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  “Fuck, Mo, I don’t know what to say. Sorry doesn’t seem enough.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Dane’s the one that took me down. Heavy motherfucker.” He waved a hand dismissively, and Alex thought it weird to see without a phone in it. The device was on the bedside table, and Mo hadn’t even glanced at it.

  “Yoo-hoo, Cantu, where’d you go?”

  He was zoning out again; he needed sleep. He sat on the edge of the chair next to the bed. “You’re injured because I baited him.”

  Mo’s eyes cut to the door and back. “You baited him again just now.”

  “What can I say? He brings out the worst in me.”

  Mo’s gaze sharpened. “And you bring out the best in him.” Not so drugged, nor so clueless to his and Dane’s history, after all.

  Alex relaxed back into the chair, arms hanging loosely over the armrests. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Trust me, you do.” Mo lowered his voice. “Don’t let up. That boy’s come-to-Jesus moment is long overdue.”

  Alex chuckled at the ironic choice of words.

  “I’ve been waiting to use that line for years.” Mo smiled, satisfied. “I’ve tried to get through to him, Alex, but I’m thinking it’s got to be you.”

  “How are you even smiling right now?” His eyes made another sweep of the traction setup, and he winced in sympathetic pain. “You seem surprisingly okay with all this.”

  “Hospital tonight, then they fly me out to DC tomorrow for surgery. I’m going home, two months ahead of schedule.”

  Ah, home, and Mo had a lot of good to get back to. “Nessa’s happy?”

  He smiled wider. “Thrilled doesn’t begin to cover it.”

  But was that enough? “Your shot at the gold, though? We fucked that up for you.”

  “You’re young still—”

  “Only four years younger than you.”

  Mo talked over him. “You’ll realize soon enough that medals aren’t everything.” He held up a hand, forestalling Alex’s objection. “Yes, you know better than most already, after the scares with your mom, but you still get tunnel vision sometimes. But do you know what I see down my tunnel? My twins, two baby girls coming into this world soon, and I’ll get to be there for the birth this time.” Excitement lit his eyes, a stark contrast to the anxiety-stricken guilt Alex remembered from four years ago when Nessa had gone into labor as they marched in the opening ceremonies.

  “You’ll be teetering around the delivery room on crutches.”

  Mo swiped the phone off the bedside table, brandishing it. “Better than following along on this damn thing.”

  “I was beginning to think you were surgically attached to it.”

  “I’m attached to my wife.” He laid the phone on his chest, atop his heart. Alex longed for a love like that someday. “I get to see her, tomorrow. And I get to help her take care of our new babies, even if I’m a little wobbly.”

  Smiling, Alex stood and placed a hand on his teammate’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry, Mo. More than I can say.”

  Morris covered his hand. “I know you are, Cap. But not nearly as sorry as he is.” He jutted his chin toward the door, toward where Dane was sitting in the hallway. “For everything.”

  Dane was a fool for thinking anything would be different after the night Mo went down. He was a bigger fool for not realizing things would get worse. While he’d revealed a little of himself, of his regret, to Alex, they hadn’t called a truce. Alex’s last words had been to call him a privileged ass, again, and when he’d left Mo’s room, he hadn’t spared Dane a glance or word.

  In the days following, Alex hadn’t let up in practice either, pressing himself and everyone harder. Dane could handle it, physically, but emotionally, he was worn thin. It’d be one thing if he had his team to commiserate with, to blow off steam with after a grueling day in the pool. Like joining the nightly runs the guys took around USOTC’s campus or hanging out with them in the dorm lounge where they watched reruns of old TV shows. But the cold shoulders and death stares made it clear he wasn’t welcome; they all blamed him for taking out Mo. No mentor, no friends, no team. Dane didn’t have much in the way of a social circle back in Charlotte either, but at least people spoke to him at his home club. Not even Ryan was speaking to him here anymore. Taking his mentor’s advice, Dane channeled his frustration into hours of nightly hacking in his room alone, skimming a little more than usual and doing some freelance coding work he’d picked up online under an alias.

