“You think he’ll be there? It’s got to be like 6 in the morning right now.”
“Morning practice,” he says, getting out of bed, and starting to get dressed. I’d forgotten that he came here in just swim briefs, soaking wet. He bends over to get his pants out of his duffel bag.
As he bends over, I can’t help but admiring his body again. He looks like a statue that can move. I can’t believe he’s mine. All mine.
“You’re looking at me like you want another round,” he says, giving me a wink.
“Maybe I do,” I say.
“Sorry, got to get to practice. I’m already late.”
I blow him a kiss as he walks out the door.
As the door closes, all my old worries about getting discovered suddenly seem so silly and trivial.
I lie back and try to go to sleep, but my heart it still pounding. Anchor may not be concerned about what’s going to happen to him, but I am. And for the first time, I realize I’m concerned for him, rather than for myself. I’m not thinking about my future career with The Journal, but for Anchor’s future careers in the Olympics and beyond. If he’s kicked off the team, what will happen to his chances? And besides, what did the Olympic scout think after seeing Anchor disobeying his coach so blatantly? What did he write in his report? Did he capture it all on his video camera?
I can’t sleep, so I get up and start doing some schoolwork.
But flipping through my math textbook gets boring really quickly, so I decide to do a different kind of work.
I open up a new email window on my computer, and start writing a new article. The last one I wrote when I was angry with Anchor for leaving me after sex. Looking back on it, maybe I overreacted. And when I think of what I wrote, I now think I certainly overacted. Why did I have such a burning desire to destroy the swim team in printed words? What had they ever done to me, except not invite me to their parties? But…wait, they actually had invited me to one of their parties. That first night that I “met” Anchor, Dave had actually invited me to a party, hadn’t he? Or had he just invited me back to his room? I can’t remember now, and it’s inconsequential anyway.
This is a completely different type of article than the one I wrote before. Instead of being filled with the nastiest stuff I could think of, all the dirt that Anchor told me, this article is basically a glowing account of Anchor’s performance in the swim meet yesterday. I heavily praise the entire swim team, including the coach. Even Spellman. I make Spellman out to be some kind of injured hero, facing Anchor, a force so much greater than himself that he can’t ever defeat him. I make the swimming team events sound like a Greek epic poem.
Halfway through, I get a phone call. It’s Anchor.
I open my cell phone.
“Shouldn’t you still be in morning practice,” I say. “Doesn’t it last like four hours or something?”
“That’d be too long even for me,” says Anchor. His voice sounds weary and tired. “They kicked me off the team.”
“Oh, baby,” I say, my voice becoming sweet, without realizing it. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“Well, I’m technically still on the team. The assistant coach was able to reason with coach a little bit. But I couldn’t get through to him. Spellman, of course, told coach everything. He told them all about you. And I wasn’t supposed to get close to you. I think I told you that before? Anyway, I’m on the bench the rest of the season.”
“Well, at least you’re still on the team. Doesn’t that mean you’ll still be eligible for the Olympic team.”
“Technically, yeah,” says Anchor. “But the thing is that they’re not going to be crazy about contracting someone who’s always causing trouble, and this is a pretty big mark against me. And to top it off, I won’t be able to race in any more meets. This is the end of my college swimming career right here.”
“But you did so well in the last meet. Did you end up breaking a record?”
“Yeah,” says Anchor, seemingly too depressed to tell me exactly what record he’s broken. He really doesn’t sound like his normal buoyant, cocky self. I feel a pain inside of myself. We must already be synchronized in a way, our emotions having merged in a sense. What affects Anchor affects me too. It’s a sobering realization, yet also a joyful one.
“Didn’t you do well enough yesterday for the Olympics to really want you?” I’m trying to make him see the better side of this, trying to minimize the damage.
“They usually like to send scouts two or three times, and now there’s no point in sending another scout, since I won’t be racing.”
“So it’s all still up in the air?” I say, trying to make my voice sound hopeful, but my heart is sinking. “Basically there’s no way to know one way or the other whether you’ll be on the team.”
“Yeah, the only thing to do is wait and see.” My words don’t seem to have had the effect I’d hoped on him. I know the only thing he wants in life is to be on the Olympic team next year, and now there’s a really good chance that’s not going to happen.
“Want to meet up?” I say. “Maybe I can make you feel better.” I have in mind a nice cuddle session on my bed. At this point, the sheets have dried, and I can almost already feel the warmth of his body snuggled up against mine. And maybe sex, if it comes to that. That would comfort both of us, not just Anchor.
“I guess,” says Anchor. “I haven’t eaten anything yet. I usually eat with the team after morning practice, but I don’t feel like joining them today.”
“That’s understandable,” I say. “Why don’t we meet in the Jones Cafeteria? I think it’s opening up right now. We can get some waffles.”
“See you there,” says Anchor, his voice sounding beyond melancholy.
“Love you,” I say, as a way of a goodbye, but he’s already hung up the phone.
19
Anchor
I can’t believe I’m off the team. Well, on the team, but essentially off it. I’ve never even heard of anyone getting kicked off the team. Not even Rugman, who was a senior when I was a freshman, and he was absolutely notorious for causing trouble at every possible occasion. Even Rugman didn’t get kicked off the team, or put on permanent sideline status.
