Page 45 of The Lineman

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.”

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