Dawn was just beginning to brighten the horizon when Alex’s alarm went off the next morning. He slapped the clock radio quiet, plunging the morning back into silence, and stared unseeing out the window at the open plains east of Pueblo. After a night spent tossing and turning, he wished he could lock his bedroom door and call in sick. But that wasn’t an option. He was the team captain, and today was their first practice.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Yesterday could have gone worse. Dane aside, the team was already gelling. They had three and a half weeks until Madrid. Plenty of time to renew bonds with returning members and form new ones with the rooks. Plenty of time to get their starts sharp and their relay exchanges down.
As long as everyone got in line.
Coach was depending on him. And Alex was depending on Mo to wrangle Dane. But who was going to wrangle Alex, if his buried anger at Dane—or the even deeper buried desire—got the better of him? It was going to be a daily exercise in self-restraint not to wipe that thousand-dollar smile off Dane’s face, one way or the other.
An exercise he wasn’t physically or mentally prepared for, already stretched too thin. School was out for the summer, so substitute teaching was off his plate, but then so was another source of income. To make up for it, he was working overtime at USOC, banking every spare cent so his family could hire extra farm help while he was in Madrid. When he wasn’t in the office, he was in the pool or gym training, or making the long drive back and forth from Pueblo. He’d been offered on-campus housing with the rest of the athletes, but Pueblo was closer to the family farm in Vineland. At least traffic was light at six in the morning and ten at night, just him in his beat-up Ford Ranger and the long-haul semis making the drive up and down I-25.
The silent morning didn’t last but another minute, his sister double-tapping his bedroom door. “¡Levantate, levantate!”
“I’m up, I’m up.” He threw off the sheets and stumbled out of bed.
Carla was the other reason he kept an apartment in Pueblo. Five years his junior, she took year-round classes at the community college, trying to finish up her accounting degree in record time. The apartment provided a place close to campus for her to study and crash. And hide. She was as bad, if not worse, than him about getting roped into chores and obligations at home, taking on more than she could handle. As it was, she went out to the farm after classes each day, stayed there on her days off, and drove their mom back and forth to chemo treatments.
Another swift knock as she coasted past again in the hallway. “Breakfast in ten.” She cooked for him too and straightened the apartment each morning. He’d told her she didn’t have to, but since he paid all the rent, she’d insisted.
By the time he showered and dressed, eggs, turkey bacon, sliced avocado, and wheat toast were laid out on the table. At home, they’d get shit for the healthy pickings, but Carla took his training diet seriously.
Thank God she still let him have his coffee, though. She sat an extra-large mug next to his plate and claimed the mismatched chair on the other side of the dumpster-find card table. “You look surlier than usual and like you didn’t sleep. What’s up?”
He shot her a narrow-eyed glare. “You’re getting worse than Mom.”
She shrugged, sipping from her mug, then nibbling a piece of toast. “You didn’t show at the farm this weekend, and you haven’t called since getting home from Trials. She’s just going to hound me, wanting to know what’s up with you. If I have answers, less hounding for both of us.”
“Sorry I missed Sunday dinner. I was with Coach, putting together training schedules and heat seedings.”
“Esta bien, hermano.” She reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. Her skin was shades darker than his, more brown than tan. Either she’d been studying outside or she’d picked up some of his farm chores on top of hers. “So, dish,” she said, but it was faint over the roaring guilt in his ears.
“How’s Mom this week?” he deflected.
“Better.” Carla folded her toast around slices of bacon and avocado. “It’s an off week between treatments. She’s weak but holding down solid food again.”
“That’s good,” he replied, his next bite tasting like ash in his mouth.
Alex hoped like hell this round of post-operative chemo, following her second mastectomy, would be the last of it, but the same treatment plan had failed before, since the cancer had come back. Three years, two major surgeries, and countless rounds of chemo and radiation later, his vivacious mom was worn down and the rest of the family along with her.
His sister most of all. Her curly black hair hung dull and limp, smudges darkened her under-eyes, and she’d lost weight. An unhealthy lot. He needed to do more, he couldn’t do more.
Fuck.
“I promise to get out there before I leave. I want to check the swather and baler, in case anyone has to use them before I get back.”
“Rafe’s better with the farm machinery, and you know it.”
Because his younger brother had gone to the local vocational school, practically for free, and earned two associates degrees in farm management and automotive technology, all while continuing to work on the farm. Versus Alex, who’d gone away to USC for four years and come home with a trunk of swimming medals and a degree in education. Admirable, but not useful for the farm, nor very lucrative. He didn’t have the smile or charm to turn his medals into dollar bills like Dane, and his substitute teacher’s salary was shit, but all he could manage with training. He supplemented it with USOC admin work, but all those extra hours meant less time for the farm.