Normally I just wear my swim team pants around campus all the time, no matter what. But I don’t feel like wearing them right now. Instead, I change into some old torn up jeans in my room, and leave the swim house to meet Allison.
I could tell she was trying to cheer me up on the phone. And I appreciated it at the time, even if I wasn’t able to express that.
But walking across campus, not bothering to walk on the path, the ends of my jeans getting wet in the dew on the grass, I start to change my mind about her.
I was sure I was in love with her just a few hours ago when I woke up. But now… I don’t know. I just don’t know.
There’s anger boiling up inside me. Coach and Spellman stirred it up yesterday with the shit they pulled. But was it really their fault? After all, coach is just being the ornery bastard he’s always been. And Spellman was just being his little snitch self. He just can’t help himself. After all, he’s my teammate, and that’s a pretty God Damn close bond, no matter how much we hate each other. He deserved to be punched out, though. I’m not sorry about that in the least bit.
But Allison… Why did she rush into the locker room and demand that I fuck her then and there? Couldn’t it have waited? If she’d just had a little more self-control, I wouldn’t be in this mess at all. Hell, a few nights ago, she was paranoid about anyone finding out about us, and yesterday she decided she needed to fuck me right in the middle of a swim meet, with the Olympic scout there and everything.
Doesn’t she understand how much the Olympics means to me?
I mean, sure, I can understand why she wanted to fuck me. What girl on campus doesn’t? I’ve already fucked most of them, and the rest only pretend they don’t want me. But I know better. I’m Anchor, after all, captain of th
e swim team, the only important sports team the campus has ever had. And I’m headed to the Olympics—everyone knows that. Who doesn’t want to fuck a future Olympian?
I see Alison sitting there alone. She’s already gotten herself some breakfast, and her plate is piled high with waffles, covered completely in maple syrup. For a moment, I regret thinking badly about her, thinking that it’s all her fault. She looks so sweet sitting there, so perfect. Her hair is coming down one side of her head, making her look something like a princess from a cartoon movie.
“Hey,” she says, waving me over.
I come down and sit across the table from her with my own waffles. Despite me being a swimmer, and we’re notorious for eating more than anyone else, her plate is actually stacked higher than mine.
“I guess you’ve got to fuel that big brain of yours,” I say, gesturing towards her waffles.
She makes a little face, like she’s hurt. I forgot for a second that women can be sensitive about what they eat, no matter how beautiful they already are. They seem to always think I’m commenting on their weight, their past weight, or their future weight. Wow, aren’t there any topics that are safe to talk about.
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say. “It’s the most important meal of the day, anyway. I’m glad to see you’re eating a big breakfast.”
“So any updates since we talked on the phone?”
“No, why would there be?” I notice my voice takes on an unsavory edge to it, which I don’t intend.
“I’m just asking,” she says, obviously upset. Her face turns into a frown and her eyes narrow, as her brow lowers.
How has this happened? Sure, I was mad at her when I was walking over here, but that completely passed when I saw her sitting here, looking so beautiful. How did I let that edge creep into my voice? Why did I let the anger come over me again? I can feel it building up in my chest, and I’m partially aware that it’s not something Allison is doing, but in the moment I don’t care that I’m the source of my own anger.
“If you hadn’t wanted to fuck me so badly, none of this would have happened,” I say, blurting out the words without really thinking about them.
“So that’s what you think of me?” she says, anger coming into her voice, too. “You think I’m just some slut who can’t keep away from your perfect body? And you think I ruined everything for you? You’re going to blame me for possibly losing your spot on the Olympics, when you were the one who punched out that Spellman kid?”
I’m so angry I can’t even speak. I open my mouth to talk, but nothing comes out.
I pick up my tray and stand up. I don’t quite know what I’m doing. I slam my tray down on the table, and turn on my heel and walk swiftly out of the room.
How was it that I was so able to keep calm when the coach was screaming at me, but cute little Allison is able to make me so mad I can barely control myself?
“It’s because you love her,” says a little voice in my head. “And you’ve never loved the coach. At least not like Spellman does.”
Whatever.
I’m headed back to the swim house. I walk inside, and no one’s here. They’re probably all finishing practice now and heading to breakfast together.
I open the door to my room and slam it as hard as I can behind me. The door shakes in the frame, and bits of paint come flying off the wall above.
Whatever. It’s not like I’m going to have to pay damages.
“What the hell man?” says Dave, turning his head away from his computer.
I grunt something, and flop down on my bed.
“You interrupted a pretty good session, man. I don’t think I can even finish now. You should see this new chick I found on the internet.”
“I fucking hope you don’t want to finish now that I’m in the same room. That’s fucking disgusting, Dave. Don’t you have anything to do but watch porn all day? Why aren’t you eating with the team?”
“Didn’t feel like it,” says Dave, his concentration glued once again to his computer.
“You heard I was kicked off the team?” I say, my head turned towards the wall, away from Dave.
