The Date That Wasn’t

Then

DEWEY USUALLYtried to be chipper and optimistic at work, but he had to admit, today had been rough. He was known for his cheerfulness, and he hated letting people down, but gah, he was so disheartened. He’d spent his last two days off searching for a job—any job—that didn’t involve coffee, waiting tables, espresso machines, or cashiering, but apparently all those people in his hometown who’d predicted dire things for somebody getting a humanities degree had been right, and he wasn’t going to get much out of his college education.

Not that he regretted it. No, he loved his subject. But boy, he’d had enough of being a barista during college. His career was going nowhere, his mother was pleading for him to come back to the wilds of Oregon, and he hadn’t gotten laid in a year because once college was over, the dating pool shriveled down to grab-assy customers and the people he met in the local watering hole. Ugh. No. Bankers, lawyers, politicians: suits. He went there because his roommate, CJ, tended bar, and he and Ceej could bitch about their lives when Ceej wasn’t slinging Michelob for people who thought that’s what beer was.

It’s a good thing Dewey liked people—not necessarily potential romantic partners, because so many of those losers had been blech—but other people. Young fathers who came into a coffee shop and bought a giant espresso, black, for themselves and a cake pop for their grade-schooler so they could both get a little buzz at the beginning of the day. The elderly couple who came in day after day, sat at their same outside table rain or shine, and ordered coffee regular, in mugs, then sat and talked for an hour about everything from the color of the sky to the yard decorations their neighbors had put up while they took tiny sips so as not to negate their blood-pressure medication. The two young women planning their wedding.

Those people. He adored them. It was like living in a painting, except he had to wear finger condoms so his nails didn’t separate because his hands were wet all the time, and he could smell burnt coffee in his dreams.

So he was trying to pull his optimism from his bootstraps when Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome strode in.

He wasn’t wearing jeans—which normally Dewey was a fan of. Instead, he had on microfiber sweats, the kind often worn by men who really did spend a lot of their time on some sort of field. Over that he had a bright red sweatshirt advertising some sort of local soccer club, and as he sat down, the young father with the toddler waved at him.

“How you doing, Coach?”

“Really good, Brandon. How about you?”

“Got married last year,” he said brightly and then winked, indicating the three-year-old clinging to his hand. “It was a little late,” he said.

Coach laughed, and Dewey wondered when he’d been this guy’s coach. He was only, what? Thirtysomething? And Dad was twenty-three? Four? Who let infants coach their teams? Dewey was indignant on somebody’s behalf.

“So what are you doing here?” Brandon the young father enquired.

Coach grimaced. “I was meeting someone, but I think they’re a no-show!”

“D’oh! Well, I hope whoever it is shows up. Your time is valuable, amirite?”

Coach—and Dewey was hungering for his name by now—smiled kindly, his lean lips curving up under an attractive amount of auburn-brown scruff. He had a bold nose, a square jaw, and dark hair and eyes, but that scruff really did have the teeniest bit of red in it, and boy, Dewey was intrigued.

With a shake back to reality, he reminded himself that the odds of this man playing for his team were incredibly low and finished wiping off the counter he was standing near so he could go take Coach’s order.

He found the man biting his lip and scowling over his phone, and he took a little pity on the guy.

“Did she stand you up?” he asked kindly.

“He,” the man replied absently. “He promised to meet me and—” He blew out a breath and set his phone facedown on the table.

“Probably an asshole,” Dewey said confidentially, hoping this guy didn’t get all het up about swearing. “What dating app did you use?”

“Dating app?” Coach repeated blankly.

“Yeah—Grindr, Tindr, OKCupid? I’ve tried a few of them, but it’s always so embarrassing, right? I never know what to say to a complete stranger I met off the net. I mean, I’ve had some fun dinners and all, but nothing that’s ever gone beyond that.”

Coach was staring at him, and belatedly, Dewey noted the flush that was creeping up his neck, and it hit him. Oh God. This guy was a soccer coach—a lot of people still had a problem with LGBTQ people being around their kids and—oh God. Please let Dewey not have outed this guy and caused him problems. Dewey hadn’t meant for that to happen!

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Coach gave him a weak smile. “Thank you,” he rasped. “That’s kind.”

“So, uhm—” Dewey indicated the tablet and stylus in his hand. “—what sort of coffee did you want?”

Coach opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. “Whatever you think is best,” he replied.

“Oh, I’m basic,” Dewey told him truthfully. “I like a big mug of the hot stuff, even on a hot day like this one, with a gallon of cream and a ton of sugar, and since I’m at a coffee shop, a teeny bit of vanilla. But we’ve got lots of much better drinks—”

“That sounds perfect,” said his customer. “I… I’ll take that. And, uhm, a bagel if you’ve got one, plain, heated, with some cream cheese.”