  Maybe a change of scenery—one that wasn’t Alex’s home club and that wasn’t the scene of the crime, so to speak—would help smooth things over. That had been Dane’s hope, with domestic training moving to San Antonio for ten days before they headed overseas, first to Vienna for international training, then onto the Games in Madrid. But things got off on the wrong foot before they’d even left the San Antonio airport. While Media Day wasn’t for another forty-eight hours, they were treated to an unscheduled trial run at arrivals. They weren’t caught totally unaware—the earlier arriving women’s team had called with a heads-up—but an ambush was an ambush, all the same.

  Stepping out of baggage claim, Dane barely managed to suck in a gulp of hot, humid air before the press—local, national, and sports—converged. None too pleased with the scene outside the front doors, TSA ushered them into the oversized vehicles lot where their team bus was supposed to pick them up. And was late. There was no place to hide, no place to flee, and no shade in the wide-open space. Heat shimmered off the black asphalt as reporters relentlessly shouted questions.

  “What are the team’s chances for medals?”

  “What’re the final relay lineups?”

  “How has training been so far?”

  “What training adjustments will you make here and in Vienna in preparation for Madrid?”

  Almost all of their questions were prefaced with “Coach” or “Dane.” For the questions addressed to the swimmers, Coach pushed Alex forward instead. After a handful of general ones, they drifted to Alex’s heritage and sexuality, and then back to Dane. He smiled and tried to throw goodwill toward Alex and his teammates whenever the opportunity presented itself.

  His efforts were ruined, though, when a gleaming black limo drove into the lot and his father climbed out of the back, fully suited despite the triple-digit heat. The local and sports media were slow to catch on, but two of the national reporters directed cameras and microphones his way. It wasn’t every day they had access to the country’s most popular evangelical minister.

  “Reverend Ellis, saying any special prayers for the team?”

  “Reverend Ellis, will you preach from a church here on Sunday?”

  Only if the church had a dressing room, private studio, and all the trappings Reverend Patrick Ellis required “to put his best foot forward while spreading the Word of God,” and to line his pockets. His father pushed a pair of designer sunglasses into his dyed brown hair, and the blue-gray eyes Dane had inherited squinted briefly against the sun. Once adjusted, he buttoned his suit coat and straightened his tie, like he was about to start a sermon. “Each one of these incredible coaches and gifted swimmers will be in my prayers tonight and every night until they win gold and return safe from Madrid. As for this weekend, I’m not here to broadcast. I’m only here to support my son and his team.”

  Dane bit back a scoff. Five more minutes and his father would be in full sermon mode, making more of a scene and furthering his mythical stature. His father was never not sermonizing, in one form or another. Dane imagined he had come out of the womb preaching, even if his wails had been unintelligible then. So were most of his sermons now, in Dane’s view, no matter how fancy the words.

  “Son, Coach Hartl, we can give you a lift to the hotel,” his father said.

  Tension radiated off Alex beside him. It radiated inside Dane too. This was the last thing he needed, separated enough already from his teammates. His father’s offer threw that separa
tion into sharp, ugly relief. Now was when he needed to try to be a part of the team, not torn further from it.

  “It’s fine, Dad,” Dane said.

  “We appreciate the offer, Reverend Ellis,” Coach added. “But we’ll wait for the bus.”

  Not if his mother had anything to say about it. She rolled down her window and flashed her former beauty queen smile. It was a toss-up who was more widely televised, but there was no question Kimberly Ellis was more dangerous. “Dane, sweetie, get in the car.”

  She said it only loud enough for the team to hear, but if she had to repeat herself, it’d be loud enough to reach the reporters. Dane didn’t relish the prospect of public emasculation.

  “You better go,” Bas said. “Before mommy dearest gets angry.” He stepped partway between Dane and Alex, whose hands were shoved in his pockets, dark eyes glittering.

  “We’ll see you at the hotel,” Coach said diplomatically. There was a measure of understanding in his expression, but the rest of the team stood stone-faced behind him, dripping sweat.

