by P. Dangelico
The cologne he uses is French and expensive. I take the top off, sniff. It smells like cedarwood and musk. The perfect blend designed to transform the entire female population into a pack of panting sex zombies.
His toothpaste is the whitening kind. Hey! Same one I use, I think to myself and officially flirt with rock bottom on the pathetic scale.
The designer shampoo is a brand you can only get at a department store. And last but not least, a pack of magnum condoms––ribbed for her pleasure. I shake the box and determine it’s still full.
Thy name is shameless.
After running the faucet to cover my tracks, I step out of the bathroom and find him sitting up against the padded headboard.
“Did you look through my stuff?” His smile is lazy and one-sided
“Hate to be the one to let the air out of your ego bag, but you’re not that interesting, Reynolds.” What’s left of my conscience tells me I’m going to pay for this disgusting lie at a later date.
My attention follows Reagan’s back to the television screen and any lingering amusement I was feeling over my snooping dies a sudden death when I see what’s playing. A home movie with the sound muted. Two young and very tan boys shove each other playfully as they stand at the edge of a backyard pool. They dive in and race head-to-head in an American crawl.
“My brother…” he tells me in a low husky voice. He has eyes only for the television. “Brian was eleven and I was eight.” Raising the longneck beer bottle to his lips, he drinks. “Want one?”
“No, thanks.”
“Have a seat.”
I slow-hop to his enormous bed and sit on the foot of it, back erect. The crutch falls to the floor and a hiss of satisfaction leaves my lips as I rub my aching armpit, the left one still bruised.
I can feel him watching me. The back of my head burns as if I’ve developed supernatural sensors for him.
Glancing over my shoulder, I find his head tipped back against the navy blue padded headboard and his blank stare moves from my ass, which is directly in his line of sight, up to my face.
“You’re not in danger, Bailey. Take a load off that ankle.” He pats the spot next to him on the bed with a gleam of mischief in his eyes.
“Only because you’re not driving.” He winces and I immediately regret my shitty joke.
I feel stupid declining. I’m the one that barged in and intruded in his sacred space, his bedroom. Playing the role of the virgin ingénue seems kind of dumb. So after a moment of indecisiveness, I scoot up and stretch out my legs, mirroring his position against the headboard. I’ll be twenty-one in a month. I’m a college junior. I can vote, for Pete’s sake. I can be cool about this.
The white denim miniskirt I borrowed from Zoe rides up. It becomes practically nonexistent once I’m fully on the bed. Trying not to draw too much attention to it, I fight with the hem.
“Having trouble with your skirt?”
If I can leave with just a little piece of my dignity intact tonight, it’ll be a miracle. “It’s not mine,” says the part of me that has no problem throwing Zoe under the bus to preserve even a smidge of it. And I am this close to adding, “I don’t know how it got on me.”
He takes another sip of his beer as he studies me. “How is it?”
“Too short.”
“I mean the ankle.”
“Oh. Better. Not as swollen.” I wiggle my bare toes that are poking out from the ACE bandage. “That doesn’t hurt anymore.” Female laughter drifts in, the sound of footsteps walking past his door.
“I thought the room before yours was the bathroom.” An involuntary smile spreads across my face.
“It’s Cole’s bedroom,” he casually informs me, not at all aware of where I’m going with it.
“Mmmyeah.” My face gets warm.
He eyeballs my profile and a crooked grin comes and goes. “Did Cole have company?”
“Mmmyeah.”
“More than one?”
I nod slowly. “An image that will stay with me forever.”
He chuckles and I flush to the roots of my hair. His amusement fades. It blends into a tension-filled silence. I’ve never felt at a disadvantage around him before.
Annoyed? Definitely. Amused? A lot. Vulnerable? Not till now.
Unable to bear it for very long, I find myself bridging the silence by babbling. “Why do you guys have the same dolphin tattoo?”
He makes a face. His mouth puckers. “It’s a shark…a shark, Bailey. As in Malibu Sharks water polo.”
