by Knox, Abby
The breaststroke. Of course. My worst event. Why?
I look to plead with him to pick a different stroke, but he’s not even looking at me. His eyes are on his clipboard, and he’s just waiting for me to hit the water so he can push a button on his watch.
I dive in and get it over with. It takes about a hundred years to swim to the other end of the pool and back. If Coach Ford were not waiting on me, I would have been bored out of my skull.
I hop out of the pool and keep my eye on him for any sign of how I performed. I see nothing—nothing except one eyebrow move maybe a millimeter. Barely there, but I saw it.
And because I can’t leave well enough alone, I stand there dripping while filling the silence with my babbling.
“I’m the weak link in the breaststroke. I suck so bad at it.”
Slowly, Coach Ford slides his pencil back behind his ear and stalks toward me. I swallow and try to tamp down the panic rising in my chest. Is he going to shout at me?
When he reaches me, he clasps the clipboard with both arms over his midsection and stares me down.
I might melt on the spot. If I were not dripping wet from the pool, I might think I was turning to molten liquid under his fierce brown stare. Brown…with flecks of gold. Oh lord, help me. He’s so pretty.
He raises one hand and points a finger so close to my face, I could easily lean forward and suck it into my mouth if I wanted to.
I don’t want to. Do I? What I want is to dive back into the pool and hide in the drain at the bottom of the deep end until everyone leaves.
He does not shout at me. Rather, he speaks calmly and with authority. “No one. On my team. Is a weak link. You got that, Shermer?”
I get it so hard I feel it thrumming in the darkest, wettest place of my swimsuit.
I swallow and nod.
He makes it worse by saying, “Excuse me? I didn’t hear that.”
“Yes,” I squeak quietly.
“Yes what?”
Yes what? What does he want me to say?
I suppose… “Yes, sir?”
“Are you asking me or telling me you understand?”
I clear my throat and lift my chin as I spit out. “I understand, sir!”
He nods, then moves on to the next task.
* * *
I’m so shaken by him that my stupid brain dreams about him that night. In it, Coach Ford is spanking me with a clipboard, punctuating every slap with a whistle. I startle myself awake to find I’m rubbing my groin against the mattress to create delicious friction. An involuntary tightening and releasing is accompanied by extreme relief and pleasure crashing through my body.
Did I just have an orgasm?
More to the point—did I just have a wet dream about my swim coach? Oh god. This season is going to be even worse than I imagined.
3
Weston
This girl—this woman—has a passion for swimming.
The way she speaks, moves, swims—everything—it’s like she’s wearing her heart outside of her body for everyone to see. She’s got the heart of a champion and she doesn’t even know it.
Adelaide Shermer.
I see from the files that Judy left in my office that she’s 18.
Not that it matters. I’m her coach, and I’m only here for one reason: to lead Greenbridge Academy to a state championship title.
And Adelaide is going to be the key to bringing it home.
4
Addie
By the first day of my senior year, we’ve been practicing for a month.
And the wet dreams about my coach have not stopped. Even when he shouts, blows that whistle, barks at us with the bullhorn, my body reacts in mysterious ways.
All my life, my parents, friends, teachers, and administrators have fawned all over me. Given me encouragement. Built up my self-esteem.
And I appreciate that.
So do I need therapy? Why in the world does my heart race, my palms sweat, and my pussy walls throb with arousal when Coach Ford does the opposite? And why do I get more aroused the angrier he gets during practice?
At least school will give me something else to focus on.
Hunter snatches my schedule out of my hands while hanging at my locker first thing in the morning.
“What does the Queen of Advanced College Credit have on tap this semester? Basket weaving?”
I laugh and roll my eyes. “No! Just some electives that I never had the chance to take before.
Hunter shakes her head and looks up at me. “Advanced Psychology? Trigonometry II? Girl, that’s just more college cred,” she sputters.
I snatch it back. “That’s just a bonus. It’s fun and interesting!”
She sighs. “Well, at least one of us has brains.”
I playfully slap her shoulder. “Hey, don’t talk about my best friend that way. You finished all the drama and music courses this fancy school has to offer and this year they had to make something up for you. Shall we talk about advanced costume design and dramaturgy?”
She blushes. Hunter is extremely talented and she knows it.
“OK, see you at lunch. I’m just bitter that we have no classes together.”
We hug and part ways. We really have been inseparable for so long, it’s weird not being able to help each other study. Truthfully, she could have graduated early and gone off to New York to take acting classes before starting college if she wanted. I encouraged it, in fact, but then her parents stepped in with their advice that one more year of swim would make her more well-rounded on college applications.
Later, at lunch, I finally spill to Hunter that I think I had my first wet dream.
“Oh my god,” Hunter whispers over our vegan pitas she picked up from a nearby restaurant when she cut out of her study hall early. It’s so nice to be able to leave campus to get food. The cafeteria food at Greenbridge Academy is super healthy and pretty good, but it’s nice to have some autonomy, finally. And it’s nice not to have to eat lunch with the elementary and middle school kids. This school is big on different age groups interacting with each other. “Who was it about? What was it like?”