“Perfect,” Dewey said, smiling back into the guy’s long-lashed dark eyes. For a moment there was awkward silence, and then Dewey had to ask, “What do you coach, anyway?”

“Soccer,” Coach murmured. “Both on the college level, where I’m an assistant coach, and in a recreational club. I got my degree in phys ed, with some sports medicine, and played soccer all the way through.”

“Pros?” The man’s lean body underneath the sweats spoke of some serious work, the kind that didn’t die with the end of a season.

His coach (his coach now!) shrugged a little, obviously pleased. “A couple of seasons with the Republic,” he said modestly, indicating Sacramento’s pro team. “My knees started going, and there was a position open at the college, and the junior-high level always needs coaches.” He grimaced a little. “Neither gig pays great, but….” He shrugged.

“Doing what you love,” Dewey said. His coach had tiny lines by his eyes. Maybe he was midthirties at most, but suddenly Dewey knew why that young father would defer to him.

His coach’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I think I love coaching more than playing, you know?”

Dewey practically clutched at his thundering heart. “That’s awesome,” he said, meaning it. Teachers beat jocks on the potential boyfriend scale any day. “So, uhm, what name should I put on your order?” They didn’t actually put names on orders taken at the table, but this guy had obviously never been there before, so he wouldn’t know that.

“Trey,” he said. “Trey Novak.”

Dewey grinned. “Dewey,” he said, holding his hand out. “Dewey Saunders. Pleased to meet you.”

“You too,” Trey said, taking it. His skin was rough and weathered, and Dewey’s entire groin area throbbed under his barista’s apron. Oh. My. God. He wanted to be spanked by this hand. Or stroked. Or fingered. Or… gah. He wanted this hand on his body.

“Hopefully your next date won’t stand you up,” Dewey said, fishing.

He didn’t catch quite what he hoped for.

“I’ll have to try again tomorrow,” Trey said, but he didn’t sound too hopeful.

“I’ll be here,” Dewey said, trying not to pout. Good going, Dewey. Way to ensure you’re here when this guy found the love of his life.

“Well, if it’s a no-show,” Trey said gallantly, “I’ll at least have the pleasure of talking to you.”

Dewey had never prayed so hard for bad things to happen.

They chatted some more as Dewey waited on him; the coffee shop was just busy enough to give him an excuse to go somewhere when conversation got awkward. He learned that Trey lived by himself in a small house in Carmichael, that he shared custody of his cat and a tank of fish with his sister, who lived about a block away, and that their parents lived in Indiana. Trey had come to Sacramento for the business program and stayed for the soccer, and he followed almost every form of sports known to man.

“Even curling?” Dewey teased.

Trey had laughed—Sacramento was definitely not a curling town. “Only on the Olympics, sadly.” His phone buzzed on the table then, and he checked the screen. “Shit,” he said, standing up. Giving Dewey an apologetic glance, he said, “It’s my cousin. Car trouble. I’m the nearest who can help.”

“Oh no!” Dewey said, meaning it. “It’s been great talking to you.”

“You too.” Trey gave him a blinding smile before he put some bills on the table and then turned to walk out. He paused at the door and said, “You, uhm, work this shift often?”

“Five days a week,” Dewey said, his heart thudding in his chest.

“Then I might see you tomorrow,” Trey said before sliding out the door.

Dewey waited until Trey hopped into a very practical SUV—Dewey could see the sports equipment in the back through the plate glass window of the café—before he pumped his fist. “Yes!”

“Mm…,” his manager, Lena, cautioned as Dewey returned behind the counter.

“Mm what?” Dewey asked, checking the order lineup. “Taking number three,” he said, preparing two ceramic cups for twin lattes.

“Yes, he’s going to be back tomorrow, but he’ll probably be meeting another date. I heard the whole thing, Dewey. I mean, he looks like a catch but, you know, closeted, in education. He’s a grown-up, and you and me are—”

“Not,” Dewey muttered. Still…. “But he doesn’t know that,” he said. “Besides, he can’t be more than nine years older than I am. Don’t count me out yet. Maybe all his dates will no-show.”

“I’ll keep hoping for you, sweetie.” Lena—a marathon runner with wire-thin arms and dark hair cut short around a pointed gamine face—sighed. “By the way, that order is to go.”

Dewey glanced at the tag again and groaned, putting the ceramic mugs back and getting two paper cups ready. He’d been about to go all artistic with the cream on top too. “Thanks,” he muttered.

“No worries—I like your creations. It would be a shame to waste them.”

Dewey managed a smile at her. “Thanks,” he repeated, this time with heart.

“Don’t give up hope,” she said. “I’ve had some abysmal luck on dating apps. Maybe tomorrow’s date won’t show either!”