by Knox, Abby
Swim Coach
A Greenbridge Academy Romance
Abby Knox
Copyright © 2019 by Abby Knox
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Edited by Aquila Editing
Proofread by Red Pen Princess
Cover Designer: Mayhem Cover Creations
Created with Vellum
This book is dedicated to the bulge. We see you, we acknowledge you, we love you.
Contents
Swim Coach
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Abby Knox
An excerpt from the next story in the Greenbridge Academy collection….
Swim Coach
Book One in a collection of stories from Greenbridge Academy
By Abby Knox
Admired, overachieving high school senior Addie has turned 18 and plans to wring out every last drop of her elite private school education. When a school legend returns to coach her swim team, however, her composure waivers under his stern gaze.
Coach Ford doesn’t lavish anyone at this school with the praise they are accustomed to, and Addie isn’t sure what to do other than work harder, and swim faster. If she could only manage to keep her head down and keep her wet and wild fantasies under control…
The majority of this book is told through the eyes of the heroine, with occasional, brief glimpses from the hero’s perspective. The wonderful, steamy, funny, sweet, smutty payoff is worth every tear-stained page of teenage longing!
Not ready to go back to school? This mean, bronzed god with the whistle says YES, YOU ARE!
1
Addie
This morning, like every Saturday morning for the last twenty-plus years, my mom and dad are drinking coffee and sitting together on the sofa listening to public radio.
Their dorky routine makes me smile. Remembering how much I adore them helps me say what I need to say.
“Mom? Dad?” I breathe in, noticing my stomach churning and my palms sweating.
I clear my throat.
“What is it, sweetie?” my mom asks as she curls her legs underneath her, a pose indicating she knows I need to talk about something heavy and she’s ready to listen. “Zeke, can you…?” She motions for my dad to turn down the volume on the radio.
He nods. “Sure, honey.”
“Um…well, I’m 18 now…and I have been thinking of making some changes this year at school,” I say.
“It’s OK, Addie,” Dad says with a smile. “We’re not going to bite your head off.”
Don’t be too sure about that, Pops, I think to myself.
“Well, I’ve decided not to go out for the swim team this year.”
Both my parents freeze, their coffee cups stuck in mid-air, halfway to their lips. They look at each other. They look back at me. They seem unsure how to react, and in their discomfort, they laugh. It’s not a derisive laugh, it’s more like an “I don’t know what to do with this information” kind of laugh.
I clear my throat again. Their faces register that I’m serious. Mom asks, “Why in the world would you quit the swim team? You went to state last season. You’re filling out college applications.”
Dad interjects. “This year is going to be huge. You definitely do not want to quit. The athletic director is bringing in Weston Ford to coach.”
The sensation in my body at the sound of that name is nothing more than dread. That’s what I tell myself. It’s not schoolgirl butterflies. It’s simply not.
No other athlete brought more acclaim to my school than Weston Ford. A phenom his entire career at Greenbridge Academy, he led the varsity swim team to four state championships, then went on to do the same on the national level in college, and even competed in the world championships. I’d heard whispers about him trying out for the Olympic swim team. Whenever the subject of Greenbridge swimming comes up, it’s only a matter of seconds before Weston’s name is mentioned.
I can’t imagine what kind of money the school board offered him to get him to give up competing to coach here.
Weston Ford was the reason my best friend Hunter and I tried out for Greenbridge swimming in middle school.
Hunter and I both had our eyes on that boy since our preteen years. He was five years ahead of us and a regular lifeguard at the city pool. He was so cute in those red swim trunks and white sunglasses, with his bullhorn and whistle and that hint of a smirk whenever Hunter and I laid out our towels on the hot concrete pool deck just inches from his tall lifeguard chair. And that tan. My god, the way that boy imprinted on my preteen brain — not to mention libido —was almost criminal.
Hunter would drool over his abs and shoulders. I was hypnotized by his masculine legs, which he let grow hairy in the off season.
Kids at the pool were afraid of him. I wasn’t scared—I was fascinated.
But there is no way in absolute frozen-over hell that I am going to let that man coach me now. Our team doesn’t need to fall back on the past to win a championship. It seems to be backward thinking to me.
I take another deep breath. “That’s just the trouble,” I say. “It’s like a bad movie reboot. It’s not fair that they fired Coach Judy. It brought down the morale of the whole team. Everyone’s upset.”