I bite my bottom lip. “It was a little scary, almost like the big descent on a rickety roller coaster. Maybe I didn’t do it right.”
She giggles. “What did it feel like at the bottom?”
I sigh and look around in case anyone is listening. “Like a full-body sneeze. But then it woke me up and I felt sad that he...uh, that nobody else there.”
Her cheeks pink. “Oh, you did it right. Lucky girl.”
I shake my head as the heat rises and reddens my ears. “I don’t know if I would call it lucky. It felt…so empty when I woke up.”
“Who was it? You have to tell me!”
I hesitate. She’s so eager and she is my best friend. But…I just can’t. No way am I telling Hunter that the man I pictured in my dream was Coach Ford. I’m not ready yet.
Besides, she looks like she might be hiding something from me too.
“I’m not totally sure who it was. He was big. Tall. And he had nice hands. Kinda mean? But I liked it.”
I expect her to playfully call me a weirdo but she only nods thoughtfully. Knowingly. We eat the rest of our lunch while discussing safer topics than boys and our deepest, darkest secrets, and stick to chatter about the royal family. It feels weird. We’ve both always been a bit boy crazy, and we love to break down everything over lunch. Something is missing and I don’t like it.
After lunch I have an hour of independent study, and since it is the first day, I have to meet with my staff advisor. As I make my way to the guidance office, I should be thinking about my proposal for my independent study, but instead my mind wanders to swim practice for tonight.
I wonder if Coach Ford is going to have us practicing the same strokes or assign us new ones. I wonder if he’s going to give us pointers. Or better yet, a demonstration.
Even better still, a hands-on demonstration in the water.
The
skin on my chest begins to feel hot. My hands become clammy. Parts of me feel tingly. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to make myself put aside my daydreaming about Coach Ford and try to focus on the moment. I say hi to the guidance receptionist, who waves me in.
When I push open the door of the guidance office, I freeze.
What is that scent?
It’s a fresh, green, foresty scent. It’s like…oh god…but no…there’s no way…
I step into Ms. Frazier’s office and there, sitting adjacent to the counselor’s desk, is…Coach Ford. His eyes are fully trained on me. So much so, it makes me uncomfortable. And I like it.
“Oh. Hi, Coach,” I say, my throat thick. Dammit, there’s that breathy voice again.
Ms. Frazier clip-clops in behind me in her killer heels. She’s so beautiful and sophisticated, I don’t know how she’s still single. “Addie! Mr. Ford! Good, you’re both here. I believe you two know each other. We had to do a lottery to see who would end up with you.”
The way she phrases it rings so inappropriate in my head. I repeat it back to her. “A lottery? To end up with me?”
“Certainly,” Ms. Frazier says. “All the available teachers were looking forward to see what kind of independent study you came up with, so we literally drew a name out of a hat.”
I meet Coach Ford’s intense gaze with an awkward smile. “And you ended up with the short end of the stick,” I say self-deprecatingly.
The coach’s eyes flash with seriousness, bordering on anger—almost the same energy he had at the pool when he corrected me for calling myself the weak link. “Hardly,” he says. “Every teacher at this school raves about what a brilliant student you are.” Is it weird that I kind of want to hear him say that through a megaphone?
Ms. Frazier chuckles. “It’s not an exaggeration. As a matter of fact, Weston, I’ve been trying to convince this girl to graduate early for a couple of years now.”
This meeting is turning into a festival of compliments and it’s making me blush. Guess I won’t have to worry about impressing anybody with my independent study project idea.
I chuckle and shrug as I reply, “It’s true. Ms. Frazier’s been trying to push me out of Greenbridge for some time. But there’s something to be said for having the full high school experience with my friends, going to graduation, prom, the whole thing. And sticking with the swim team has turned out to be fun, too.”
I think this is the first time I’ve seen Coach Ford’s eyes blink and his face soften for me. Is that a smile? Not exactly—it’s almost like he’s trying to keep himself from it. “I’m happy to help with athletic scholarship applications.”
Ms. Frazier laughs. “Yes, I think you got a few of those in your day, Weston.”
He chuckles and shrugs humbly. “One or two.”
“So tell us, Ms. Shermer, what do you have planned for your independent study?”
I sit up straight in my chair and take out my folder and give copies of my plan to them both.
“In a nutshell, I’m going to follow the city’s recycling program and write up reports on how the system actually works, where the stuff actually ends up, and develop proposals to improve the system, wherever possible. Specifically, I’m going to follow one simple piece of recyclable plastic and see where it goes and how long it sits around, waiting to be recycled.”
Ms. Frazier sits back in her chair. “Well. As I anticipated, I won’t have to worry that you might be using independent study to slack off.”
“No, ma’am. Do you want me to go through the outline of steps…?”
She waves me off. “I trust you, dear. Full steam ahead, and I’m excited to see what you come up with. I have no doubt your end-of-year presentation will dazzle all of us.”
Coach Ford echoes, “No doubt.”
Coach’s baritone voice rattles every cage inside me that keeps my inner bad girl locked up tight. I’m not sure how much longer she’s going to tolerate being caged.