Laughter builds in my chest, dying to come out. “But it’s got a cute little bottle nose.”
“It’s a man eater with razor-sharp teeth.” He fake chomps the air.
“The game was a lot of fun today. It was very…” What’s the word that won’t get me in trouble? “Dynamic.”
“Yeah?” He chuckles. At me, it sounds like.
“It’s exhausting just watching. You must be in great shape. I mean, you are in great shape, obviously. What I meant was aerobically. Like…you must have good lungs.”
Good lungs? Wtf, Bailey?? Just shut up.
“Was this your first sporting event?”
I swear there’s laughter in that question. Hidden, but it’s there. “Give me a little cred, would you. I went to a football game once.”
A coy smile appears. “I’m flattered.”
“I didn’t say I went to watch you.”
“But we both know you did,” he responds without missing a beat.
Shaking my head, I chew on my lower lip to impede the grin parting my lips. My attention returns to the screen, where more of the home movie plays.
“That was your brother today…at the game?” He nods. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He exhales audibly. “Yeah. Me too.”
The importance of the moment is not lost on me. He’s trusting me and I need to tread carefully. I don’t want my sympathy to be misconstrued for pity. I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t appreciate it. Hence, I carefully contemplate my words before speaking, clear my throat, and start.
“How long has he––”
“Since high school––” he says beating me to the finish line, his gaze far away as the movie ends and the screen goes dark. “A long time.”
“Your parents must be worried sick.” Which is entirely true. Whose parents wouldn’t be anxiety ridden over a son being a drug addict and, judging by Reagan’s brother’s appearance, living on the streets.
Reagan snickers. There’s no real humor in it, though. It’s dark and cynical and makes me dread whatever else he’s about to say. “They were worried. For about a minute. They tried to fix the problem and when their best efforts failed they gave up on him.”
“They gave up on him? What do you mean?”
Releasing a heavy sigh, he looks out the large window. It makes me wonder what he’s looking for. Relief? Answers? A moment’s respite from all the heavy feelings? I don’t know, can’t say for sure, but when his attention returns to me he looks tired.
“They forced him into rehab three times. It was easy while he was still a minor. But then he turned eighteen and they, uh…they gave up.” Lost in thought, he shakes his head. “Stopped trying to get through to him. They threatened to have him arrested if he came by the house…cut him out of the family like he was already dead to them.”
My hand automatically moves to cover my mouth. “That’s…” I eat my words, not sure what’s okay to say or not say. I’m appalled that anyone would do that to their own son. But does he want to hear that I think his parents are monsters? Probably not.
“Fucked up,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. It is.”
“You’re close? With your brother?”
“Used to be.”
A commiserative silence falls between us.
“I don’t remember my mother,” dribbles out of me. “She died when I was five…cancer,” I add before he can ask. Because inevitably everyone asks.
His head turns, he holds my startled g
aze. Startled because I don’t talk about my mother. Not to anyone. Mostly because of what I just confessed to a basic stranger. “I can’t remember anything about her.” I shrug. “Except that I liked the sound of her voice and she would snuggle with me and watch movies.” I brush my damp palms on my denim miniskirt and shift uncomfortably. “It makes me feel guilty that I can’t remember her. That I can’t…miss her.”
“You were five––” I nod. “A baby. Why would you expect to remember her?”
Guilt is a strange thing, a self-inflicted wound that’s hard to heal because your own mind keeps opening it up.
“I don’t know, I just do. You can’t reason with guilt.”
His brow furrows. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
His gaze cuts to my lips and the silence thickens again, buzzing with pent-up sexual tension. I can’t be the only one feeling it. The air around us pulses with it, my body becoming increasingly aware of the lack of space between us. Heat travels south of my waist and north to my face.
Not a moment later reality intrudes in the form of a sharp knock. “Reagan?” a girl’s voice calls out. It puts a quick end to the heat.
