Page 6 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

T he teacher’s lounge at Mount Vernon High smelled like burned coffee and whatever someone had microwaved and then abandoned last week that was now possibly evolving into sentience.

Mike and I had commandeered the one halfway-clean table near the window, unwrapping our lunches like we were about to perform surgery instead of survive another Monday afternoon.

“So,” Mike said, pointing at me with a limp carrot stick, “one of my kids today asked if ‘abs’ were a real muscle group or just something you downloaded on TikTok. You’re an athlete. What say you?”

I choked on my water. “Please tell me you said yes and assigned a ten-page research paper.”

“Tempting,” he said. “Instead, I made them do planks until they questioned all their life choices.”

“Planks? In Literature class? That’s a new twist,” I said, saluting him with my fork. “You’re educating the youth of America, one traumatic class at a time.”

Mike smirked. “Your turn. Hit me with your dumbest moment of the day—and for the love of Gru and his Minions, it can’t involve Jessica.”

“World history, a riveting morning.” I leaned back in my chair, considering. “I had a sophomore argue that Napoleon was actually two small men in a trench coat trying to avoid taxes.”

“Like circus performers?”

“More like those Chinese dudes who crawl under a dragon outfit and dance around.”

Mike lost it, slapping the table hard enough to make the fake Ficus in the corner tremble.

“I’m not even mad,” I said, grinning. “Honestly? It was creative. Historically inaccurate, but creative.”

“Are you done with tryouts?”

I chewed a moment, then swallowed and washed down my bite with Coke before shaking my head. “One more day of torture.”

“You say that like you hate coaching.”

“That may be the meanest thing you have ever said to me.” My brow furrowed.

“I live for coaching, but tryouts isn’t coaching.

It’s . . . How can I describe this so you will understand?

It is like watching a bunch of baby deer, none of whom should even be on their feet yet, as they wobble and fall all over the grass. ”

“Wow. You just called your team a bunch of Bambis.”

“The few who will make it are beasts. We could make another run at state this year.” I shrugged and took another bite.

“But?”

“But . . . Every year, no matter how good we are or how much I try to dissuade the foolhardy, kids who have no business trying out for a team at our level show up—and not just a few of them. It’s like they all get together and plan how bad they can be, then barge into the gym at the same time.”

“That bad?”

I nodded. “Most couldn’t make my JV team, much less carry the water bottles for the varsity.”

“Ouch. Failing to make the cut for team manager is pretty low.”

“You saw them Friday. What did you think?”

Mike turned and tossed his wadded-up wrapper toward the trash can, missing by half the length of the wall.

“Never mind,” I said. “That shot told me all I needed to know.”

“But I’m good at trivia,” Mike whined. “And I’m super cute.”

I chuckled. “You are a trivia master, but the jury is still out on the cute part. You reds are trouble. ”

He ran a hand through his thick, wavy hair, making a show of straightening a few curls. “We reds are an endangered species. You should show us more respect lest we die out and leave your world with no color at all.”

I was still groaning when my phone buzzed, vibrating like a dying cricket against the cheap laminate surface of the table.

I glanced at the screen. It was a text from an Atlanta number I didn’t recognize.

Unknown Number: Hey. It’s Shane. From the festival. Your sideboard’s ready for pickup whenever. No rush. Just figured I’d let you know.

Mike leaned over, because of course he did; privacy was a myth in the gay world, as fictitious as the Tooth Fairy or Cookie Monster.

“Ooooh,” he crooned, sounding way too pleased. “Flannel Daddy slides into the DMs.”

“This is a text message, not a DM,” I muttered, stabbing at my salad like it had personally offended me. “And he’s just letting me know my TV stand is ready. There’s nothing going on here.”

“Uh-huh,” Mike said. I could practically hear him filing this away for later blackmail. “Furniture . . . and fate.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “He’s just telling me my sideboard’s ready. He probably sent the same message to three other people.”

“Yeah? You think he’s building secret sideboards for half the county?” Mike raised an eyebrow. “Oh, wait, three other people? You think he’s into three-ways? Or would that be a four-way? You could totally get banged from every direction!”

“I hate you so damn much.” I pointed my fork at him. “I just need to go pick up the piece. That’s all. If I get murdered and turned into a rustic coffee table, you’re testifying at the trial.”

Mike grinned. “Gladly. I’ll start drafting my statement now: ‘He died as he lived, making bad decisions about men with excellent forearms.’”

I groaned and dropped my forehead onto the table.

The phone buzzed again.

A second text?

Unknown Number: No pressure. Just figured you might want to put that TV on something that doesn’t collapse if you sneeze.

Mike howled so loud Mrs. Abernathy from the English department gave us a dirty look over the rim of her mystery soup and romance novel.

I didn’t dare move, just lay there, face buried in folded arms, contemplating the quirks of fate that had led me to being roasted via text message by a man who looked like he had once punched a bear in the face for looking at him wrong.

Without warning, Mike grabbed my phone and began typing.

“What the hell—?”

“Oh, shut it, Ricci. I’m just saving his number for you.”

“Great. In case I have some kind of furniture emergency?”

“One never knows.” Mike clapped me on the back, his grin wide enough to bare multiple rows of shark teeth. “You’re screwed, man. Deeply, gloriously screwed.”

“I fucking hate you,” I muttered into the table.

“You love me, and you know it,” he said, popping the last carrot stick into his mouth. “But not as much as you’re gonna love getting that sideboard. Or should I say, ‘getting sideboarded’?”

I groaned into my folded arms.

Mrs. Abernathy cackled from across the room. I swear I heard her mutter, “Sideboarded, that’s good. ”

Reluctantly, I grabbed my phone and typed.

Me: Thanks for the heads-up. I don’t think I can fit it in my Jeep. I can rent a truck this weekend if you’re okay with that.

Flannel Daddy: Aw, man, I can’t let you do that. I have a truck. Come to my place and I’ll help you haul it.

“Flannel Daddy? Seriously?”

Mike giggled—like the prepubescent girl he was.

Mrs. Abernathy slammed her book shut and wiped tears from her eyes.

I blew out a breath and focused on my screen.

Me: That’s awesome. Thanks, Shane. How’s two o’clock on Saturday?

Flannel Daddy: Perfect. I’ll text my address. Thanks for the business.

Business. Right. That’s all this was.

I was sure of it.