Dane slammed the wall beneath the starting block so hard the tips of his fingers bent back and pain shot down his knuckles. With Mo’s wake a lane over lapping at his side, Dane hadn’t let up, charging hard to the very end of the hundred-meter race. He pushed off the wall and broke the water’s surface, gasping for breath as he tore off his cap and goggles. The crowd roared. He twisted to check the stadium’s giant scoreboard and understood why.
He’d hoped that’s what the ruckus was all about.
“You bastard!” came a laughing shout beside him.
Dane sloshed around to face his grinning mentor. Mo had finished two-hundredths of a second behind him, both of them shattering Mo’s existing freestyle record.
“Not too bad yourself, old man. Madrid, here we come!” Dane clasped Mo’s offered hand and held their arms aloft in victory, the crowd cheering louder. They’d done the same at countless other meets when they’d swum together at UNC, but this was their first time both competing at the Olympic Trials.
They climbed out of the pool, and Mo slapped him on the back. “I’d say you’re healed up just fine.”
Not even a slight twinge of pain. It’d been a while now since Dane had felt any aftereffects of the injury that’d sidelined him during the last Games. “I’ve been back on the circuit for two years. Are you getting senile in your old age?” At thirty, Mo was far from old, but he would be the oldest member of the USA Swimming squad.
“You’ve been back, but now you’re up to full speed. Better than.” He pointed at the scoreboard as they finished toweling off. “That’s what we need. Good job, Ellis.”
Dane basked in the praise, until two swimmers strolled out of the tunnel. Lockstep, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, the one had a fly-stroker’s massive upper body, much of it covered with tattoos, and blond dreadlocks piled atop his head. Sebastian Stewart, California native and the world’s best at butterfly. The other swimmer was leaner in build, a backstroker, but no less ripped, his light brown skin and dark curls glowing under the arena’s lights.
He’d been scarce since Dane’s return, rumors flying about a sick family member, but there was no mistaking Alejandro Cantu. Dane would never forget that body or those deep brown eyes. Lifting and clashing with his, those eyes were no less captivating in the here and now, freezing Dane to the spot. He was caught, between the past and present, between jealousy and envy, between love and hate.
Bitterness stung the back of his throat, bile surging up on a rising tide of memories best left forgotten, never forgotten. Dane swallowed hard to force it all back down. Harder still when Alex paid him no further mind and returned to carousing with Bas. Thick as thieves, the best friends and former college roommates walked with the easy confidence of being themselves, not caring if Dane, the press, or anyone thought they were more.
Resentment bubbled, at their freedom, and at their nonexistent regard for the world record he’d just shattered.
Well, eff that.
For the first time in a long while, Dane didn’t begrudge the horde of reporters bearing down on him, or his parents and publicist in the lead. They shouldn’t have been allowed on deck, but “the country’s minister” and home shopping’s reigning TV queen had a way of getting what they wanted, rolls of bills always at the ready. Dane met them at the corner of the pool, close to where Alex huddled with Bas.
His mother, dressed in navy blue Chanel with an orange scarf around her neck, the colors of his home swim club, clasped his towel-covered shoulders in imitation of a hug. “We’re so proud of you,” she said, loud enough for the reporters. Then, on her tiptoes, for his ears only, “Five minutes before they shoo us off deck for the next event. Make it count.”
Translation: always be selling.
She lowered back to her stiletto heels and stepped to Dane’s side. His father, in his trademark three-piece suit, complete with red, white, and blue striped tie, gave him a firm handshake. “The good Lord was with you in that pool, son.”
Dane bit back a retort. God had nothing to do with it. Twice-a-day swims with one of the country’s best clubs, plus daily dry-land workouts and yoga, were why he was now the fastest swimmer in the world. No time to argue though, as reporters lobbed questions at him.
“How’s it feel to be a first-time Olympian?”
He slicked back his wet hair, biceps flexing. Cameras clicked and spectators tittered. He hated his role as swimming’s current poster boy, so much of the image a lie that turned his stomach, but it served his purpose in this instant. Alex canted his head toward him, listening.
“Great!” Dane replied. “I can’t wait to represent Team USA.”
