“I know!” I reply in the same upbeat tone. “Seems like just yesterday we were beating you in the national championship.”

Coach Taylor’s lips twitch.

“Everyone is so excited to see where you end up next year,” Mackenzie states. “You know—” She stops speaking abruptly then waves her left hand. “Beck!”

Shit on a stick. I look down at my plate as I hear steps approach. They must know each other from the last Olympics. Of course, that sends me spiraling into speculation about just how well they know each other. I banish the thought from my brain as quickly as it appeared. I already know I’m part of a pool—a very large pool—of women who have slept with Adler Beck. Who cares who I’m treading water next to? And… clearly I’m far too fixated on Samantha’s swimming invite.

Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look, I chant to myself. So of course, I look. His gaze is fixated on me already; I try and fail to convince myself I’m suddenly feeling flushed because of the heat the side of the ice dispenser is radiating.

“Saylor.” He addresses me and ignores Mackenzie, and I hate how much that matters to me.

“Beck.”

“Oh, you two know each other?” Mackenzie questions, looking back and forth between us. I’m guessing calling Beck over was meant to be a power play on her part.

“Yes,” Beck replies simply.

The weight of his eyes on me is crippling. “Are we good, Coach?” I ask, eager to flee.

“We’re good, Scott,” Coach Taylor confirms. “No shenanigans tonight, all right?”

“Of course not,” I reply hastily.

“That’s what you said last year,” Coach replies, but her smile is amused, not annoyed. “Enjoy your dinner.”

I grasp the opportunity to leave. “You, too.”

The line is gone, with only a few stragglers still getting food. I rejoin where I stopped, plopping a small amount of poutine on my plate before moving farther down the line. I’m transferring some roast chicken when I hear Mackenzie’s voice again. She’s sliding her plate down the buffet, chattering about some endorsement deal. Beck is following her but doesn’t seem to be paying particularly close attention. I don’t let myself look for long enough to confirm. I finish serving myself chicken, scoop some rice, and grab a fork. When I turn back around, Beck is spooning some poutine on his plate.

“That’s got ketchup in it,” I blurt.

Beck looks up at me. Really looks at me, and I forget we’re standing in a glorified cafeteria in Canada. “Thanks.”

I shrug. “I may not want you here, but anaphylactic shock seemed harsh. I don’t exactly think there’s a hospital around the corner. Unless they drove like you, no one would ever get you there in time.”