Dad cocks his head at me and speaks as warmly as he can. “I know that Greenbridge is tough on swim coaches. But we are the best private K-through-12 school in the state, with a top swim program. If a coach can’t produce state titles consistently, that’s the end. Judy was good, but she wasn’t great. Our swim program isn’t good, it’s great, and we need a great coach.”
My parents, especially my dad, love to talk about Greenbridge swimming like they are an active part of it. He sips his coffee and waits for me to speak. Mom looks worried.
“I realize all of that, but…I don’t know anymore. The athletic director took the wind out of our sails. It just seems so small and petty in the whole scheme of things. A high school state title doesn’t really mean much in the long run, does it? We’re not curing cancer or ending poverty.”
My mom finally chimes in. “You might be surprised by this, but I agree with you t
o a point. But while we’re talking about the greater scope of things, remember that swimming is going to play a huge role in what college you get into and what scholarships you may receive. And with a good education, you might have a better chance at solving the world’s real problems, yes?”
Always the philosopher, my mom wins this round—in theory.
In practice, not so much.
“I’ve made my decision. I’m quitting the team in protest. And so are Hunter, Ridley, Hadley—everybody. And you don’t have to worry about scholarships. I’m an adult and I’ll figure it out.”
2
Addie
And somehow, I’m here.
The faint scent of chlorine in my nostrils fills me with dread and despair. At one time that smell, the feel of this humid room, the echoes of the laughter of my fellow teammates filled me with excitement and anticipation.
Today, it all adds up to bone deep anxiety.
I do not want to be here.
And yet I am. How did this happen?
“Thanks for compromising your principles, my friend,” Hunter says as we stretch each other’s arms in the pool. “My parents laid down the law. There’s no way I can not swim my senior year and have any hope of getting their help to pay for a good theater school.”
I shrug. The way I see it, she doesn’t need their help. She’s a shoo-in and has plenty of options to get financial aid. I said as much to her when she texted me that she’d changed her mind about the protest walk-out.
Turns out, pretty much everyone’s parents had the same reaction as Hunter’s parents.
Based on the chatter I hear around the pool deck, it sounds like I was the only one who didn’t have to back down.
My mom and dad had simply said to me, “Well, honey, if you feel that strongly about it, we can’t stop you.”
Thirty minutes after my well-rehearsed and thorough argument as to why I was quitting the team, I donned my green swimsuit from last year, matching school logo swim cap, and goggles.
I’m starting to wonder if they knew all along it would turn out this way. I wonder if all the swim parents are in a group text.
I could have said no to Hunter, but I’m here because no way will I stand by and let her navigate the season alone. She’s a much better swimmer than I am, but if I followed through with quitting the team, it would mean abandoning Hunter to the mercies of our team captain, Ridley Rushmore, the biggest queen bee that ever buzzed around Greenbridge Academy and maybe its best female swimmer ever.
“I wonder where he is,” Hunter says.
“Where who is?” I ask, feigning stupidity.
She snorts, knowing I’m pretending. “You’re adorable,” she says. “I mean, Weston Ford hasn’t been around Greenbridge in four years. I wonder what he looks like now.”
I laugh, pretending I haven’t been looking up videos online of his world championship swim meets. “Probably the same, but with a much bigger cranium to carry around his huge ego.”
Hunter laughs. “I love you.”
“And I, you, my dear.”
Hunter and I first met at pre-K when Matthew Jensen told me I could only play with the pink Legos. When I cried, Hunter walked right up and body checked him with her pint-size frame, scooped up all the Legos into the front of her dress, which she held out like a bowl, and marched them over to me so we could play with them ourselves. She and I have been inseparable ever since.
We hear Weston Ford before we see him. It begins with a whistle—a long, sharp whistle. We all stop what we are doing and whip our heads around to find the source of the noise.
In the microsecond before we all spot Weston standing on the concrete steps leading to the men’s locker room, my subconscious’s hard-wiring sparks to life.
That whistle. Oh god.
I’m transported back to the summer before eighth grade, hanging out at the public pool with Hunter, trying to impress the aloof lifeguard with our new pink bikinis. We’d bought the skimpy swimwear on the sly with our babysitting money and hid them from our parents.
The commanding, shrill whistle flips some kind of switch in me. And then I lay eyes on Weston.
Hunter gasps quietly.
As for me, I don't make a sound.
