Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (13 page)

I eye the other team. They look strong and fast, but not fast enough to beat us.

Time
is flying by. Somehow,
the meet has already started, and I’m standing on deck waiting to
swim
the 100
M freestyle.

As I put my goggles down around my eyes, I ha
ppen to look up into the stands. I see her. She’s sitting there. It’s Allison, with her hair flowing around her, looking
beautiful
,
looking
more than
beautiful
. She looks like the one. The one for m
e, and my self-doubt
all feels like
a distant memory. Seeing her again, I
know I’m in love with her,
and was
in love with her
that first night of the party that we hooked up. I realize now I was in love with her when we crawled th
rough the air conditioning ducts
, running away from coach, who almost caught us.

She looks down at me, and our eyes meet for a moment. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, and then she smiles and waves.

My heart swells.

This is just what I needed to swim the rac
e of my life… so far, at least,
since there’s no doubt in my mind that once I reach the Olympic team, I’ll be shattering world records in no time.

“Glad to see you’re here,” says Professor
Beaumont
, sitting down next to
me. “I thought it wouldn’t be a
bad idea if I got a view of the meet myself. Can you believe it, I’ve been a professor here for so long I’m practically
furniture, but
I’ve never been to a
s
ingle sporting event?”

“I can believe it, knowing you, Professor
Beaumont
,” I say.

He cracks a smile. He knows I’ve never been to one of these things either.

“You’re that reporter chick, aren’t you?” says someone.

I look up, and it’s Dave, Anchor’s
bosom
buddy, or whatever the swimm
ing bros call it. I doubt it’s
,
“bosom buddy.”

He’s teet
er
ing as he stands, trying to balance himself on some crutches.

“Let me help you with that,” says
Beaumont
, always being the gentleman, standing up, and helping Dave sit down.

“For an athlete, you don’t seem too coordinated,” I say.

Beaumont
laughs nervously.

“I guess you remember me from that night at the statue?” says Dave. I’m a little surprised to see
that
he acts a little bashful, as if he’s ashamed of himself.

“I’m surprised you remember me, considering how drunk you were.”

“I see you two already know each other,” says Beaumont, looking from me to Dave. I can tell he’s wondering if Dave is my inside source. But I know he knows the pieces don’t quite fit.

“Who’s that down there?” I say, trying to change the subject, so Anchor doesn’t come into the conversation. I’m pointing to a man in the first row,
who
looks out of place in a suit and tie, holding an
expensive looking video camera
.

“I think it’s the Olympic scout,” s
ays Dave. “You know, for Anchor?
”

So much for
avoiding
talking about Anchor.

“Wait, so he’s not just
being cocky and full of himse
lf
?” I say. “He’s really got a shot at the Olympics?

“Yup,” says Dave, turning away from me to watch the meet.

I get the feeling there’s never a lot going on in Dave’s head.

“It’s about to start,” says
Beaumont
.

“It’s already started,” says Dave, still looking
straight
ahead and down, towards the pool.

It’s true. The meet is already underway. While we were talking, a couple races have already passed.

I may not know
much about sports, but
Beaumont
knows even less than I do. He’s looking around, trying to figure out what’s going on.

“Who’s winning then?” he says,
nudging
Dave gently on his arm. “What’s the score?”

“It’s not that simple
,” says Dave, pointing to the
scoreboard
.

I don’t know why, but I was expecting the
scoreboard
to look like the board for any other sport, wh
ere there’s a clock and just two
numbers. Each team has a score, and the one that has the higher score wins. But swimming isn’t that simple.

Dave starts explaining how the scoring works, but I find myself tuning out.

Or
tuning in
.

I see
Anchor standing there, looking incredibly sexy.

He’s taller and more muscular than all the
other
racers. I watch him with complete
fascination
as he looks so determine
d
standing there,
swinging
his arms back and forth, and doing little stretches here and there.

I’m instantly thrown back into the
time
we shared together in my bed, when he was on top of me, kissing my neck, his
hands
all over my body in the sexiest way
imaginable
.

“Hey, Anchor’s about to race,” says Dave, interrupting my little sexual fantasy reverie.

“Is that him, there?” says
Beaumont
, but I’m not paying him any attention. I’m vaguely aware that Dave is telling him something about Anchor, and pointing out what type of race it is.

I know that it’s a 100 M freestyle, which I think is about one length of the pool but I’m not sure.

The pool is shimmering an amazing blue
, and the plastic lane buoys
are red and white, and seem to be shimmering. But maybe the shimmering is just in me, just in my perception. Every time I look at Anchor, it seems like there’s a magical sort of aura glowing around him. Everyone else, all the other swimmers, seem
absolutely dull in
comparison. They seem like nothing. I know Anchor’s going to win.

