His expression shifted from mockery to genuine shock. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
He shook his head. “Okay, this is adorable.”
I covered my face with one hand. “This conversation is ending now.”
“Absolutely not.” Tomasz leaned forward, his eyes bright. “So let me see if I’ve got this right. Some girl is expecting adventurous Olympic sex and suddenly you’re doing academic research?”
I stayed very still.
Tomasz blinked once. Twice. His eyes widened again. “Oh.”
I said nothing.
“Oh,” he repeated more softly. “It’s not a girl.”
The silence stretched for way too long.
Then Tomasz connected the dots.
Somehow that was worse.
“You know what? This explains the aggressively bisexual energy.”
I rolled my eyes. “Exactly what I’d expect from someone immersed in international athletic culture and American slang. And by the way? I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. And don’t mock the way I talk. This is… how do you put it? How Irollwhen I’m away from home and nowhere near my coach. If you heard me in Poland, you wouldn’t recognize me.” He pointed at the phone again. “Can I just say… WebMD? Really?”
“It seemed reliable.”
“Sure—if you’re preparing for minor surgery.”
I laughed despite myself, embarrassed enough that my face still felt overheated.
Some of the mischief faded from Tomasz’s expression. “So, you really like him.”
What hit me hardest was the fact he almost certainly knew whohimwas, not because I’d said Luka’s name, but because half the internet seemed determined to build conspiracy theories out of every glance we exchanged in Milan.
He watched my face for another second before his eyebrows shifted skyward.
“Oh my God. ItisDavorin.” I buried my face in my hands, and Tomasz made a strangled noise somewhere between delight and disbelief. “Dean Foster,” he whispered dramatically. “Olympic champion. Secret disaster bisexual. This Gamestrulyhas everything.”
I looked down at the phone in my hands, at the ridiculous list of advice I’d been panic-reading for the last twenty minutes: lubrication; communication; relaxation; and positions…
Jesus Christ.
“I just…” I scrubbed a hand through my hair. “I want it to be good. Not for me—for him.”
Tomasz’s breathing caught, and I glanced up at him. The amusement in his expression softened into something warmer.
“That might genuinely be the sweetest reason anyone has ever researched anal sex.”
“Please… never say that sentence again.”
“No promises.”
I groaned into my hands.
