I don’t answer.
“Aurora’s going to lose her mind.”
“Aurora already knows.”
He sits up. “How bad is it?”
I look at the tape job.
“Bad.”
He nods like that tracks.
“You’re not in trouble,” Aiden says. “You’re past trouble.”
I don’t answer that either.
He studies me another second.
“You going to do something about it?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“That’s not your usual move.”
No, it isn’t.
I finish the wrap, press the tape down with my thumb, and look at the stick like it’s going to explain something.
Aiden stands up. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re cooked.”
“Don’t tell Aurora.”
“Already texting.”
He heads for the showers before I can throw something at him.
He calls before I get to my car. I let it ring twice.
“Aurora says you kissed the journalist.”
“I know.”
“In a parking lot.”
“I know.”
“At midnight.”
“Aiden.”
“Just confirming the facts.” A pause. “How bad?”
I lean against the car. Florida heat, mid-morning, the kind that makes a point. I look at the arena. Think about the hallway. The almost-smile she pulled back before it could happen.
“Bad,” I say.
Silence. Then different — no more laughing. “Yeah, man. That’s what I thought.”
