Filthy Royal

by Roxeanne Rolling

  “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 the 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 D
ave 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 was 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.

  “Allison?” says Beaumont, waking me from my little day nightmare.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine. I was just thinking. Why did you call him my friend?”

  “Well, you may have noticed I can’t pay attention to sports very well. But I can pay attention to how people around me react. And I couldn’t help noticing that you seemed very interest in how this Anchor character, the captain, was doing, and what was happening to him. It’s not my first time around the block, Allison, even though I just might seem like an old out of touch professor.”

  “I don’t think…” I start to say, but Beaumont cuts me off.

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Allison. I’ve been on this campus longer than you have, and I’ve been to school myself. I’ve seen how the jocks are, and I never like to see my students get hurt. I just don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations for this relationship. After all, he doesn’t seem very responsible—drunk on a Monday morning.”

  This is not what I need to hear right now. Is Beaumont just trying to confirm all my self-doubting thoughts about Anchor?

  “How do you know we’re in a relationship?” I say, trying to contain the annoyance and anger in my voice.

  “Allison, come on, I know what I know. You don’t have to admit it to me, but he’s your inside source, isn’t he? And you’ve fallen for him. I mean, hell, it happens to the best of us. Back when I was working for the paper, and I was down in Mexico, there was this woman…I was supposed to be investigating her… Well, I shouldn’t go into details but…” Beaumont’s voice fades as he gets a distant look of longing in his eyes.

  I’ve never asked him, but as far as I know Beaumont’s not married. Was this Mexican woman the one who got away? I suddenly realize, despite my anger, that I barely know anything about Beaumont’s personal life. I know all about his past as a reporter, but nothing about what he does now when he’s not at campus.

  “I mean,” says Beaumont. “Is this just this a fling, or something more serious? No, I’m not asking for an answer. But I think you really need to figure that out for yourself. If it’s something more serious, you need to start changing yourself a little. When two people are so different from one another, like you and this Anchor are, there are going to be things in your personality that are holding you back, things that you have been holding on to for a long time. You see, when we fall in love, or commit to another person, we need to leave behind parts of ourselves that we thought were very important, but in reality, they aren’t at all.”

  This is the first time I’ve talked to Beaumont about anything remotely like this. Honestly, I’m blown away by his insights. I know that in a way he’s right, but I’m not going to admit that to him right now. He may not know anything about sports, but he really is a very intelligent guy, and in more ways than I’d realized before.

  “Thanks, Professor Beaumont,” I say. “I think I’d better get going.”

 
; “Good luck,” says Beaumont, as I leave the office.

  I wonder briefly why he didn’t ask me about the article at all.

  His words are ringing in my head as I walk through the campus. The sun is shining down. It’s already spring, and the leaves on the trees are flourishing. The air is warm, and there’s that special spring feeling in the air.

  What did Beaumont mean exactly when he said we have to leave behind a part of ourselves? What would that be for me? What am I holding onto? Maybe it has something to do with how I think I’m so much smarter than Anchor. I realize here and now, all of a sudden, that even though I love Anchor, I still feel like he’s not quite good enough for me. Maybe in my weird mind, he’s good enough for a hot fuck in the locker room between events, because that’s what I expect of a guy like that. But I’m not really valuing his own skills. After all, there are plenty of things he can do that I can’t. I don’t have that type of charisma, for instance.

  I’ve got to find him.

  I walk towards the river, quickening my pace. Who knows where he and Dave are now, but that’s the last place they were heading.

  It’s been raining a little more than usual this spring, but I’m still surprised to see the river having swollen, rising against its banks. The water is flowing quickly, swirling around the boulders in the middle of the river.

  I haven’t been down here since my freshman year, but it’s beautiful. There are trees that are hanging over the river, with pink flowers blooming.

  “Anchor?” I call out, but there’s no answer.

  It was stupid of me to think I would find him here. He’s probably off doing God only knows what at this point. Who knows what he and Dave are capable of getting into when they’re drunk on a Monday.

  It’s nice here, so I decide to walk alone, hoping that maybe being a little closer to nature will improve my mood. Instead of helping my mood, Beaumont’s little speech has only succeeded in increasing my melancholy.