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“Sorry,” she says, her eyes wide. “Shit. I should have eased into that.”

I cough, banging on my chest with my fist, until I can breathe again. “Yeah. A little warning next time, please.”

“Well?” she says. “What the hell?”

I groan and roll my neck. “It was only a few weeks. Right at the end of the year. I’d already broken up with Susie. We were talking in his office and it just kind of . . . happened. But I broke it off just before the summer. I knew it wasn’t a good idea to keep it going.”

Joy’s brow creases a little, the small line appearing.

“Which,” I continue, “means kissing Coach—Lane—was even more stupid. Doug should have punched me, not him.”

“It’s all just a bit of a mess,” she says quietly, almost to herself.

“It’s only a mess if we let it be.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” she says, watching me over rim of her mug. “The overthinking. Perhaps we should just roll with the punches—no pun intended—and see where things go.”

I want to ask what ‘things’ are, but I’m just happy she doesn’t hate me, so I’ll go with pretty much anything she suggests. The main thing is, the awkwardness has evaporated like morning mist, and it’s beginning to feel like it did before. Which is more than I could have hoped for.

My mind is still reeling at the fact that she thought Lane and I were together. I mean, he’s a nice guy and hot as hell, but he’s clearly hung up on Joy. Of course, that fact doesn’t factor into the times I’ve relived what happened on the dance floor in the shower. And in bed.Fuck.He’s an incredible kisser, and his body just felt so . . .rightagainst mine. As much as I feel guilty for kissing him and hurting both Doug and Joy—despite what she says—I can’t help but feel disappointed that I’ll never know how far things could have gone.

I know Lane lives just outside Portland. Would he have taken me back to his place? Or would we have just stumbled to the bathrooms in the club? As my dick starts to take an interest in where my thoughts have strayed, I force myself back to Joy, asking her about upcoming gigs and her course.

There’s no point thinking about Lane. Or Doug. They’re both off limits for more reason than one.

LANE

My gut was right. The team is performing the best they have all year, and the atmosphere is thick with the excitement of it. I clap and holler as Wes, Aldo and Parker climb out after dominating the men’s four-hundred-meter freestyle, giving Franklin West points for first, second and third place. Aldo looks over at me with a huge grin and my heart expands in my chest. I smile back and look away, focusing on where Jordan and Erik are getting ready for the two-hundred-meter butterfly—their strongest event.

“Come on, Team!” I yell. “Let’s go!”

There are five colleges competing today at Seattle Pacific University. Three from Washington and two from Oregon. I’m nervous as hell beneath my confident smile, but the other coaches I’ve spoken to have been nice enough. I glance over at the team seated near us, Portland Community College, and the coach gives me a beaming smile. I return it, but then, he stands and walks over, and I groan internally.

“Hey,” he says. “I’m Chris Landers, PCC Coach. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

I shake his offered hand and smile. “Lane Masters, Assistant Coach for Franklin West.”

“Where’s McMann?” His eyes narrow, looking behind me as though he might find Doug hiding in my shadow.

My gut does a weird swooping thing at the mention of him. I sent him a text wishing him a safe flight and telling him that I’m here if he needs me. He didn’t reply. Not that I expected him to.

“There was a family emergency,” I say. “He went home to England.”

The smug smirk slides off the coach’s face. “Oh. Please pass on my regards. I hope everything’s okay.”

“I will.”

The buzzer sounds to signal the start of the next race and he heads back to his team with a tight smile. After Erik wins his race with an impressive new personal record, I slide my phone out of my pocket and type out a text.

ME: Team is doing great. Just met Landers. He says hi

I’m not expecting a reply, so I immediately drop my phone back in the pocket of my sweats. But then it vibrates, and I grab at it with a frown.

MCMANN: He’s a twat. Push him in the pool

Snorting a laugh, I slip my phone back in my pocket. I might not know Doug well, but I know he’s not initiating a conversation. Even so, I feel a little lighter hearing from him.

It’s only been three days since I found him crying in his office and I haven’t managed to stop thinking about it. It’s like a paper cut. The pain is fascinating, and I can’t keep pressing it.

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