  Any shot at team acceptance gone, Dane acted to minimize collateral damage. He aimed his winning smile at the press, praying his charm was distraction enough from the obvious tension among the team.

  “We appreciate you all coming out for us,” he said. “We look forward to seeing you at Media Day. Until then—” he stood in the open limo door “—we’ll practice hard so we can bring home the gold.”

  He ducked into the limo, and his mother slammed the door shut, the loud noise and dramatic shift in temperature causing him to shiver. The car pulled away—from his team, from Alex—and Dane twisted in his seat for one last glance out the tinted rear window. His shiver became a full-body quake, a chill to the bone, when his gaze landed on Alex. Hands fisted at his sides, beautiful face twisted in a menacing snarl, Alex was angrier than Dane had ever seen him, worse even than that day a decade ago when Dane had gotten a similar last look at the boy who’d given him the best summer of his life.

  Sullen and anxious, he rotated back around and slumped in his seat, cracking his knuckles. “You’re not doing me any favors.”

  “We saved you from standing out in the sun,” his mother said.

  “I’m not going to melt.”

  “But you will burn, and how will that look on camera?”

  She’d know, better than most. With the same freckled skin and red hair as him, she lived her camera-ready life under an umbrella, never exposed to the sun. No wonder she was so cold.

  “Northside is outdoors,” Dane said, referring to the national swim center where they’d be training. “There’s no chance of that not happening.”

  “There’s a welcome basket from Tropicana in your room. I featured them in a prime-time spot last week.” She crossed one leg over the other and drummed manicured nails against her Chanel-skirted knee, this one a pale blue number. “Be sure to drop their name.”

  “Great, another reason for them to hate me.”

  Her whiskey-gold eyes widened. “What are you talking about? The sponsors and media love you.”

  “I meant my team.” He leaned forward and glared across the narrow space. “Nothing breeds resentment like hopping into an air-conditioned limo while they wait outside for the bus in this fucking heat.”

  “Language,” the Reverend scolded.

  Dane talked over him. “Or getting my mentor injured.”

  “That worked out for everyone,” his mother quipped brightly.

  “How the hell do you figure that?” He didn’t check his curses or the volume of his voice. “Mo’s at home in DC, the rest of the team fucking hates me, and you are not helping matters.”

  “Enough!” his father barked. “What’s done is done. We need to discuss how you’ll conduct yourself here at training.”

  Dane fell back in his seat and threw open his arms. “Yes, by all means, lay out the ground rules for your grown-ass son.”

  “One, no more cursing. You’re picking up those boys’ bad habits.” Men, but Dane didn’t bother correcting him. “You were taught better manners, and it doesn’t befit our image.”

  “Our image,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He was so tired of this farce of an “image.” The cracks in his perfect poster boy persona were starting to show, which was exactly why his parents were here, giving him this lecture. They’d seen the cracks too.

  His father lectured on. “Two, you’re here to practice, to swim and to show up when and where the sponsors want you.”

  “And where you want me. Tell me something new.” His gaze drifted out the window. Better to direct it there than to say or do something that would make his parents look closer. See that the cracks were fast becoming canyons.

  “We needed to remind you of your priorities,” his mother said.

  “I’m twenty-six. I don’t need a reminder.”

  “You gave up your spot on the relay team. We think you do.”

  His gaze cut to her. “It wasn’t my call to make.”

  “You didn’t fight hard enough for it.”

  “Well, I’m on the relay team now. I’m swimming six events. You and the sponsors got what you wanted. Happy?”

  Her Mary Kay painted lips turned up in her closing-the-sale smile, and Dane wondered if she’d ever genuinely smiled in her life. Always a show, always fake. “Keep up the good work,” she said. “And we will be.”

  Good work, yeah right. Felt like the devil’s work to him.

  Coach blew the final whistle on day three of practice in San Antonio, and Alex couldn’t get out of the pool fast enough. Even for someone who spent a good deal of time outdoors, his rapidly darkening skin was proof the sun burned hotter here. They’d coordinated practice schedules with the women’s team to avoid peak hours, but it was still more exposure than most were used to, especially Dane, who despite smelling like he showered in Tropicana, was more than a little pink.

