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“Clean,” Dante says. “Everyone’s got their own language. We’ll need time to translate.”

“Brady, you went soft in the second round,” Cruz says.

“I did not go soft,” he replies.

“You got distracted.”

“I was managing distance.”

“From what?”

Brady looks up from his phone. “From your commentary.”

Cruz points at me. “See, he’s blaming you.”

“He’s blaming you,” I say.

“I’m not blaming anyone,” Brady says.

Dante makes a sound that’s half-amusement, half something more knowing, and then knocks his shoulder against Cruz’s. The contact is brief, natural, the kind of touch between people who’ve been in each other’s orbits long enough that it doesn’t register. Except that Cruz glances at him for just a second, a quick check, and Dante holds the eye contact half a beat past casual.

I drink my water, watching them not-quite-look at each other.

So. Yeah. I’ve been working that one out since day two.

I don’t know what exactly they are to each other. Friends, clearly. Close ones. But there’s a charge in it that I recognize, the weight of two people who’ve crossed a line into something closer to intimacy than cohorts. If I’m honest with myself, and I’m trying to be these days, the thought of them together is hot.

I’m not examining that either. There are too many things I’m not examining. It’s getting crowded in the not-examining corner.

Eli finishes writing, caps his pen, and looks up. He scans the group in his way, checking in, and his eyes land on me last and stay there two seconds longer than the others.

“Good session,” he says. “You all read each other well for a first run. Dakota, your ground-to-stand transition needs work in a live setting. Technically solid but you hesitate on the commitment. We’ll drill it.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll do it Thursday.”

“Just us?”

He blinks. “I was going to have Brady assist.”

Brady looks up. “Yeah, sure.”

“Okay,” I say again, keeping my voice level, watching Eli’s jaw do that thing where it goes tight for a beat.

Cruz is absolutely vibrating next to me. I can feel him holding back one of his wisecracks.

“Cruz,” Eli says, without looking at him. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking. Loudly.”

Cruz finishes his protein bar. “Just admiring your coaching style, Coach. Real hands-on approach.”

Eli turns and walks toward his office.

Cruz turns to me. His grin is enormous.