Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (4 page)

The pool
building
is huge and very new, one of the newest and nicest buildings on campus. I make a mental note to investigate exactly how much money the
campus has poured into the pool.

Even though I’m just in the hallway, which is filled with huge trophy cases (which I find rather off-putting and
presumptuous
), that chlorine smell hits me hard. I feel sick to my stomach now, and it’s not just the nerves.

How can the swimmers stand this
smell? No wonder they all seem s
o stupid. The chlorine must be affecting their brains, having completely sa
turated every cell in their bodies
, down to their bones.

I knock on the door to the coach’s office.

“Come in,” says a gruff voice.

A bald grumpy looking man sits behind the desk. He looks like the typical athlete compl
etely gone to seed, with a big belly that
stretches
his maroon polo shirt to its very limits.

“Tryouts were months ago,” he says, his voice deep and a little rusty, like he’s not used to talking to people. He’s probably more accustomed to barking out commands at the
swim team
.

“I’m not interested in trying out for the
swim team
,” I say. This should be obvious, since we’re already well into the school year.

He gives me a look without speaking, but it’s clear he’s trying to say, “Well, get lost then.”

“I’m Allison Benching. I’m the editor and chief of the school paper, and I’m…”

“Never heard of you,” says the coach.

“Yes, well I’m…”

He cuts me off again. “Why don’t you ever run stories about the
swim team
?
”

“Well, as I was about to sa
y,” I say, trying to keep the
tone of my voice even
, as I feel the frustration building up inside of me. I would have thought the coach would at least have been a little more reasonable than the
actua
l
swim team members, but he seems like he’s just another idiot jock, bitter about having gone to seed.
I take a deep breath, pausing before
continuing
, “I’m
interested in running an in-depth
story on the swim team. It’s going to be a big article, on the front page. A number of my stories have been picked up by national papers, and with the emphasis that the college puts on swimming, I have no doubt that the same might happen with this story.”

“About time,” says the coach.

“Sorry, what was your name again?” I say, extending my hand.

He looks at my hand for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide whether he really wants to shake it or not.
Finally, he takes it, and give
s
me a powerful squeeze and a shake. “Coach Smith.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I wanted to meet with you first to, well, firs
t of all, to get your permission
.”

“Fine with me,” he says. “They’re having morning practice right now. You can go watch them in the p
ool. You
ever been
to a swim mee
t?”

I shake my head, while wondering what the coach is doing in his office during a practice session.

“Jesus Chris
t
,” he says. “There’s no one on the paper who knows anything about swimming? You know anything about sports at all?
Track and field?
Anything?”

“I’ve never been that into sports,”
I say.

“Great,” he says in a huff, crossing his arms across his chest, resting them on the top of his heaving belly. I catch a glimpse of a mass of hair sneaking its way through the opening on his polo
shirt
that
unfortunately
has all three buttons undone. The emblem of his shirt is a man diving into the water, surrounded by the college’s crest, which I always
thought
looked
ridiculous
.

“Look,” I say. “I’m the only one interested in doing the article. None of the other reporters are into sports either. They’re all nerds just like me. But swimming is important to the college, and I want to do a big expose piece on the swim team. It could have a lot of good effects on the whole organization.”

His face softens a bit as I say this.

“You can watch the practice from the
balcony. Take the stairs
left of the locker room doors.” His voice is still gruff and commanding, but I can see that he’s thinking a little better of me now. It
isn’t
hard to see, after all,
that I’m not your typical student
. I’m more serious, more dedicated, and more professional.

I thank him, and walk back into the hallway
, and go up the stairs to the balcony
.

I sit down in the bleachers. No one else is here, but I have a great view of the
swim
practice below.

I’m already bored, after just a minute.

First
of
all, I can barely think, because the whole place reeks of chlorine. I
thought
it would be better up
here
in the b
alcony
, which is a separate section, a whole floor above the pool, but it’s even worse up here. It’s hot and humid, and the chlorine is everywhere. My clothes will probably stink of it later.

There’s a short stocky
bald man,
who seems to be the assistant coach. He’s standing in fr
ont of a blackboard and barking commands at the swimmers, who can’t possibly hear him, since they’re practically completely submerged in the water.

I’m actually not such a bad swimmer myself
. I took swimming lessons all through middle school, and s
pent most of my summer days
at the pool with my family. I know all the strokes, of course, and I’m actually quite good at some of them. Freestyle has never been my strongest, although I have to say that my
breaststroke
technique is nearly flawless.

The swimmer
s
are doing butterfly drills right now, and the pool is full of noises and splashes, as they flop their way through the water. I’ve always
thought
that butter
fly is one of the silliest strokes, and I still can’t understand why it’s
considered
one of the four competitive strokes.

