Page 14

Chapter fourteen

Mike

By the time the final bell rang and the last of my students spilled into the hallways, I was fully drained of the will to function.

It had been one of those days where everything felt five times harder than it should have. The kids were restless, half of them clearly ready for the weekend, and the other half had spent the period debating whether Frankenstein’s monster was actually just a “big, sad himbo.”

(Which, honestly, wasn’t the worst take.)

I was exhausted, bored, and in no rush to go home to the silence of my still-unpacked house. So, instead of heading for my car, I wandered into the gym.

The instant I stepped inside, the smell hit me—sweat, old rubber, and whatever deodorant brand teenage boys were overusing this year. The sounds weren’t much different—squeaking sneakers, bouncing balls, the rhythmic thunk of shots hitting the backboard, and Mateo Ricci’s sharp, commanding voice cutting through it all.

I climbed to the top row of the bleachers, pulled out a book, and settled in. I wasn’t there to watch watch, just to exist in the same space, half reading, half listening as Mateo worked.

And damn, he was good.

He wasn’t the yell-for-the-sake-of-yelling kind of coach. He didn’t throw chairs or his clipboard or blow his whistle to the point of exhaustion. His voice carried when he needed it to, but he wasn’t out there screaming his head off like some of the other meathead coaches I’d seen in my life.

Instead, he gave clear, sharp orders—concise, direct, and just commanding enough that no one questioned him.

“Gotta hustle, Jackson! You think they’re gonna give you five seconds to make that pass in a game? Move!”

But the thing that stood out most?

Every time he corrected them, he followed up with a reason to praise.

“Better! That’s what I’m talking about, Lopez. Your footwork’s improving—I know you’re tired. Keep pushing.”

“Nice shot, Carter! Now hit me with that same form under pressure.”

When a kid botched a play, Mateo didn’t lose his mind—he pulled them aside, pointed out the mistake, and made them run it again until they got it right.

But when they did get it right?

He really let them know it.

I watched as he clapped one of the kids on the back, nodding. “That’s how you do it. See what happens when you trust yourself?”

The kid beamed.

And it clicked.

Mateo wasn’t just a coach. He was a guy who made people feel like they were worth something.

I went back to my book, but I kept listening.

Kept sneaking peeks.

Kept thinking about how damn lucky these kids were to have someone like him, and how I hoped my kids looked at me with half the admiration I saw in those players’ eyes.

By the time Mateo finally called an end to practice, half the team was panting, sweating, and looking like one poor decision away from collapsing. The other half lay sprawled on the gym floor.

“Hydrate, stretch, and reapply deodorant, for the love of God,” he called after them as they trudged toward the locker room. Most chuckled. A few grumbled about him being a slave driver, which made him grin and clap one of them on the back.

“You can cry about it after you win next week’s game.”

The kid groaned but grinned back.

Mateo turned toward the bleachers and found me still there, book in hand.

He left the kids to their post-practice routine, climbing the bleachers to stand a few rows down from where I sat, a smirk planted on his frustratingly handsome face. “Look at you. Real school spirit.”

I closed my book. “I am fully committed to this team’s success. Go Mustangs and shit.”

“And shit.” He chuckled. “You read through literally all of practice.”

“And I think they looked great.”

He shook his head. “You need something, or were you just bored enough to endure JV practice? It takes a lot to crave bad basketball.”

Why was I there? I hadn’t really thought about it. My feet had just led me there.

“I don’t know. Guess I had a weird day.”

My voice sounded distant, like I was talking from somewhere outside my own body. It was weird.

Mateo eyed me a moment, then nodded. “Come on, you nerd. I’m hungry. Let’s get food.”

We ended up at a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place, tucked into a strip mall that looked one strong breeze away from falling apart. Inside, though, it was warm, loud, and smelled like heaven. Nothing made me happier than a good chicken chimichanga slathered in ooey-gooey cheese and topped with guacamole. And when the cheese found its way into the rice, clouds parted and angels sang.

Mateo ordered three steak tacos and a beer. I got my chimi, because I had taste.

Halfway through our meal, I found myself staring into my drink, rolling the glass between my hands, debating whether to say anything.

Mateo, because he was annoyingly perceptive, picked up on it immediately.

He set his beer down. “All right, Albert. Spit it out.”

“What?”

Mateo rolled his eyes. “You came to my practice and barely watched. Then you said you’d had a rough day. You look like someone just shot your dog, but you’re not saying anything. I don’t need my degree in psychology to know something’s bothering you, and it’s a hell of a lot deeper than Jessica flashing you a little too much leg.”

I sighed and tried not to laugh. Mateo was such an asshole, reading me like the book my students avoided. But he was good at it—and he was right.

“I had a student come out to me today.”

Mateo sat up a little. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “One of my ninth graders.”

“Let me guess.” Mateo frowned. “Jamie, the quiet one?”

“Wow. Good guess.” I picked at my napkin. “He . . . he was terrified. Like, visibly shaking when he told me. All he could think about was how his mom would react, how the other kids would treat him differently. You know, all the same bullshit.”

