“Nice to meet you,” I say. “I wanted to meet with you first to, well, first of all, to get your permission.”
“Fine with me,” he says. “They’re having morning practice right now. You can go watch them in the pool. You ever been to a swim meet?”
I shake my head, while wondering what the coach is doing in his office during a practice session.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “There’s no one on the paper who knows anything about swimming? You know anything about sports at all? Track and field? Anything?”
“I’ve never been that into sports,” I say.
“Great,” he says in a huff, crossing his arms across his chest, resting them on the top of his heaving belly. I catch a glimpse of a mass of hair sneaking its way through the opening on his polo shirt that unfortunately has all three buttons undone. The emblem of his shirt is a man diving into the water, surrounded by the college’s crest, which I always thought looked ridiculous.
“Look,” I say. “I’m the only one interested in doing the article. None of the other reporters are into sports either. They’re all nerds just like me. But swimming is important to the college, and I want to do a big expose piece on the swim team. It could have a lot of good effects on the whole organization.”
His face softens a bit as I say this.
“You can watch the practice from the balcony. Take the stairs left of the locker room doors.” His voice is still gruff and commanding, but I can see that he’s thinking a little better of me now. It isn’t hard to see, after all, that I’m not your typical student. I’m more serious, more dedicated, and more professional.
I thank him, and walk back into the hallway, and go up the stairs to the balcony.
I sit down in the bleachers. No one else is here, but I have a great view of the swim practice below.
I’m already bored, after just a minute.
First of all, I can barely think, because the whole place reeks of chlorine. I thought it would be better up here in the balcony, which is a separate section, a whole floor above the pool, but it’s even worse up here. It’s hot and humid, and the chlorine is everywhere. My clothes will probably stink of it later.
There’s a short stocky bald man, who seems to be the assistant coach. He’s standing in front of a blackboard and barking commands at the swimmers, who can’t possibly hear him, since they’re practically completely submerged in the water.
I’m actually not such a bad swimmer myself. I took swimming lessons all through middle school, and spent most of my summer days at the pool with my family. I know all the strokes, of course, and I’m actually quite good at some of them. Freestyle has never been my strongest, although I have to say that my breaststroke technique is nearly flawless.
The swimmers are doing butterfly drills right now, and the pool is full of noises and splashes, as they flop their way through the water. I’ve always thought that butterfly is one of the silliest strokes, and I still can’t understand why it’s considered one of the four competitive strokes.
As much as I like swimming myself, I’m bored stiff. I can’t even garner any interest in the male bodies that are basically naked, except for a little pieces of fabric covering their junk. They’re certainly muscular and fit, but they’re definitely not my type, not even physically. There’s just something too gross and athletic about them for me. And, to top it off, I know they can’t keep up with me intellectually.
Finally, after a few torturous minutes, the short assistant coach barks out some commands and the swimmers return to the side of the pool, holding on to the side, or treading water.
The coach is wearing these ridiculously short red shorts, exposing an intense amount of leg hair.
“All right, all right,” he’s barking for no reason at all, it seems.
He’s in the middle of pointing at some messy diagram on the blackboard, when he suddenly spins around and yells at the top of his lungs, “Where the hell is Anchor?”
“Dunno,” say the swimmers nearly in unison, shrugging their shoulders.
“That asshole thinks he’s too good for morning practice, is that it?”
“Sorry, I’m late,” says someone coming into view, walking across the deck. He’s another swimmer, dressed in the same swim briefs as everyone else, but he’s completely dry. He’s just arriving.
“Where the hell were you, Spellman? Do you know where Anchor is?”
“I just came from talking to coach,” says the guy named Spellman, putting down his towel and getting ready to get into the pool. He’s wearing a smug look on his face, and for some reason I already know I don’t like him one bit. I think I hate him even more than your average jock. There’s something especially sleazy and self-serving about him, and it’s so strong it comes right through to his physical appearance.
“Dave’s not here either,” yells one of the swimmers in the pool.
“Damnit all to hell,” yells the assistant coach, stomping his foot hard against the tiled deck, looking a bit like some cartoon character.
“Dude, don’t tell on Anchor. What are you, in fifth grade?”
“If Anchor’s not here, you guys better fucking tell me,” screams the assistant coach, stomping his foot once again. “Because he’s the only fucking chance we have of winning the next meet.”
There are some groans from the swimmers. Some roll their eyes.
“I’m not sure Anchor’s going to be racing,” says Spellman. “I was just telling coach how Anchor and Dave stole the Friedman statue…”
“You did what?” screams the assistant coach. “Why the hell would you tell him that, Spellman? Now he might not let Anchor race during the meet. And we sure as hell need Anchor a lot more than we need you, Spellman. Why didn’t you tell coach that you stole the Freidman statue yourself? We sure as hell don’t need your ass in the race.”
There are groans from the swim team. I could tell that they knew they needed this “Anchor” character too, whoever he was.
“But, he broke the campus rules,” says Spellman, in an unappealing pleading tone of voice.
