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“Cruz Bennett,” I say, “we’re in a public establishment.”

“And I’m whispering.”

“You are not.”

“I’m whispering with feeling.”

Dante is full-on laughing now, head down on his arms, shaking. Brady’s somewhere between mortified and dying of laughter, that high tight wheeze that means he’s lost the fight.

I should shut this down. I should. I’m the coach. I’m supposed to be the responsible one.

I take a long drink. Set the glass down. “Three, you said.”

Cruz’s eyes light up. “Three, Coach.”

“Hm.”

“That’s all you got? ‘Hm’?” Cruz demands.

“I’m processing.”

Dakota’s still hiding her face. “I hate all of you.”

“You don’t.”

“I really do.”

“Princess.” I reach across and touch her wrist. Gentle. “Look at me.” She peeks through her fingers.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know, Daddy.” It slips out, soft, before she can catch it, and Cruz makes a sound like he’s been shot.

“Jesus Christ,” Brady whispers.

“I’m sorry,” Dakota says into her hands. “I’m sorry I keep doing that.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “It’s fine. Just… ” I rub my forehead. “We’re going to get arrested.”

“For what?” Cruz says. “Excessive yearning?”

“Yes.”

“Worth it.”

Dante lifts his head finally, wipes his eyes. “We’re the worst at keeping this secret in history. You realize that. We are going to get caught because Cruz cannot stop talking about asses in Rocco’s booth.”

Cruz clears his throat. “I will go to prison for this cause.”

“Please don’t.”

The waitress comes by to check on us. We all go silent like children caught shaking presents a week before Christmas. She refills Dakota’s Coke, asks if we want food, leaves. The second she’s out of earshot Brady puts his head down on the table.

“I cannot live like this.”

“You will,” Cruz says, patting his back. “You’ll get used to it. Like a slow gas leak.”

“That’s comforting,” Brady replies.