Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (12 page)

What has happened to me? I don’t feel
like
the c
ocky big shot athlete I was
earlier today
, and I can’t
tell whether I like the feeling or
hate it. I can’t tell whether I’
m angry with Allison
or in love with her.

The sex was so hot, undoubtedly
the best I’ve
ever had.
But
I don’t even care about that. I felt a strong connection
w
ith Anchor, like nothing I’ve ever felt. But I don’t even care about that now. Well, I do, but I feel deceived, as if that feeling has been thrown into t
he trash, along with the condom
that Anchor left in my room.

I look
a
t the used condom and am
filled
with shame,
and then
the shame turns to anger. How could he just leave me like that, as if nothing happened,
as if I’m just another notch on
his swim goggles? That asshole. There’s no way he’s seriously worried about getting caught.
Who’s going
to catch us? And what’
s
more, I’m risking just as much by having slept with him as he’s risking. He really thinks the he’s going to get kicked off the team for this?

Well, I do know how to get him kicked off the team, or at least
hurt
him, and his precious swim team.

Still naked, I uncurl myself from where I’ve been lying under the cover
s. My pillow is wet with tears,
but I wipe them off my face, and grab my laptop from under the bed where I put it when I go to sleep.

I prop the laptop on my knees and open a new email
in my web browser
. It’s time to start writing the swim team article. After all, I have all the details I wanted from my
inside
source. I know that a lot of the s
w
immers have taken anabolic steroids, and I know all the pathetic h
ijinks that Anchor and his pa
ls
have gotten up to over the years.

Ever
since I was a freshman, I’ve wr
itten every paper and article inside an email draft. I don’t know why I do it exactly, but I think it started because opening up a blank word document just looked so
intimidating
. It was my
responsibility
to fill that blank document
with words, brilliant words that would wow my professors. Despite my mood, I let out a little laugh, aimed at my old freshman self who was so eager and anxious to
succeed
, and not only succeed, but become the best student and journalist the university has ever seen.

And now that I am that person, I still write my articles in blank emails. I still go into a cold sweat when I open up a blank word document. With the email method, I can pretend I’m just writing a note to myself, or
writing
to a friend.

I put
the
email
of the campus paper
in the
recipient
field, so that I can pretend I
’m just writing
my rough draft, my notes, my tho
ughts about my curren
t project, and sending them to myself,
even
though it’
s strictly not only my email, but shared by the whole newspaper staff.

The trick
works
beautifully
, and within an hour I have a multiple page article written up, an article that really damns the swim
team
like no other
article
I’ve ever seen, let alone written.

I describe in detail the party I witnessed, and how almost everyone was taking
ecstasy
. I try not to
exaggerate, but it’s hard, esp
ecially when Anchor was no doubt
exaggerating
himself when telling me all the stories. I write about
the time An
chor stole the statue and didn’t
get kicked off the team, how the coach
shielded Anchor from any trouble with
the administration. I write about the countless women Anchor has hooked up with,
then
dumped. I write about
how
A
nchor sneaks into the swimming pool at night, and
how he
even has his own key. I write about the time Anchor told me about, when he and Dave stole the answers to their
math
test.

Satisfied
with
my article, but still angry, I close my laptop, and close my eyes,
trying
to go to
sleep. It has to be close to
three in the morning, anyway.

A few days later, my phone rings. It’s
Beaumont
, my one friend on campus.

“I haven’t heard from you in a couple days, Allison,” he says. “Just wanted to see if you’re still working on the story.”

“Yeah,” I say, in a noncommittal
way,
still
reading the textbook for my senior
biology
class. I’ve sunk myself into my
schoolwork
.

“You haven
’t been going to the practices,
though. I talked to the coach this
morning
on the phone.”

“I feel like I’ve gotten all the information I need,” I say.

“Allison, you know better than anyone else that there’s always more to the story
, no matter what
.”

I don’t mention to him a
ll the dirt I got from Anchor on
the
swim team
.

“I guess you’re
right,” I say, probably sounding disinterested
as hell.

“Look, Allison. I’m
your
advisor, so I’m going to
do a
bit
of advising now.”

“Go ahead,” I say, not sure why I’m getting pissed off at
Beaumont
. He’s only trying to help,
anyway
.

“I
don’t
know what’s gotten into you, Allison. You
haven’t had any…
how sha
l
l I say…you know, any
problems
with the swim
team
members?
What happened to your inside source?”

“Nothing happened,” I lie, thinking of Anchor on top of me and inside me, on my dorm room bed.