Suddenly there’s a commotion. The swimmers are all laughing at something that’s outside of the pool, on the deck, but still under where I’m sitting, so I can’t see. They’re laughing and hooting and hollering, and looking like they’ve all just gotten the best gift of their lives.
“It’s Anchor!” says one swimmer, pointing, as if the others can’t see.
“He’s got the Freidman statue with him!” says another.
Suddenly, Anchor is in view, along with his friend Dave.
At first, I don’t recognize them. They’re wearing swim briefs like the rest, and they’re dragging that huge statue from the middle of campus. It looks like they sawed off the bottom of it crudely. They must be strong to be dragging this thing.
I’m caught up for a moment in admiring this Anchor character, whoever he is. He’s almost completely naked in his swim briefs, with the school crest emblazoned on the ass. It’s made of tight black material that’s stretched taught across his shapely buttocks. He is incredibly muscular, but not in a bulky body builder kind of way. Instead, it seems like each of his muscles has been used for an actual purpose, rather than just lifting weights over and over again.
It’s amazing watching his muscles work in unison as he drags the statue to the very edge of the pool.
His swimmer mates in the pool are still hollering and calling his name, acting like he’s some sort of folk hero. I see the admiration in their eyes, and feel a little bit of it myself, for this Anchor character, despite myself… He is, after all, just a dumb jock who pulled off a dumb and destructive prank.
Anchor climbs up to the top of the statue like a monkey, his muscles bulging and tensing as he does so. He sure does have a nice body. I feel myself getting excited. I can feel the physical response working deep inside me, causing a warm feeling that I haven’t felt in a long time… It’s been a long time since I’ve been wit
h a man. I’ve been so busy working for the paper that I’ve completely shut that part of me out of my life. I’ve completely clamped down the sexual part of me. I just hope it doesn’t come tearing out of me when I least expect it.
Suddenly, in a flash, I recognize him. He’s in exactly the same pose he was in last night when I was walking through campus alone, and that asshole jock started harassing me.
The warm sexual feeling inside me changes in an instant to anger, pure anger and rage.
I knew I hated jocks for a good reason. What assholes, accosting me like that.
“Look at me,” shouts Anchor, before making a spectacular dive off the top of the statue, landing in the pool without so much as a single little splash.
The whole swim team applauds and whoops, including the assistant coach.
“I hope they’re letting you race in the meet,” hollers the assistant coach, with a look of expectant adoration on his wide face.
“Of course,” shouts Anchor. “What would you guys do without Anchor, anyway? Coach knows better than to shut me out like that.”
What a cocky bastard. Who talks to themselves in the third person like that? Only someone with a really inflated ego, which this Anchor character clearly has.
Now I catch a glance of Anchor’s friend Dave, who is quietly sliding into the pool, without much fan fair at all. He looks exhausted from the effort of dragging the huge stone statue, while Anchor probably never looked fresher.
Now I remember. It wasn’t Anchor who was harassing me exactly. It was his sidekick, this Dave character, this weak-eyed Sancho Panza.
Anchor was actually trying to defend me. I feel a little bit of… something. I’m not sure what it is. Is it some weird type of pride, that this character, who is so adored by everyone, made an effort to defend me against unwanted advances?
But I catch myself. I can’t possibly be admiring such a cocky jock, can I? Even if he did try to defend me, he was probably just doing it so he could get into my pants himself, just some sort of macho way of trying to impress me.
I’m annoyed at myself. I grab my bag full of books and leave in a huff, walking down the steps from the balcony at a tilt, leaning to the side of my heavy books.
5
Anchor
I don’t think anyone else notices her, but how could I not?
What is she doing up in the balcony, watching us?
There’s no doubt in my mind it’s the same girl from the night before. I think I’ve seen her around somewhere, now that I think about it. Maybe I’ve seen her in the library sometime when I had to pretend to be studying… Or, more likely, when I needed a quick place to hook up with one of the swim fans.
There’s really nothing like the library when you need a private spot, when you’re caught in a pinch. Deep in the stacks, down in the lower levels of the basement, there’s hardly ever anyone. And if there is someone there, they’re likely just fucking their drunk brains out like I was that night.
I can’t remember exactly what she was doing in the library. Does she work there, or is she just one of those library nerds who’s always hanging around with a bag full of books and studying?
But I know she’s the girl from last night, the girl that Dave was so callously hitting on.
I knew there was something special about her that night, and now that I see her again, my suspicions are only confirmed.
She’s certainly not doing herself any favors the way she’s dressing. But I know she’s sexy… Sexy in a way that most girls can’t pull off.
I do a couple laps with the team, passing two guys, even though I’m not supposed to, and when I finish, she’s gone, totally disappeared.
“Coach needs to speak to you,” says Clug, the assistant coach.
“I just talked with him before practice.”
“He probably wants to know why the hell you brought that statue with you into the pool to practice,” he says, but he’s not angry. I can tell he thinks the whole thing is just too funny. Clug has always been on my side, even though sometimes he has to put on a straight face in front of coach. Clug is really one of the guys. He’s even come out partying with us once or twice. He can chug more beers in a row than anyone I’ve ever seen.