Double-checking the equipment wasn’t much, but it was the least he could do before disappearing for two months. “For my own peace of mind,” he said, meaning it in more ways than one. God forbid anything happen to his mom, or any of his family, while he was gone; he’d never forgive himself if he hadn’t said goodbye.
Carla shrugged one shoulder and rose, collecting their dishes and carrying them to the sink. Alex followed with their empty mugs, dropped them into the basin of soapy water, and grabbed the dish towel from where it hung over the fridge handle.
His sister let the silence carry for a single plate. “So, back to my original question. What’s up with you?”
As persistent as their mom. He had to give her something. “Team shit,” he said.
“It’s been one day, and you know most of the guys. How is there shit already?”
He swiped the towel over the plate. “There was some . . .” he considered his words carefully, falling back on his habit of downplaying things, “debate about who should swim the medley relay. Odd man out wasn’t happy.”
“You’re the captain. Did Coach agree on the lineup?”
“Yeah.” He shoved his clothed fist into a washed mug.
“Then what’s odd man out’s problem?”
“He’s used to getting what he wants. And he’s the fastest.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “Ah, the poster boy.” She handed him the last plate, unplugged the sink, and dried her hands on the end of his towel. “Red hair, big smile?”
“That’s the one.” He avoided her gaze, hoping his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. “Dane Ellis.”
“He’s a looker.” She bumped his hip with a snicker. “You gonna hit that?”
He nearly dropped the stack of plates he was putting away in the cabinet. While his family knew and accepted he was gay, they didn’t know about his decade-ago summer fling with swimming’s biggest star. He’d kept that piece of heaven that had devolved into hell to himself. “I’m not his type.”
“His loss.” In the living room, she levered the futon where she slept back into a couch. Another dumpster find. “If he’s the fastest, why isn’t he on your relay team?”
“He’s swimming five other events. Mo’s only swimming three others. Fresher arms and legs and more senior leadership.”
“Makes sense to me.” She folded her sheets and blankets and dumped them, along with her pillow, into the leather footstool that tripled as a coffee table and storage.
He needed to check again with the complex’s main office to see if any two-bedroom units had opened up. He could work more hours at USOC, maybe pick up an extra teaching period or two in the fall, if it meant Carla got her own room. He startled out of his thoughts when she laid a hand on his forearm. “You tell Big Red who’s boss.” She looked up at him with the same brown eyes they’d both inherited from their mom. “I’m gonna hit the shower. You set?”
“I’m good. Thanks, sis.” He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head. “Plan on me for Sunday supper, and have Mom call me for an update.”
“Because you’ll answer, right?” Just a jest, the wink she threw over her shoulder indicating it was said in good humor.
Alex drowned in guilt all the same.
The guilt lingered through Alex’s early morning swim in the deserted pool, eighty laps, alternating strokes. Through two hours of office work, making sure each swimmer’s passport was valid. Through the phone call with his mom, her breath labored and energy fading after only ten minutes. By the time he trudged into the locker room and observed the three-ring circus underway, it was all he could do not to channel his sour mood into anger and aim it directly at the big top’s ringleader.
Smile bright in his auburn scruff and chest bare but for a light smattering of hair, Dane, decked out in the latest performance jammers, stood at the end of the second row of lockers, holding court for a group of reporters. While some athletes came off model smarmy in these situations, Dane exuded boy-next-door charm, easily engaging the press in conversation about advancements in swim gear. Standing on one side of him was his publicist and on the other a swimwear rep, dropping well-timed remarks about his company’s research in cooperation with SwimMAC, the prestigious club in Charlotte where Dane swam.
No one mentioned the money Dane made every minute he stood there.
Or every dollar Alex lost while staring.
But Dane wasn’t his only problem.
Ryan, dressed in last year’s jammers, was standing across the aisle with Mike, snapping their biceps, futilely trying to get the reporters’ attention. And one row back from them, Jacob was straddling the bench, forearms pressed to the wood, head resting on his clenched hands. He looked sleep-deprived and nausea-tossed, with one half of his shaggy blond hair shorn off.
Maybe Alex should have taken that room on campus.
And maybe Dane distracting the reporters wasn’t all bad.
But as Jacob turned a sickly shade of green, Alex realized Dane’s distracting charm wouldn’t hold much longer. They didn’t need the press catching on to the fact their youngest teammate had been hazed and was hungover on the first day of practice.
Running both hands over his hair, smoothing down the unruly curls, Alex straightened his USA Swimming shirt and approached the peanut gallery, positioning himself to draw their attention away from Jacob.