5
Weston
I never thought I’d spend the bulk of my afternoon at the perfume counter at the mall, trying to locate that scent. It’s citrusy and fresh, with just a hint of warm, comforting spice. When I finally find it, I know it immediately.
It’s her.
The biggest bottle they have goes back with me to my office.
I place the tiniest dab of that perfume on the edge of my whistle, which has become a permanent fixture around my neck.
6
Addie
When Hunter and I meet up in the locker room before swim practice, we tell each other all about our independent study projects. She’s going to be co-directing the all-school winter musical along with sewing all the costumes. And then for second semester, she’s going to be going on actual auditions in New York and Los Angeles if she can manage it.
I tell her who my staff advisor is. She laughs. “Oh shit. Guess you aren’t phoning this thing in. That man is going to ride you hard all year long!”
The double entendre gives me a full color daydream of exactly what I should not be daydreaming about.
I feel like everyone can see my thought bubbles and they all know I’m imagining Coach Ford riding me. Or would I ride him? Either way, never have I felt so pure and untouched, so hopelessly inexperienced compared to people like Ridley Rushmore, who has the air of someone who has had tons of sex. And why wouldn’t she, since she’s been dating the captain of the boys’ swim team for two years now? She walks around the locker room completely naked and full of confidence, and even looks like a bombshell wearing her swim cap and goggles.
Swim gear only makes me look like a giant bug.
I need to watch some porn and soon so I can at least know what I’m doing when the time comes.
As soon as I step into the pool area, the heat between my thighs and the pebbling of my nipples are instantaneous. Coach Ford is already there, waiting for us, waist deep in the shallow end. Hands on his hips, he announces to the group, “A lot of you are almost there, but almost there doesn’t get us a state title. I’m going to demonstrate each form that you need to work on, and then you’re all going to get in the water to show me what you learned.”
And then, he swims.
His arms slice through the water, creating hardly any wake. It’s almost silent. Every time his arm comes over the top of his head, I get the briefest glimpse of the muscles under his arms, on his upper ribs. For crying out loud, this man has muscles where no other human has muscle definition.
It’s so beautiful to watch I could cry.
He barely comes up to breathe. His flip turns are effortless, and so fast. So controlled. So powerful.
After each form, he pauses to explain what he’s about to do and what he sees us do wrong repeatedly. He goes through the breaststroke, backstroke, and butterfly, prefacing each with a laundry list of mistakes.
My breathing is shallow and all my blood seems to be pooling in my sex organs. The walls of my sex quiver with lust, demanding to be filled. I’ve never felt that emptiness before—of wanting to sheath the full length of a man’s organ inside my body—and I’m disturbed by this feeling.
Finally after about twenty minutes of this torture, he launches his body up out of the pool.
“Shermer and Rydell, on the platforms. Breastroke.”
Hunter and I walk toward the boards, and just as I pass by his drenched body, I see it.
The bulge is so…there… My eyes can see nothing else.
My heart hammers, my palms sweat. I have to take my eyes off that bulge, but I can’t not look.
The faint chlorine smell combined with his masculine scent is killing me. The rivulets of pool water make beautiful designs along his strong upper thighs. I have never wanted to be a drop of water more than I do now.
I force myself to look away, but I instantly wish I hadn’t. Now, Coach Ford and I make eye contact, and I feel like my whole face is as red as a tomato. Topped by my Greenbridge swim cap, my whole head must look like a light-u
p Christmas ornament.
I forget those embarrassing two seconds once I’m up on that platform and staring at the water, waiting for the whistle.
Hunter and I dive in on command, and I proceed to blunder through my least favorite stroke. Coach Ford barks at us. “Watch your shoulders! Breath control! That’s not what I showed you! Coming up too high! Not high enough!”
I hear Hunter muttering and cussing as she comes up for breath. She hates this, and I don’t blame her one bit. Me? I’m loving it. The more he shouts orders and corrections at us, the more I push myself. The more he voices his frustration and disappointment, the more I want to keep going, to work harder. Something comes over my body, and I’m going faster than I ever remember going on the breaststroke.
When we finish, he doesn’t tell any of us our times were any better than yesterday’s practice. He simply disappears into his office and we all meander into the locker room when he doesn’t reappear.
When we hit the showers and I peel off my swimsuit, I have the overwhelming need to use the private shower.
“Suddenly shy, Addie?” Ridley drawls in my direction.
“Period,” I fib.
The hot spray starts up and I pull the vinyl curtain on my private stall. “I can’t believe it’s taking so long for all our periods to sync up!” someone shouts.
Everyone laughs before moving on to talk shit about Coach Ford.
“He yells too much.”
“He’s so mean.”
“He’s going to work us into the ground.”
“That is so not Judy’s style.”
“What’s wrong with him? Why’s he such a grouch?”
Let them all hate him. Let them talk all the shit they want. Whatever it is he’s doing, it’s going to work. Because the only thing I feel is energized. And tingling head to toe.
I wet my washcloth and dip it down between my legs. Closing my eyes, I explore with the cloth all these feelings he has pulled out of me. The heat, the need, the overwhelming desire to be touched.