He still has the sound on the computer turned on, and I can hear the porn star making incredibly unrealistic squealing noises. No woman sounds like that, no matter how hard their coming. If anyone would know, after all, it’d be me, after all. Who else has been with more chicks, and who else can please them like I can?
Dave doesn’t answer.
“Turn that fucking thing off, man,” I say, my voice sounding almost as angry as when I was talking to Katy.
“What’s your problem, Anchor? You’re not kicked off the team. Coach will probably calm down and put you back in the relay at least. We’re not going to win without you. I don’t know what you’re worried about.”
“I’m not worried about anything,” I say, lying, my voice full of rage. “But this isn’t just a hobby for me. This isn’t just a way to get girls I couldn’t otherwise get, like it is for you. I can get all the girls I want, whether or not I’m on the swim team. This is my life. It’s going to be my life. And I don’t need some pathetic college coach fucking it up for me, or that asshole Spellman.”
“Things aren’t going well with Allison or something?”
“No,” I say.
I don’t know why Dave isn’t catching my anger. I almost want nothing more than to fight him right now, and without realizing it, I’m doing my best to pick a fight with him. But it’s just not working. It’s never been that hard before. I don’t know what’s going on.
“Tell me about it, then,” says Dave, finally shutting his laptop.
The noise of the porn fades away, and I can feel myself calming down a little for some reason.
“What are you, a therapist or something?”
“We’ve been doing therapy workshops in my psych 101 class. I’m learning how to talk to people about their problems.”
“Fucking nerd,” I say.
“Just tell me about what’s going on. I know this isn’t how we normally talk, but tell me about it.”
“I can’t believe you’re talking like this,” I say. “You’re talking like a chick. Worse than a chick. Even Allison doesn’t talk this way.”
“Well maybe you should be having this conversation with her, then,” says Dave, looking quite comfortable in his fake-sage-like demeanor.
“Whatever, man, let’s just get drunk or something.”
“It’s like 8 in the morning,” says Dave.
“Whatever,” I say.
I get up off the bed and start rooting around through the horrible mess on the floor. There are half-wet towels, with mold on them. There are balled up swim briefs and a mess of broken goggles. Underneath it all, there are some cheap beers that were never drunk. I take three or four of them back to my bed, and crack one open, sitting with my feet draped across my desk. On the desk, there’s a huge pile of school papers I’ve barely looked at all semester.
“Here, take one,” I say, throwing Dave a beer.
He catches it, and then shrugs his shoulders before cracking it open. “What the hell,” he says.
“There we go!” I say. “There’s the old Dave!”
Dave gives me a wink and tilts the beer all the way back, draining the container in about ten seconds flat. I toss him another one before he’s even done, and he expertly catches it one handed and cracks it open.
I’m finished my first now, and break out the second.
“We’ve got to get some more beers,” I say.
“It’s Monday, dude, don’t you have like class and stuff?”
I shrug my shoulders and keep drinking, taking a big sip.
20
Allison
I’m not even that mad at him. Despite the way he treated me, I realize now I’m going to forgive him for almost anything. Well, this is what I’m telling myself. I’m not admitting to myself that I’m pretty furious with him. There wa
s no reason to get angry with me after all.
I think part of me blames myself for putting him in this debacle with the coach. If I hadn’t wanted to jump his bones so badly at the meet, this wouldn’t be happening. That’s what they told us in my freshman psych class—that when you feel guilty about something, you’re more likely to react with anger.
Even though I can intellectualize the process that’s going on, I still can’t get a handle on my emotions.
I go to my Monday classes as usual. For some reason, my math professor gives us a pop quiz, which stresses me out for a couple minutes, until I crack the problem and finish before everyone else. It’s multivariable calculus, which has just about everybody in the class breaking down in tears. Except me. Walking out of the room, I know I’m going to get top marks. I almost always do, anyway.
I check my phone as I walk out of the class. There’s a message from Beaumont.
Walking towards his office, I think for a second that I’ve caught a glimpse of Anchor and his buddy Dave stumbling down by the river in the distance. But it must just be my imagination. I shake the image out of my head. No matter how angry Anchor is, and how upset he is about being benched, there’s no way he’s stupid enough to go on a bender and ditch all his Monday classes, especially with the end of the semester coming up quickly. He’s got to graduate, after all.
“Hey, Professor Beaumont, how’s it going?”
“Good, good, come on in, Allison,” says Beaumont, closing a book he’s working on, and switching off the music. It’s a newer rock song by an old famous singer from the 1960’s, with the voice sounding hoarse like one of the old blues men.
“Cool music,” I say.
“Yeah,” says Beaumont, with a somewhat distracted air. He’s gazing out his office window, towards the quad. The river is on the opposite end of the quad. “I thought I saw your friend Anchor this morning while coming to my office. He seemed quite drunk.”
Wow, so it was Anchor that I saw? It makes me furious to think he’s blowing off his classes. The worst thing you can do after one serious mistake is commit another. I wonder if he cares about me at all. After all, maybe he’s just complaining drunkenly to Dave about what a stupid bitch I am for ruining everything. Did we really have a special connection, or am I just deluding myself because I’ve never been with such a hot guy before. The self-doubt almost hurts as it swirls through my head.
Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Page 11