Reagan places his index finger to his mouth gesturing for me to stay quiet while some heavy eyes-to-lips contact happens.
On the other side of his door, the girls speak in hushed voices. More is said that we can’t make out. Then we both hear a distinguishable, “Whatever. He’s not in his bedroom. Come on, Kaitlyn. Let’s check the beach.”
At the sound of footsteps moving away, he gets up and retrieves a water bottle out of a small refrigerator. “Want one?”
“No. I’m good.” But I’m not good. I’m irked. He doesn’t even have to go out for it. The “smorgasbord” has legs, probably long tan ones, and it comes to him.
He drains the entire bottle in a few long gulps, chucks it into a bin, and lies back down. Closer this time––a lot closer. Every nerve ending in my body starts calculating exactly how close.
“You missed the party,” he says, voice low and raspy.
“I’m not much of a party girl.”
I’ve always been more of a one-on-one person. Parties force me to seek out conversation and that’s not my jam. I’m more of a hang-back-and-observe kinda girl. “I always end up hanging in a corner, wondering why I’m at a party in the first place.” More heated glances get exchanged, making me increasingly more uncomfortable. “Anyway, my friends are probably looking for me. I should, umm…get going.”
“Do you guys need a ride back? I only had the one beer. I can drive.”
“No. That’s alright. Dora’s the designated driver.” A question crosses his face. “A friend,” I answer. “We live in the same dorm suite.”
He gets off the bed and I throw my legs over the side, reach for my crutch. He beats me to it, props it up for me, and holds out his other hand, palm up.
I stare at it the same way I stared at it the first time he offered it to me. At the ridge of calluses, the pale skin of his long thick fingers. What would it feel like to have those hands all over my body? This time I don’t want to refuse.
I place my hand in his and his fingers, warm and strong, close around it. He pulls me up and doesn’t let go until I’m safely balanced on my one crutch. Our bodies are only inches apart. And while his eyes say go, the rest of his face holds a fair bit of reluctance.
“Bailey…”
“Yeah…”
He sighs deeply, gaze flickering over my features. “I can’t do relationships. I can’t. I have medical school next year and…” His voice fades, lips fall shut. His gaze stays on me shuttered, reserved.
Even though I am painfully aware that I am not the type of girl he dates, it’s hard to hear it said out loud. I turn redder than hot sauce. Regardless, he’s right. We both have goals to accomplish and lives leading in separate directions. I can’t lose sight of that. I only have so much time and money.
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. A lot of guys your age struggle with it. Just keep working on it and you’ll be fine. There are a lot of books on the subject. Maybe there’s even a TED talk you could watch on YouTube.”
A wide grin splits his face in two. The first true carefree grin all night. “I guess I deserve that.”
“We’re good, Flipper. I’m not looking for one, either.” Which is mostly the truth. I’m not looking, but if one finds me I’d go with it.
A faint smile remains. “Thanks for keeping me company. I really wasn’t in the mood to be out there”––he tips his chiseled chin at the door––“tonight.”
Despite all the inconvenient heat between us, I can be his friend…and I can let him be mine. “Thanks for giving me your corner to hang in.”
“It’s yours, Bailey. Anytime.”
“Only friends, then.” Because sorry not sorry––I am not about to become part of his walking buffet.
He goes to speak and pauses. Nods. “Friends.”
Chapter 12
Reagan
I walk into the aquatics center ten minutes before practice is due to start. Our head coach practically built this house. Five of the seven NCAA championship banners draped along the walls are a testament to not only his skill as a coach, but also as a motivator.
The guys are already either undressing by the bench or stretching. Armed with a heavy dose of resolve, I approach Coach Becker as he’s nearing the pool. I figure if I got him in public he’d have less of a chance to think through what I’m about to ask of him.
“Coach, can I talk to you?” I murmur. No way do I want the guys sticking their noses in this. Coach eyeballs my neutral expression. I’m not giving anything away until I’m good and ready.
