Page 44 of The Lineman

“Keeping clean is very important, you know. The last thing you want in the middle of a sexy moment is splatter butt. It’s impossible to get out of sheets and off the walls.”

“Mrs. H. I am begging you.”

She patted my arm, cackling. “Oh, relax, sweetheart. I’m just a curious old woman whose puss hasn’t seen the light of day since the seventies.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

She grinned. “And you, my dear, are smitten.”

I groaned. “I amnotsmitten. It was one date.”

She pointed her fork at me. “Lies.”

“Okay, fine, I might like him, a little. But there was no hanky-panky. We didn’t even kiss.”

“What?” she screeched, as though I’d just told her the President had been shot.

“I tried,” I admitted. “But Homer decided he needed more lovin’ from my leg.”

Mrs. H’s howl was both amusing and terrifying.

“Mike’s a terrible cook,” I said, unsure why I was giving my enemy ammunition.

“Oh?” She perked up. “Maybe I need to get the boy into my kitchen for a lesson or two.”

I chuckled. “Not if you want your house to stand the day after. I think he could burn water.”

She waved and grinned. The brash, sassy woman vanished, and a caring, sweet grandmother appeared, her voice filled with sincerity and hope. “You really like this one, don’t you?”

I sighed, accepting my fate.

“I . . . I think I do, Mrs. H.”

She was relentless. She always won.

And the worst part?

She was rarely wrong.

Chapter fourteen

Mike

Bythetimethefinal 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 rhythmicthunkof 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 towatchwatch, 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.

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