“Good morning, everyone.” His smile was nowhere near as bright as Dane’s, but he looked official, if nothing else. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but we’ve got a practice to get to.”
Official attire didn’t matter. But his skin tone did. Like vultures, the reporters descended, pouncing on the line of questioning they hadn’t had time to get to at Trials. “Alejandro,” one of them called, even though everyone used his nickname, Alex. Even the television title cards read Alex Cantu. Less opportunity for misspelling. “How does it feel to represent the Hispanic community at this year’s Olympics?”
One of the other reporters chimed in. “In Madrid too? That must be special.”
And another. “Will the team be looking to you to translate?”
Never mind that the pasty-white swimmer beside him spoke fluent Spanish. Never mind that he had more in common with Dane than anyone in Madrid. Never mind that his family had been in the States for three generations, descended from Mexican immigrants, many, many generations removed from the Spanish conquistadors.
Never mind all that.
He smiled and gave his canned response. “I’m not the only person of color on the team. We’ve got other Latina and African American swimmers, two Latino ball players, an Asian American gymnast, and many more. We’re a diverse group, just like our country, and we’re all proud to represent the US and its many faces, wherever we compete.”
“You’re representing the LGBTQ community as well,” the first reporter tried to redirect.
“Yes, I am.” He didn’t make a big deal of his heritage or his sexual orientation—his prowess as a swimmer and USA team member were more important to him—but he didn’t hide those other vital parts of himself either.
That was Dane’s specialty.
And by the barely there flinch only a few people would know to look for, the reporter’s question had hit Dane right where it hurt. But an expert at hiding and covering, he clapped Alex’s shoulder and smiled big. “Anyone here would be honored to be captain, regardless of their heritage or sexuality, and we stand behind Alex.”
“Why aren’t you the captain?”
Dane’s fingers dug into his shoulder. “Alex was elected by the team.”
“Speaking of, who’s swimming medley relay?” the same reporter from Trials asked.
Dane’s hand dropped from his shoulder, as another tagged on, “Will you be bringing home the gold this time?”
“Gold is always our goal,” Alex answered. “As I said last week, final lineups will be announced in San Antonio on Media Day.”
“How many events are you swimming, Dane?”
“Five,” Dane answered without hesitation, and Alex bit back a curse.
Brows furrowed and notebook pages flipped. Before the reporters could put it together, Alex ushered them toward the door. “Like I said, we’ve got a practice to get to. We look forward to seeing you all next week.”
The team’s PR rep met them in the hallway and led the reporters the rest of the way out. Unfortunately for Alex, that meant he had to handle Dane’s very irate swimwear rep. “He’s only swimming five events?”
Alex spread his legs shoulder-width apart and crossed his arms. “Yes.”
“He’s the face of our brand. We need him out there as much as possible.”
“We’ll sort this out,” Roger said.
“We expected him to swim six,” the rep insisted.
“You’re welcome to take it up with Coach Hartl,” Alex said.
“Don’t worry, I will.” He stormed off, Roger on his heels, and Alex rounded on Dane, his earlier rage boiling over. “You just had to say something, didn’t you?”
He shrugged, nonchalant and entitled as hell. “They asked; I answered.”
Closing the distance between them, Alex put two hands to his chest and shoved, hard. “You backed me into a corner.”
Dane shoved back. “You backed yourself there when you didn’t put me on the relay.”
Kevin approached, hand out toward Dane. “Let it go, man.”
“He’s the one who jumped all over me.”
“Because you can’t keep your damn mouth shut.” Alex stepped into Dane’s space again, ready to shove, but then a tattooed arm sliced around his chest and yanked him back.
“Cool it,” Bas warned.
Not a moment too soon, as Coach’s voice boomed off the locker room walls. “What’s going on in here? Why aren’t you fools in the pool?”
Alex shook off Bas’s hold and shouted over his shoulder. “On our way, Coach.”
“That’s right,” Dane sneered, leaning forward. “Hide behind Hartl.”
If Dane was going to give him such an easy target . . . Alex cocked an arm.
Bas grabbed his elbow, diverting the punch he’d intended for Dane’s smug face.
“Freestylers in the water first,” Alex said instead.
“Thank fuck,” Jacob groaned from the bench where he was now laid flat out, clinging to the wooden plank like it was a life raft.
Alex shrugged out of Bas’s hold, glaring at Dane. “Did you do this?”
Dane brushed past him, shoulders knocking hard. “Maybe you should be here watching out for your teammates more.”
As Bas held him back, all Alex could think about, beyond blinding fury and crushing guilt, was that after ten years, the first time he’d touched Dane again was in anger.
So much for setting hostility and the past aside.