“Gimme a minute, Reynolds,” he tells me, then scans the crowd milling around the edge of the pool. “Van Zant?” he shouts. “Where the fuck’s Van Zant?” Coach searches us one by one. “Moss?”
Warner stops stretching. “Yeah, Coach?”
“You seen him?”
“No, sir,” Moss returns immediately.
“Reynolds?”
“No, sir.”
Coach grimaces. The guys glance around the group. Mostly because they all know the drill––if one of us is in the doghouse, we all are.
The name Terry Becker is synonymous with legend in men’s water polo and it’s well-earned. He’s won everything there is to win. An Olympic medal. The coveted Peter J. Cutino award as the nation’s best player while he was at Cal. Five championships as a head coach.
He doesn’t suffer fools and he has even less tolerance for guys that aren’t serious about this sport. Which is why he flushes deep red all the way to his graying blond hairline when he sees Dallas stroll through the double doors without a care in the world.
“Here,” Dallas shouts. He does not have the look of a guy that’s five minutes late to practice and on the verge of being eaten alive by Coach Becker. “Sorry, Coach. Late getting back from an appointment in Beverly Hills.” He shucks off his t-shirt and shorts.
Coach plants his hands on his hips, a twitch pulling at the corner of his left eye. “Getting your hair highlighted?”
“No, sir. These are natural,” Dallas answers flatly and points to his head. “Thanks to Brenda Van Zant.” Then he cannonballs into the water and the rest of us groan because we know what’s coming next.
Guys come from Hungary, Montenegro, even as far away as Australia to make this team. There’s a string of them sitting on the bench ready to take Dall’s place at a moment’s notice. And yet, despite all the stunts he pulls, Coach has yet to bench him because Dallas is by far the best driver we have. Quick as lightning and just as deadly.
So he’ll make the rest of us suffer instead.
Coach nods slowly. “In honor of Van Zant’s oversized testicles the rest of you ladies will now do an extra fifteen minutes of eggbeater intervals. I want you crossing the length of the pool and outta the water waist high.”
More groans.
Heads swivel in Dall’s directio
n and everybody issues death warrants with their eyeballs. Unfazed, Dallas shakes out his hair and flips them off, double-handed.
“You, Van Zant, will be benched for the first quarter of the game this weekend.”
I never thought I’d see the day. And by the sound of the quiet gasps and muted murmurs, neither did any of the other guys.
“What?!” Dallas shouts, all trace of amusement dropping from his face.
“You heard me, princess. Everybody in the water while I speak to Reynolds.” He waves me over. “Let’s hear it, son.”
After practice we all meet up at the quad near the cafeteria.
“What are you smiling at?” Dallas says, sitting next to me on the stone bench. Across the way, my eyes find Jersey girl the instant she makes it up the steps.
“Nothing,” I answer absently, incapable of peeling my eyes off of her.
I was a wreck Saturday night, the lowest I’ve been in a long time and she was…well…amazing. A surprise, a comfort, everything I needed.
On crutches, she slowly makes her way to the cafeteria entrance and pauses to take in the view. From this vantage point, the scenery looks unreal, worthy of a screen saver, and I grew up here. I wonder what she’s thinking.
“That’s the chick you ran over?”
Glancing sideways, I catch Dall’s eyes all over her. He runs a hand through his wild hair and smirks, causing an uncomfortable twist of my gut.
“Almost ran over.”
“Not much of a rack but her ass and legs are a ten. Now I know why you mobilized the entire team to get her info.”
Head shaking, I’m quick to correct him. “It’s not like that.”
Most days I already feel like Atlas carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. Between keeping up my grades, getting into medical school, and leading this team to another national title, there’s no room for anything else. Most of all for a girlfriend. And this is definitely the type of girl that requires commitment and promises I don’t have it in me to give. Despite what she said the other night.
“You guys grab food yet?” Cole asks, walking up with Brock, a couple of the younger guys, Warner, Shane, and Quinn.