Mateo exhaled. “Crap.”

“Yeah.”

We sat with that for a moment, the weight of it settling between us.

Mateo leaned forward. “What’d you say?”

“I told him he didn’t have to rush or tell anyone until he was ready. That he didn’t owe anyone a timeline.”

Mateo nodded. “That’s good.”

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “I mean, I think it was the right thing to say, but he’s so young . . . and I know that feeling, that constant fear of what’s gonna happen when you say the words out loud.”

Mateo was quiet for a beat. Then: “How old were you?”

I blinked. “When I came out?”

He nodded.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Sixteen. My sisters cornered me and wouldn’t let me leave the room until I admitted it.”

Mateo smirked. “Brutal.”

“They acted like it was a surprise,” I said, shaking my head. “Like, sorry, Lila, I’ve been watching The Mummy solely for Brendan Fraser and Oded Fehr for years now. Keep up.”

Mateo laughed into his beer. “And your parents?”

“They were . . . fine.” I hesitated. “It was weird at first. My mom cried, but only because she was worried life would be harder for me. My dad just kinda nodded and went back to whatever he was doing, never mentioned it again. Classic dad move.”

Mateo chuckled. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

I tilted my head. “What about you?”

“My parents still live in Treia, a little town in central Italy. It’s a pretty conservative place, still looks more medieval than modern—and that’s the people, not the architecture.” Mateo sighed, rolling his beer between his palms before setting it down. “I was seventeen when I told them. My mom was . . . well. She was Mom.”

I tilted my head. “Meaning?”

“She already knew,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting a little. “I started saying the words, and before I could even finish, she just sighed and said, ‘ Finalmente ! I was waiting for you to figure it out.’”

I grinned. “Good for you, Mom.”

“Right.” Mateo chuckled. “Then she grabbed my face, kissed both my cheeks, and started rattling off the names of every single guy she knew under thirty that she suddenly felt compelled to set me up with.”

I snorted into my beer. “So you came out, and she immediately started matchmaking?”

“Oh, aggressively,” he said, laughing. “Apparently, there was a nice boy who worked at the café down the street, another one who helped his uncle in the market, and some kid she met once at church who she was sure had a ‘kind face.’”

I laughed. “So she just had a secret list of eligible men ready to go?”

“Mike.” He leaned forward. “Italian mothers are built for matchmaking.”

I shook my head. “Amazing.”

Mateo smiled tightly, but it faded a little as he picked at the corner of his napkin.

I watched him for a beat. “And your dad?”

He exhaled. “Yeah. That one was . . . harder.”

I stayed quiet, letting him take his time.

Mateo leaned back, staring at his beer, swirling the bottle like a wine drinker doing the taste test thing before approving the bottle. “He’s . . . pretty old-school.”

I nodded, understanding immediately. “Catholic?”

He sighed. “Oh yeah. Big time. Church every Sunday, confession every week, crosses on the walls, Pope framed in the living room—you get the picture.”

I winced. “Shit.”

Mateo rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. So, I didn’t know how it was gonna go, but, you know, he’s my dad. He always taught me to be honest, to be strong, to stand by who I am. So I figured . . . how could I do all that while lying to him?”

I nodded. “Makes sense.”

“So, I told him,” he said, exhaling. “And he just . . . sat there. He didn’t say a word.”

I frowned. “Not even a reaction?”

“Oh, there was a reaction,” Mateo muttered. “He looked like I’d punched him in the stomach.”

I stayed quiet, letting him sort through it.

Mateo sighed, still swirling his beer. “For a while, he just . . . couldn’t talk about it. I don’t think he knew how. I know it’s not like he stopped loving me—he still called every Sunday, still asked about my life—but it was like there was this . . . gap between us. Something he was actively avoiding.”

I swallowed, already knowing where this was going. “And now?”

Mateo hesitated. “It’s better,” he said finally. “Not perfect. Not what I wish it was. But . . . better.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

Mateo smiled, but there was something bittersweet about it. “He still doesn’t say the word. Ever. Like uttering ‘gay’ might make him burst into flames or get struck by lightning. But last Christmas, he did ask if I was seeing anyone.”

I blinked.

Mateo shrugged. “He didn’t look at me when he said it, and when I told him no, he just nodded and said, ‘Good. You should be with someone who respects you.’”

I sat with that for a second, unsure how to respond.

“That’s his way of trying,” I said finally.

“Yeah.” Mateo nodded. “He’s still figuring it out. Balancing what he was raised to believe with . . . loving me.”

I exhaled. “That’s hard.”

“Yeah,” he said, drumming his fingers again. “But, you know, I’ll take progress where I can get it.”

I stared at my drink, thinking about Jamie, thinking about how I hoped—God, I hoped—that he’d have more of Mateo’s mom in his life than Mateo’s dad.

Mateo must have picked up on my shift in mood because he nudged my foot under the table.

“We’ll figure it out, Albert,” he said. “Jamie’s got us. He’s not doing this alone.”

I swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. We’ve got him.”