Anchor is now up on the blocks, the little stands that the swimmers dive from at the start of the race. Even bendin
g down, with his
fingers gently against the block, he seems to be taller than everyone else. His body looks great bent over like this.

The Olympic scout in front of us in the stands is fumbling with his camera. I wonder what his job really is. If he’s just going to record the race, what’s the point of sending a so-called expert here? I realized that I’m already assuming Anchor is the best of the best, and that there’s little point in even testing him for the Olympics—he should just get a spot on the team automatically. How silly I’ve become! Have I just
fallen in love with him again?
Wait
,
love
? Was I in love with him before?

The gun goes off before I know it, and Anchor’s flying through the air.

He lands in the pool gracefully, somehow hardly making any splash at all. He’s jumped fa
r
ther than any of the other swimmers, and is abou
t a head’s length in front them
from the start.

He’s at the front, and his arms are moving like a machine, pulling his streamline
d body through the water like
a front-mounted motor on a jet
ski.

“He’s going
to
win,” I scream, forgetting myself, and forgetting that I’m in the presence of
Beaumont
.

“No doubt! Way to go, dude!”
screams
Dave, trying to get to his feet to stand up, forgetting
that
he’s injured, and nearly toppling over completely in the
process
.

But there’s another swimmer coming up next to him. He’s in the lane right next to Anchor, who’s in what might be called the middle lane.

Shit, he’s beating Anchor now by about a full body length.

The edge of the other side of the pool is
approaching
fast, as they all zoom towards it.

This
can’t be! Anchor is going to l
ose.

But at the last moment, Anchor pulls ahead of the other swimmer. He’s going so fast it seems like he’s going to
simply
c
rash into the side of the
pool
and
seriously
injure himself, but he hits the wall
gracefully
somehow. Now he’s holding onto the side of the pool, pushing his goggles above his eyes, and looking up at the scoreboard.

“Did he win?” I say, looking anxiously over at Dave.

“Of course,” says Dave,
clapping
his hands, and letting out a very bro-like whooping noise.

“He did well,” says
Beaumont
, somewhat stiffly. He gives me
a
quizzical look. I know he’s wondering why I’m cheering so much for Anchor.

“Does Anchor have another event?” I ask Dave.

“Yeah, he’
s still got the relay, you know?
”

“Ah, that’s how he got such an
unusual
nick
name,” says
Beaumont
, instantly deriving the meaning of the word Anchor. He isn’t a professor for nothing, after all.

Dave just nods his head, as if this should be obvious. And
maybe it should. I realize I think it should be obvious too, even though it had to be explain
ed
to me the first time I heard it. I can’t believe I’m
essentially
siding in my head with the swim bros, rather than with
Professor
Beaumont, who has
always been my best friend on campus.

“How
much time does
he have before the
relay
?” I say.

“About twenty minutes,” says Dave. “Why?”

“I just
want
to go say
‘
hi
’
to him,” I say.

Dave gives me a wicked
grin,
as if he knows exactly what I’m up to. I wonder how much Anchor told him about our night together. It makes me ma
d that Anchor would have been telling
his swimming buddies about our night
together
, but the anger is soon overcome by
sheer
lust for Anchor. I just can’t help myself. I need to have him and his body. And I need it right now, or at least within the next twenty minutes.

Beaumont
gives me a confused look, and I realize my excuse isn’t nearly good enough.

“Oh, I need to get
some
notes from him
, quotes you know?
If he’s going
to
the
Olympics
, this is goin
g to be a big part of the story
,” I say. I grab my pen and
journalist
pad and
hold
them
up,
as if they are proof I’m telling the truth.

“Good luck, then,” says Dave. “Remember, he’s only got twenty
minutes
.” Dave gives me a gross wink.

“Yeah,” says
Beaumont
, not seeing Dave’s face. “Good luck then,
get
some
good
quotes.”

I rush off, practically running down the stairs to the main deck.

I’m flush from the success of the race. I
wasn’t
sure I’d won until I looked up at the
scoreboard
.

In the stands, I could see Da
ve sitting with
Allison
.

She looked
so
beautiful
sitting up there, sitting
so
prim and proper.

I didn’t
see the
Olympics
scout in the stands, but with that suit he was wearing when I shook his
hand, he’s bound to blend into
the wall or something. That’s about how
exciting
he appeared to me.

Some winners
say they
can’t believe they won a race, but I can
believe
it all right. After all, I’m going to be on the
Olympics
next year, no matter what, so how would it look if I
was
beaten in my prime event?