He’s four years older now, and his hairy legs are somehow even more toned. The years have bulked him up into a full-fledged adult man and carved his face into an impossibly more stern look. As a teenager, he’d always let his sun-kissed hair flop into his eyes, surfer style. Now, he sports a short, low-maintenance cut that complements the strong lines of his brow and the set of his square jaw. Summers spent under the sun are catching up with him, giving his eyes the faintest hint of crow’s feet.
“Everybody out of the pool!” The bullhorn crackles. “Hornets, line up!”
His voice contrasts the shrill, yet inexplicably arousing, whistle. Bullhorn distortion aside, his voice is deep, gravelly.
My pulse quickens as he descends the stairs and I take in the whole picture. The whistle jostling against his bare chest as he moves. The fitted, Euro-style swim trunks in signature Greenbridge green. A clipboard in one hand, a bullhorn in the other, and, for a touch of nerdiness, a No. 2 pencil tucked behind his ear.
The bullhorn crackles to life again as we scramble out of the water. “Line up behind the platforms! Alphabetically by last name.”
So loud. So abrupt.
And somehow, something dormant inside me is waking up and saying “Yes, please, and thank you.”
My stupid nipples are hard and begging for attention like a couple of problem children.
I’m last in line. I pass closely by him while he watches us move into order. The proximity affords me the pleasure of noticing the beads of water all over his chest, shoulders, and trickling down those amazing legs. Clearly he’s just come from the shower, and he smells like a woodsy kind of soap.
Do not picture him in the shower. Do not picture him standing under the hot spray…eyes closed…lathering up…soapy tendrils cascading off his erect man nipples. Do not wonder if he showered with or without those grown-ass-man swim trunks on. Of course he put on the trunks first. Who wants to struggle putting on fitted trunks over a wet body?
I blurt out a snort of laughter. Everyone turns to look at me. I turn pink and wish for the pool deck to crack open and swallow me up.
“Say ‘here’ when I call your name.” He sets down the bullhorn and scribbles something on the papers attached to his clipboard.
After he calls each name, Coach Ford glances up quickly with a disinterested expression to confirm each team member is present, checking them off his list one by one as we respond.
“Dana Bayside… (check)… Daphne Degrassi… (check)… Maria Lawndale… (check)… Hadley McKinley… (check)… Claire Ridgemont… (check)… Ridley Rushmore… (check)… Hunter Rydell… (check)… Adelaide Shermer…”
“It’s Addie,” I say, clearing my throat.
His eyes stay trained on his clipboard.
“Roster I received from the athletic director says your name is Adelaide.”
For one long moment, his eyes look up to connect with mine. He doesn’t look away, even while he takes a moment to tuck his pencil back behind his ear.
For the rest of the day I will analyze the meaning of that look. Is he annoyed? Exasperated? Cautious? Curious? I can’t tell. Of course, I’ve no idea that moment will set the tone for my entire senior year.
Regrettably, my voice comes out breathy and I speak in the form of a question. “That is my name, but everyone calls me Addie?”
What’s wrong with me? I never talk like this. Why is my voice doing this?
“In my pool, everyone goes by their last names anyway. Any more information you need to share with me, Shermer, or can I move on?”
“Uhm…”
But before I can reply yes or no, he turns from me and sounds his whistle. “Rushmore! Fifty freestyle. Show me what you got!”
Ridley’s tall, lithe body barely makes a noise
as she hits the water. Watching her swim is like looking at art; her body seems to skim through the water with no resistance. There’s a reason why her 100-meter freestyle is the second fastest in the state.
By the time she hops out of the pool like a ninja, I feel like maybe I should not have spent the whole summer working the counter at Yum Burgers and sun worshiping at Hunter’s house.
Ridley’s super-rich dad probably hired a private coach, because her form is even better than I remember.
Of course, she has every advantage. Hunter’s parents may be affluent, but they’re only doctor and lawyer rich. Ridley’s dad is next level— he’s hotel magnate rich. We’ve all benefited though. Mr. Rushmore bought us our own special activity bus—one for the men’s teams and one for the women’s. He’s probably responsible for recruiting Weston Ford, too.
Our new coach makes no comment about Ridley, only looking at his watch and scribbling on his clipboard.
One by one, he goes down the roster and makes each girl demonstrate her strongest event.
When he barks out my name, I barely hear it at first, I’m so lost in his hands and the way his big, strong knuckles forcefully grip the pencil. And the way his brow furrows as he writes, the way his jaw ripples while he watches each swimmer’s form.
“Shermer! Breaststroke! Fifty!”