  He looked good with color to his fair skin. Alex wasn’t about to tell him that, though. After the debacle at the airport, Dane was at the top of his and everyone’s shit list. It’d been another hour before their bus had arrived, and it’d cost them a half day of practice. Arriving late to breakfast the next morning after a call with his mom, Alex had found a single seat saved for him, and Dane on his way out with a tray of food. Banished elsewhere for that and every meal since.

  As captain, Alex knew he should make an effort to bring Dane into the fold—his teammates were unfairly holding Dane solely responsible for losing Mo, when half that blame rested squarely on Alex’s shoulders—but he was still fuming himself over the incident at the airport. Seeing Dane smile pretty for the cameras, then disappear into his parents’ limo had resurrected all his old memories. And his old heartache. Dane had turned his back on him again, and this time on the rest of the team too.

  Alex took his anger out on Dane in the pool, riding him harder than anyone else. Dane met every demand—swimming clean, following orders, and staying out of trouble. Because he was a team player or because his parents had come down on him to put on a good show? If the latter, which Alex suspected, he had little pity for him. That was the bed Dane had made. He could sleep in it with all his lies to keep him company.

  “That’s all for today,” Coach said, interrupting Alex’s thoughts. “Gather up for a sec.”

  Exchanging his cap and goggles for the towel in his on-deck cubby, Alex strode over to the bleachers. Toweling off as he climbed the stairs to the shadowed third row, he claimed the spot next to Bas and a row down from Ryan. Eyes on his phone, Dane headed for his usual solitary spot at the top, in the sun. Like with breakfast, he sat apart at every team meeting.

  Only Jacob made the occasional approach. Cautiously, never too close, but close enough Dane wasn’t completely an island unto himself. After the initial hazing, Alex had been impressed with the charmingly awkward kid. He kept his head down, worked hard, and improved daily, despite already being a national champion at nineteen. Their secret weapon who’d come out of nowhe
re at Trials and hadn’t swum on the international stage yet. He was like a sponge, picking stuff up without being asked or told. He was also uncommonly good at reading his teammates and modifying his behavior to suit. A skill Alex had been taught in educational training and which Jacob either came by naturally or had already learned. Perhaps it was his age, his quirks and habits not yet set in, but that sort of hyper-observation and adaptation made Alex think there was more behind the pup’s big green eyes.

  “All right, everyone,” Coach said, and Alex returned his attention to the front. “Media Day’s tomorrow.”

  A collective groan went up from the peanut gallery.

  “Open practice first. We give them a show like the one we put on today, that’ll go good.”

  Alex hoped Coach was right. That the reporters would be too distracted by the times on the clock to notice the fissures, to notice the team’s ostracized star.

  “Be on your best behavior, and use your good sense in answering questions.” Coach eyed Ryan. “You hear that, Nichols?”

  The jokester lifted a hand, three fingers raised. “Best behavior, Scout’s honor.”

  “My ass if you were ever a Boy Scout,” Bas countered.

  “I’ll remember that when our plane crashes on a deserted island, and I’m the only one who can build a fire.”

  Alex chuckled. “Someone’s marathon-watching Lost again.”

  “As long as there’s a hatch that leads to a bunker of rum, I’m good.” Bas lifted a hand, and Ryan gave him a high five, the slap ringing in Alex’s ears.

  While everyone laughed, Ryan leaned forward and jostled Bas’s shoulder. “Rum and somewhere warm to stick your cock.”

  Bas swatted at Ryan’s head like a fly.

  “None of that tomorrow,” Coach said, reasserting order. “For those of you who are new—” his black eyes bounced to each new team member, landing last on Jacob “—Media Day can be overwhelming. Stick close to a vet. After practice, we’ll head back to the hotel to change for the press conference. Cantu, Stewart, Ellis, you’re on the dais with me for the official Q and A portion. Full dress.”