“Do you think you’ll win your other events?”
He smiled big and drew out his Southern accent, amping up the charm. “Well now, that’s certainly the plan.”
“We sure hope so,” his publicist said. By we, Roger meant the sponsors, who counted on their wares being displayed as much as possible, and his mother, who would in turn feature those products on one of her many shows. A vicious cycle, always turning.
“Will you be team captain?”
Motion in Dane’s periphery—Alex approaching.
“That’s voted on by the team,” Dane said. “But I’d sure be honored if they chose me.” Truth be told, he hadn’t even considered the captaincy, assuming it’d go to Mo or Alex, but he’d play up the possibility to get a rise out of Alex.
“Will you be swimming on the relay teams?”
Before Dane could answer, Alex joined their group, standing at the outer edge, and directly addressed the reporters. “Relay teams are drawn from the top six qualifiers in each event. Lineups will be decided after Trials and announced at Media Day. We’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
“Alex, are you going to win your races?” one of the reporters asked.
Alex glanced over their heads at Dane, barely concealed fury swirling in those bottomless brown eyes. “What was it you said, Ellis? Well now, that’s certainly the plan.”
He had the good grace not to mime the accent. Dane’s manners, however, were lacking. “Buena suerte,” he replied, snidely wishing him luck in diction-perfect Spanish.
Alex’s nostrils flared and red streaked across his cut cheekbones, but before hostilities escalated further, event staffers surrounded the group, indicating their five minutes were up.
“Dane, honey,” his mother drawled. “We’ll see you in San Antonio.” She tugged him down for a kiss on the cheek, pausing long enough for the cameras.
Roger stepped forward, handing out business cards. “Dane and Reverend and Mrs. Ellis will be available for interviews in San Antonio.”
That sounded like more than just Media Day. Dane groaned internally.
“If you’ll follow me,” Roger carried on, “I’ll get those scheduled.”
Dane’s father gave him another cold, hard handshake, then Roger and the staffers whisked the road show away, leaving only Dane and Alex locked in a stare down.
“Do not bring that shit with you to Colorado,” Alex gritted out.
“I don’t control my parents.”
Alex took two long strides toward him, and Dane’s blood revved at his closeness, then chilled with his next words. “Oh, I’m well aware it’s the other way around.”
Dane’s bravado waned. “Alex . . .”
“And that’s not the shit I’m talking about. I know I’ll never get the real you.” Direct hit, right to the gut. “But at least leave the poster boy at home. Bring me the swimmer; anything else and we’re going to have problems.”
“Problems are unavoidable.”
Alex’s dark gaze swept his body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “Don’t I know it.”
“If I bring you the swimmer,” Dane said, “am I on the relay teams?”
“Coach makes that call, not me.”
“I want on medley.” Team USA had lost the medley relay gold by the slimmest of margins at the last Games, and Dane had cursed from his recovery room an ocean away. If he’d only been there. Well, he was here now, and they wouldn’t lose it with him swimming anchor.
Alex’s eyes hardened, glittering. “We can’t always get what we want.”
“But we get what we need?” Dane retorted, unable to resist.
He should have.
“Not that either,” Alex replied, an iceberg of anger in those three words. He turned on his heel and stalked back to Bas, leaving Dane to sink, shivering all the way to his soul.
“Cantu!”
Startled out of sleep by Coach’s bark, Alex jerked up his head as his arms splayed out, sending stacks of papers flying. His laptop careened in their wake, sliding off the side of the desk, headed for certain death, but Alex’s big foot and long arms saved it, barely. With a relieved sigh, he hauled himself upright, set the dinosaur back on the desk, then gave his boss and mentor his attention.
Coach Hartl was standing in the office doorway, shoulder leaning against the wooden jamb. His USA Swimming shirt was pressed, his whistle shined, and his black hair slicked neatly back. Dressed to impress for their first official team meeting.
“You sleep here?” he asked, dark eyes assessing.
Wrinkled clothes, check.
Pen imprint on his cheek, by the feel of it, check.
Puddle of drool on the desk, sadly, check.
No use denying it.
Alex rolled back his desk chair and slid out of it onto his knees, crouching on the floor. “I was just finishing up these training schedules.” He waved a hand at the mess of scattered papers.
