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Aldo sighs and rests his elbows on the table, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m not . . . I mean, I haven’t . . .We fooled around a bit before the summer. I broke it off because . . . Well, because he’s our coach.”

I blink, staring at the top of his head. “You andDoug?”

Lane huffs and shakes his head. “No wonder he was pissed.”

This is too much to get my head around. “Doug punched you because he was jealous?”

“No,” Aldo says, narrowing his eyes at Lane. “He punched Lane because he was a dick.”

Lane shrugs, readjusting the ice he has pressed to his chin. A small puddle of water is forming on the table from the drips, and I stare at it as I think about the year so far with fresh eyes.

Is that why Doug was so harsh on Aldo at the beginning of the year? He obviously felt it was more than casual if he was that upset by it. I just can’t wrap my head around the idea of the two of them. They’re so different. Doug and Lane would make more sense. I snort at the idea of the two of them together.

“Are you okay?” Aldo asks, reaching out as though he’s going to touch my arm, but pulling back at the last second.

I look at him, at the pained expression on his face, and it confuses me further. The truth is, I’m fine. I think. I mean, I can’t be annoyed or upset because I’ve slept with all three of them, although I don’t think they know that. Should I tell them?

“I’m fine,” I reply. “Honestly.”

Aldo looks at me like he isn’t sure I’m telling the truth, so I take a second to take stock of my feelings. When I replay what happened, I don’t feel jealous or upset. Not angry. If anything, it was hot as hell. The desperate way their hands had grasped at whatever skin was available, the way Aldo’s hand was fisted in Lane’s hair. I swallow.

“Seriously. I’m fine.” I take a sip of my drink. “It was actually kind of hot.”

Aldo’s mouth drops open and a strangled noise comes from Lane.

“You know,” Aldo says slowly. “If we’re clearing the air between us all tonight. I have a confession.”

I glance at Lane, but he looks just as lost as I am.

“I overheard you two talking when we made a rest stop on our last away meet,” he says, staring into his drink. “I know Lane’s the one who ghosted you.”

Lane mutters under his breath and I frown. “So, you knew he’s the one who hurt me, and you were going to sleep with him anyway?”

Aldo drops his head down onto the table with a thump and a soft swear.

“It’s my fault,” Lane says. “He just came to bring me back. I’m the one who came onto him.”

I stare at him, eyebrows raised. “Aldo’s a big boy. I’m sure he didn’t fall and stumble onto your tongue.”

Although my words are laced with sarcasm, I can’t help the way my insides jolt at the mention of Lane’s tongue. He was a great kisser back when we were teenagers. Would it be the same now? My gaze falls to his mouth, to the lips I used to know as well as my own.

“I’m going to go home,” Aldo says, pushing back his chair. “I . . .”

He shakes his head and slides off his barstool looking seven shades of defeated. My feelings are a jumbled mess, and I don’t know how I feel about any of them, but I know I don’t want Aldo to feel sad. I jump off my stool and wrap my arms around his middle, squeezing hard. He freezes for a second, then hugs me back, resting his chin on top of my head for a moment before letting go.

Lane says nothing as Aldo leaves, but as I hop back up onto my stool, he doesn’t look away until the door closes behind him.

“Do you like him?” I ask.

Lane closes his eyes and takes a breath before looking at me. “In the spirit of honesty, the entire reason I put tonight together was because I wanted an excuse to spend time with you outside of training.”

Oh. I decide to ignore the fact that he avoided my question. We’ll circle back to that one.

“If that’s the case,” I say. “Why didn’t you dance with me? You just hung out by the booth all night. I barely saw you.”

“Because of Doug,” he snarls. “Every time I wanted to go near you, he was there. Or Aldo.”

I watch him as he swirls the ice in his drink. It’s hard being alone with him. He might be broader and look older, but I can still see the eighteen-year-old boy he was when he broke my heart. I can still remember the way I’d burst with excitement turning up at a meet knowing that he’d be there, too. The thrill of running off together to find time alone. Secrets smiles and stolen kisses.

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