“Good,” he says
. “I
know you’re practically
a profe
ssional, Allison, and I wasn’t
expecting anything to happen, but I’m glad it hasn’t. But you’ve really got to get back on the case. I know you’re probably swamped with school work, with finals
approaching
in a couple months, but you
haven’t
even been to a swim meet yet, and it’s crucia
l that you explore absolutely all aspects of the swim team
, or else you’re article
isn’t
going to be complete.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll be
at the meet tomorrow. It’s on Saturday, right?”

“I’ll see you there,” says
Beaumont
, before hanging up the phone.

I immediately worry I sounded to
o
rude to
Beaumont. Why am I pissed
at him,
anyway? Why was I talking to him like I don’t even like him?

Dave somehow injured himself the night of the part
y
, and he’s not racing today.

“Why don’t you just get over it?” I say to him, in kind of a nasty tone.

“Dude, I broke my fucking ankle
. What do you want me to do?”

“Just swim with it anyway. You know how
many
swimmers
have raced with broken bones?”

“It’s a broken
ankle, dude, and I’m in a cast. How am I going to swim?”

I know he’s right, but it still pisses me off.

“If you hadn’t been so drunk, it never would have happened. Now Spellman is taking your place in the relay, and he fucking sucks.”

“He’s not so bad,” says Dave. “He’s not even a whole second behind me in time trials.”

“Yeah
, but he fucking sucks,” I say, realizing I’m not backing up my argument at all.

“Whatever,” says
Dave.
“You going to get ready or what?”

“Yeah,” I say, grabbing my duffel bag of swim stuff, and take one last look at Dave, whose crutches ar
e propped up next to him against the bed. He’s got his laptop open, and is watching porn with the sound on as usual.

“This is the same chick from the other night,” he says, excitedl
y, pointing at the screen, where
a
blonde chick with big breasts is getting drilled by a huge muscular guy
.

“The one who convinced you to jump out the window after you fucked her?” I say. It’s the same girl who wanted me, but took Dave
instead
. Somehow she knew Dave would be stupid and drunk enough to actually jump out the window. He did it just to impress her,
e
ven though he had already fucked her. But Dave’s always been kind of an idiot.

“The same
one
!” he says. “I
guess
she’s been doing porn on the side.”

“Is she even a student?”
I say, giving him an incredulous
look, like I can’t believe he hooked up with her.

“
Dunno
,” he says, and goes back to watching the video.

“At least I know what you’ll be doing when I’m
warming
up,” I say, referring the fact that I know he can’t hold himself back from
jacking off
to her.
Unfortunately
, there’s no doubt in my mind he’s going to be bragging for the
rest of the semester about
how
he
banged a porn star, although whether or not she’s a star is certainly in doubt. I take a look at the screen, and she doesn’t look too good on the video, with all the bright lights, and without the beer goggles of the night of the party.
“You going to at least come to the meet to watch?”

“Of course,” he says.

As I close the door behind me, I can already hear him unzipping his pants. How disgusting, I think to myself.

Coach greets me right when I enter the swim building.

“You haven’t gotten up to any funny business with that reporter student, have you?” he says, gruff as always.

“O
f course not,” I say. “I’m not going to risk a chance at the Olympics.”

“
Hmmph
,” he grunts. “Glad to see
you’ve
got your head on straight for once. And you sound a little less
cocky.
I’m glad to hear you say, ‘chance.’ That’s good. Maybe you’ll make it after all. The
scout is here, and I want to
introduce
you to him.”

He calls over the scout, a man who looks out of place, wearing a full suit, carrying a bag like a journalist, along with a video recorder.

I was feeling nervous
about
the race but
seeing the scout somehow brings
me back to my old self. I feel sure of myself and cock
y
again. After all, I know I’m going to do well. I’m going to win the relay race, and the freestyle 100
M. I’ve been waiting for this day for four years, and there’s no way I’m going to fuck it up.

“I want to present to you Anchor, I mean Matt,” says the Coach, looking at the scout
with more respect than I’ve ever seen him look at anyone.

“Nice to meet you,” says the scout, shaking my hand.

“Likewise,” I say, giving him a big grin. “Sorry, but I’ve got to get changed and warm up.”

“
Good
kid,” says the coach to the scout, as I’m leaving.

In the
locker room
, I strip down and put on my goggles and
swim briefs
. I step into the shower for a moment, turning the heat all the way up, feeling my muscles relaxing as the hot water hits them hard. This is something I do before every meet. I look down at my body, and take a survey of my muscles, how they look and how they feel.

I’m ready.

I’m going
to
race
in the Olympics.

Warm up goes smoothly. Coach is barking commands at us like normal.