“You wanted to see me again, coach?” I say, entering coach’s office, still just wearing my swim briefs and towel.
“Don’t you have any sense to change before coming in here?”
“I thought it was urgent,” I say, dripping some water onto the tiled floor.
“Just don’t sit down, damnit,” says Coach.
But grumpiness doesn’t mean anything. He’s always like this.
“So even after I essentially pardoned you and Dave, you thought it’d be a good idea to take the statue into the pool, to show off your little heist?”
I can’t help but laugh.
“This isn’t funny, Anchor. I’m still going to let you race, as you know.”
“Thanks, Coach. I mean, there’s going to be a scout from the Olympics there and everything for me. I’m basically on the team already, but they need to see me one more time or something. I think they just want to copy some of my techniques.”
“Yes, yes,” says Coach, waving his hand dismissively. “You’ve told me, and no doubt everyone else, all about the Olympics. Listen kid, you’re not there yet. You’ve got a lot of work to do before you make the team, let alone the practice summer session. I’ve seen swimmers come and go, and sure, you’re one of the best I’ve ever seen, but that doesn’t mean…”
“It’s OK, Coach. I already know I’m making the team.”
“Wow, you won’t listen to anything or anyone, will you?”
I shake my head with a smile on my face.
“Just try to wipe that cocky smile off your face during the meet, for your own sake. The Olympics is serious, and the USA team doesn’t tolerate your kinds of shenanigans.”
That’s not what I’ve heard about the recent Olympic teams. They seem like they’re even bigger party animals than I am.
“I’ve got a job for you, Anchor. And you’ve got to do it if you want to stay on the team.”
“What, you’re going to make me clean the filters again, and add the chlorine in the pool every morning?” That’s exactly what coach made me do last time I got into trouble. In the end, it wasn’t so bad. I managed to convince Dave to wake up at 4 in the morning and do it for me. As punishments go, it didn’t work out so bad.
“There’s some kind of student reporter, a senior, who wants to do a piece on the swim team.”
“Finally,” I say. “It’s about time they did an article on me, the best swimmer the college has ever had.”
“One of the best,” says coach, emphasizing ‘one.’ “And no, she’s not doing a story on you, you arrogant prick. She’s doing a story on the whole swim team. You’re not the only one doing good work, Anchor. Anyway, I get the feeling she’s trying to paint us in a bad light. I had a weird feeling from her this morning when she came into my office, so I did a little digging, and read through most of the articles she’s written for the paper. They’re all available on the web site. I’d suggest you read them, but I know you can’t be bothered too much with reading. It’s too taxing for your pretty little thick skulled head.”
I shake my head. No, reading some boring articles is definitely not how I want to spend my time.
“Anyway, this is your punishment: You’re going to spend time with her. Show her the ropes. She doesn’t know anything about sports, let alone swimming. I know from her articles that she doesn’t have a good attitude towards sports at all. She’s one of these academic types that wants to paint us all as idiotic jocks. She hasn’t minced her words in the past, and I’m sure she’s already drafting up a scorching report on the swim team. You’re going to trail her, keep an eye on her, whatever you want to call it. Don’t let her get far from you at all.”
“But why me, coach? I’m probably just the sort o
f cocky jock she hates, right?”
Coach nods his head. “That’s true, Anchor, and we all know you’re a real son of a bitch with a big head. But I’ll even admit that you’ve got a certain special charisma. And you’ve got a way with the ladies. But! And I’m warning you. Do not sleep with her! Whatever you do, don’t sleep with her. I know how much the girls like you, and that’s what we’re going for here. I want her to like you, and to write up a favorable article about us. But once you sleep with them, everything always goes down hill. You just can’t keep to one girl. If you pull this off, we’re going to get a lot more money for the team.”
“But coach…” I don’t know how to say what it is I want to say.
“I know what you’re going to say, Anchor. You’re a selfish bastard by nature, right? What’s in it for you if you’re going to graduate soon and move on to bigger things, right?”
I don’t answer, but coach can read it in my face. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.
“Here’s the deal, Anchor. You do this well, and the article comes out good, and I’ll put in a good word for you with the Olympic scout. If you fuck it all up, then no Olympics for you, I’ll make sure of that.”
My mouth is hanging open. I don’t know what to say. How could he? How could he threaten me, Anchor, the best swimmer the team’s ever had?
“I’ve certainly told the team before, Anchor, but I’m sure as hell you weren’t listening, since you never are, but I was in the Olympics myself. I wasn’t too bad. I was a hell of a lot of better than you are now. I’ve got some pull with the Olympics coach. We were on the team together back in the day, if you can believe it. I know the scout personally. Yeah, I know you thought it was big news to me when you came and told me about your chances at the Olympics, but the coach always calls me before he calls you. I’ve got more pull than you, Anchor.”
I’m lost for words. Finally, I manage to say, “Where’s the girl?”
Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Page 3