As much as I like swimming myself,
I’m bored stiff.
I can’t even garner any interest in the male bodies that are basically naked, except for a
little
piece
s
of fabric covering their junk. They’re certainly muscular and fit, but they’re definitely not my type, not even physically.
There’s
just something too gross and athletic about them for me. And, to top it off, I know they can’t keep up with me
intellectually
.

Finally, after a
few torturous minutes, the short assistant coach barks out some commands and the swimmers return to the side of the pool, holding on to the side, or treading water.

The
coach
is wearing these ridiculously short red shorts, exposing an intense amount of leg hair.

“All right, all right,” he’s barking for no reason at all, it seems.

He’s in the middle of pointing
at
some messy diagram on the blackboard, when he suddenly spins around and yells at the top of his lungs, “Where the hell is Anchor?”

“
Dunno
,” say the swimmers nearly in unison, shrugging their shoulders.

“That asshole
thinks
he
’s
too good for morning practice, is that it?”

“Sorry, I’m late,” says someone coming into view, walking across the deck. He’s another swim
mer, dressed in the same swim briefs
as everyone else, but he’s completely dry. He’s just arriving.

“Where the hell were you, Spellman? Do you know where Anchor is?”

“I just came from talking to coach,” says the guy named Spellman, putting down his towel and getting ready to get into the pool. He’s wearing a smug look on his face, and for some reason I already know I don’t like him one bit. I think I hate him even more than your average jock. There’s something especially
sleazy
and self-serving about him, and it’s so strong it comes right th
r
ough to his physical appearance.

“Dave’s not here either,” yells one of the swimmers in the pool.

“Damnit all to hell,” yells the
assistant coach, stomping his foot hard against the tiled deck, looking a bit like some cartoon character.

“Dude, don’t tell on Anchor. What are you, in fifth grade?”

“If Anchor’s not here, you guys better
fucking tell me,” screams the assista
nt
coach, stomping his foot onc
e again. “Because he’s the only fucking chance we have of winning the next meet.”

There are some groans from the swimmers. Some roll their eyes.

“I’m not sure Anchor’s
going
to be racing,” says Spellman. “I was just telling coach how Anchor and Dave stole the
Friedman statue…”

“You did what?” screams the assistant coach. “Why the hell would you tell him that, Spellman? Now he might not let Anchor race during the meet. And we sure as hell need Anchor a lot more than we need you, Spellman. Why
didn’t
you tell coach that you
stole
the Freidman statue
yourself
? We sure as hell don’t need your ass in the race.”

There are
groans from the swim team. I could tell that they knew they needed this “Anchor” character too, whoever he was.

“
But, he broke the campus rules,” says
Spellman, in an unappealing pleading tone of voice.

Suddenly there’s a commotion. The swimmers are all laughing at something that’s outside of the pool, on the de
ck, but still under where I’m sitting, so I can’t
see. They’re lau
ghing and hooting and hollering
,
and looking like they’ve al
l just gotten the best gift
of their lives.

“It’s Anchor!” says
one
swimmer, pointing, as if the others can’t see.

“He’s got the Freidman statue with him!” says another.

Suddenly, Anchor is in view, along with his friend Dave.

At first, I don’t
recogni
ze them. They’re wearing swim briefs
like the rest, and they’re dragging that huge statue from the middle of campus. It looks like they sawed off the bottom of it crudely. They must be strong to be dragging this thing.

I’m caught up for a moment in admiring this Anchor character, whoever he is. He’s almost compl
etely naked in his swim briefs
,
with the school crest emblazoned
on the ass. It
’
s made of tight black material that’s stretched taught across his shapely
buttock
s
. He is incredibly muscular, but not in a bulky body builder kind of way. Instead, it seems like each of his muscles has been used for an actual purpose, rather than just lifting weights over and over again.

It’s amazing watching his
muscles
work in unison as he drags the statue to the very edge of the pool.

His swimmer mates in the pool are still hollering and calling his name, acting like he’s some sort of folk hero. I see the admiration in their eyes, and feel a little bit of it myself, for this Anchor
character
, despite myself… He is, after all, just a dumb jock who pulled off a dumb and destructive prank.

Anchor climbs up to the
top of the statue like a monkey, his muscles bulging and tensing as he does so. He sure does have a nice body. I feel myself getting excited. I can feel the physical
response working
deep inside me, causing a warm feeling that I haven’t felt in a long time… It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man. I’ve bee
n so busy working for the paper
that I’ve completely shut
that part of me
out of my
life
. I’ve completely clamped down the sexual part of me. I just hope it doesn’t come tearing out of me when I least expect it.

Suddenly, in a flash, I recognize him. He’s in exactly the same pose he was in last night when I was walking through campus alone, and that asshole jock started harassing me.

The warm sexual feeling inside me changes in an instant to anger, pure anger and rage.

I knew I hated jocks for a good reason. What assholes, accosting me like
that.

“Look at me,” shouts Anchor, before making a spectacular dive off the top of the statue, landing
in
the pool without so much as a single little splash.