Coach crossed the tiny office and knelt beside him, helping collect them. “Have you slept at all since Trials last week?”
“Some.”
Less than a little, if he were being honest.
Standing, Alex tucked the schedules into a red bucket file. Coach held up his stack, and Alex gestured at the desk. “Anywhere is fine.” It was all a paperwork wasteland. He’d organize it later. At that mythical time in the future when he’d ever get ahead of his to-do list.
“Do I need to get another admin to take over some of this?”
Alex shook his head. “It’s under control. Just a lot of predeparture prep.” He could afford to lose sleep. He couldn’t afford to lose income.
“I need you in top shape, Cantu, especially in the pool. If the job and training are already too much together, maybe we should reconsider the captaincy.”
“No, I want it.” Of that he was sure. His teammates, all but one, had voted for him to lead the squad, and he couldn’t let them down. “I’ll be in top shape by Madrid. That’s what these next few weeks of training are for. The admin work will be out of the way by then.”
After another bout of intense scrutiny, Hartl bought it, or at least decided to ignore Alex’s bald-faced lies. “Let’s go, then. Team’s waiting.”
“Everyone’s here?”
Coach nodded. “Ellis arrived five minutes ago.”
Versus Alex, who’d slept here overnight, buried in work and too afraid, if he’d gone home to sleep in an actual bed, that he’d get caught in traffic and be late for the meeting this morning. Which he now was, because he’d fallen asleep at his desk instead.
Fuck.
His gaze flickered back to the computer screen, catching on the man whose ripped torso and freckled right arm were lifted out of the water in victory. He snapped the screen shut. “I don’t want him on my relay.”
He and Coach had debated this decision all weekend, and now they had to make a final call, before going out there to the team. And Dane. After the show Dane had put on at Trials, and their confrontation afterward, Alex had lobbied hard for his exclusion from the medley relay. He just needed to sway Coach to his side, once and for all.
“He’s swimming five other events. We can’t risk another injury.” Alex rested back on the desk’s edge, fingers curled around the lip, nails digging into the underside of the worn wood. “After me, Jacob, and Bas swim, we’ll have enough of a lead by the time Mo swims anchor.”
“You sure about that? Dane’s the fastest in the world at free. He all but guarantees gold.”
“We’ll be fine.” Before Hartl could argue further, Alex added, “But you’re the coach. It’s your call.”
“And you’re the squad captain. You know these guys better than anyone. If you think Ellis will disrupt your relay team, then he’s not on it.”
Dane Ellis, with his too-bright smile and cult of personality, couldn’t help but be a disruption—to the entire USA Swimming Team, to all the relay teams, and to Alex. It was like dropping Brad Pitt into an ensemble cast and asking him to play a supporting role. That shit only worked in the Ocean’s movies and only because Clooney was hotter.
Alex was no Clooney. It wasn’t going to work here. He’d take his victories where he could get them, and Dane off his medley relay was a win. Striding across the office, he yanked his spare ironed shirt off the hanger on the door hook. “Thanks, Coach.”
“You gonna tell me what Ellis did to piss you off? You’re a backstroker. You guys are the calm ones, and you get along with everyone. What gives?”
“He exists.”
Alex shrugged out of his wrinkled shirt, down to his threadbare tee, and before he could get the fresh shirt over it, Hartl’s hand wrapped around his biceps, wrinkled fingers pale against Alex’s sun-darkened skin. “There’s more to it than that.”
“That’s between me and him.”
Black eyes stared back at him, hard as onyx. That stare was what kept a group of rowdy, adrenaline-fueled jocks in line. “Ellis might not be on the medley relay, but he is on this team. Of which you are the captain. You’re both representing this country. Whatever’s between you and him, set it aside.”
Alex respectfully lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir.”
Satisfied, Coach released his arm and started down the hall toward the pool. Alex finished changing, grabbed the training schedules off his desk, and followed, infusing his spine with the confidence his twisted insides lacked.
Set it aside.
Like Dane had set him aside.
The anger and hurt still lingered. So did the attraction and jealousy.
Set it aside.
Easier said than done.