a solid guy. Did you know he helped me come out?”

If I’d been walking, I would’ve tripped.

“Uh, no.” Then a memory smacked me in the forehead. “Wait, you’re Gabe, aren’t you?”

The boy nodded, a satisfied look in his eyes, probably at being recognized.

“I wasn’t having the best time at home, either. Coach helped me through all of it, wouldn’t let me do it alone, even when I tried to push him away. I hope I can be like him one day. ”

Those words echoed in my mind.

I hope I can be like him one day.

Who said that about another person? I couldn’t remember anyone saying that about me . . . or anyone I knew.

That lump stuck in my throat grew into a grapefruit, and clouds of moisture coated my eyes. I knew Mateo was a world-class guy. It’s why I loved him; but to hear how he’d touched this kid, how he’d made a lasting mark that would help shape him as a person, as an adult?

It was too much. I couldn’t take it.

“Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. He says great things about you, too, by the way.”

As Gabe stood, I reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Gabe.” My voice broke. “Thanks.”

His smile was electric . . . and then he was gone, mingled back into the mass of players and parents around a table littered with empty pizza trays and a centerpiece composed of one lone, very proud trophy.

It turned out that a school year could teach a great deal more than history, mathematics, social studies, and economics. It taught kids how to interact, how to engage, how not to tear each other apart when hormones and teenage foolishness collided.

It also taught the teachers—and those around them—lessons they couldn’t ignore.

I missed him.

God, I missed Mateo.

Which was stupid, because it wasn’t as though he’d moved across the country, but I missed Mateo like I’d lost a limb—like something that was supposed to be part of me had just . . . vanished.

When school started back after the holidays, the pace picked up fast.

For Mateo, anyway.

Basketball swallowed his time with practices, scouting reports, game film, and a million bus rides to rival schools in the middle of nowhere.

Tuesday, Friday, Saturday, there was always a game.

The other days were practice, prep, or recovery.

I saw him when I could. We ate quick dinners, stole a few hours together.

Some nights he slept over, but more and more, it was just me, alone, staring at my phone and rereading old texts like some teenager in a melodrama.

Sometimes I’d catch myself staring at Mateo—just watching him laugh or tilt his head when he was trying to figure something out—and I’d feel this pang in my chest. Like .

. . how the hell did I get him? How did this bright, funny, relentless man with a crooked smile and a heart the size of Texas end up in my orbit?

He deserved someone light, someone who didn’t carry around the weight of childhood silences or the scars left by people who never saw him for who he really was.

Mateo deserved someone who could let go, laugh as easily as he did, someone who wasn’t still trying to unlearn the idea that love had to be earned with sweat and quiet suffering.

And I—hell, I didn’t know if I was that guy.

I didn’t know if I could become that guy.

I wanted to be.

God, I wanted to be.

I wanted to hand him a key and say, “Make this your home, too.”

I wanted to wake up to the sound of his ridiculous humming, to his hair sticking up in every direction. I wanted to fold his laundry next to mine, buy milk for two, argue about where the spare socks go.

But deep down, I couldn’t stop wondering: What if I mess it up? What if I love him with everything I have, and it’s still not enough? What if I’m too heavy, too stubborn, too broken in ways he hasn’t seen yet?

What if I let him in, and he realizes I’m not worth staying for?

And yet—I still wanted him.

Every hour of every day.

Even if I didn’t know whether I could make him happy.

I’d go out to the shop to work but would find myself sanding the same damn table leg for twenty minutes, zoning out as my mind wandered to Mateo’s curls and that one freckle just beneath his left collarbone.

I’d remember the way he smiled when he was trying not to—when he thought he had to be serious, but I cracked some deadpan joke, and his whole face lit up like it couldn’t help itself.

Even in the shower, I couldn’t escape him.

I’d close my eyes and he’d be there, hot water cascading down my back as I remembered the sound he made when I kissed the underside of his jaw, or how he whispered my name when I was inside him.

I’d get hard in seconds, one hand braced against the tile, the other . . . handling business.

But it wasn’t lust, not really .

Not only.

It was need. Deep, aching need.

I didn’t just want Mateo in my bed. I wanted him on my couch, tossing popcorn at my face during a movie.

I wanted him humming off-key in my kitchen, stealing my socks because he never packed his own (or lost one and still needed to borrow a pair).

I wanted him in my house—hell, our house—every night and every damn morning.

The time between our dates felt like a punishment.

And I hated it.

Every buzzer-beating win, every late-night text, every hour that ticked by without him made two things clear.

Mateo wasn’t just a fling.

He wasn’t a fun distraction.

He wasn’t casual.

He was everything.

And I was his.