Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Roxeanne Rolling

  “Well, for one, you should be proud.”

  “Proud? For what?”

  “If what you said is true, and I believe it is, then this is your first draft. Yet it reads like some seriously professional copy from one of the best papers.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes,” says Beaumont, giving me a serious look. “You’re very talented, Allison.”

  “Shit, does this mean the article will get picked up by a regular paper?”

  Beaumont gives me a little laugh. “I don’t think we have to worry about that, Allison.”

  “Why not?” I say, getting a little mad. My pride is boiling up inside of me, despite the situation. After all, I really don’t want the article picked up by anyone else. It could seriously ruin Anchor’s chances for the Olympics.

  “It’s a great article in that it’s very well written. But it reads like a grudge letter. Someone with a personal grudge. I don’t think the other papers are going to be interested in something like that.”

  “Well…good,” I manage to say. But now I think of Anchor again. Shit, what am I going to do?

  “First thing’s first, Allison, you need to go find your boyfriend and explain this to him. If you’re serious about him, and want to keep him, you need to explain yourself fully. It’s going to take some serious convincing, but use your obviously strong verbal skills… And as for the article, you need to write another one. Take that draft you’ve been working on and beef it up. Make it the best article you’ve ever written. Make it so good that it’ll go national, and the Olympics coaches will have no choice but to bring him onto the team.”

  “Thanks, Professor Beaumont,” I say. “Thanks, I couldn’t have gone through this with out you.” I really mean it.

  “Get going,” he says, shooing me away with his arm, giving me a little half smile.

  I turn around and start running, completely having forgotten about finding my cell phone. My only thought is to find Anchor in person, and as fast as possible.

  Oh yeah, my cell phone is broken, anyway. It’s sitting in a landfill somewhere, still soaked through with water from the river I almost drowned in.

  Is he going to be at the pool?

  Somehow, my intuition tells me, “no.”

  I head to the swim house, running full speed across campus.

  When I get to the house, I’m completely out of breath.

  I stand outside a moment, almost doubled over from running, with a stich in my side. It’s been years since I’ve run at all. Shit, I’ve got to get back into shape. But that’s not what’s on my mind right now. It’s only Anchor. Anchor, Anchor, Anchor! Poor Anchor. He must think I’m the worst person in the world. I can only imagine what must be going on in his head? He probably thinks I’m just with him to get an article that will make me a professional. After all, everything I put in the article is stuff he told me in confidence.

  I look up, and suddenly realize something is going on in the swim house. Something that’s not normal for a school day morning.

  It appears to be a party. The biggest party I’ve ever seen, judging just from the outside of the house.

  The entire house is shaking on its foundations with the rumblings of what must be about three different songs playing simultaneously.

  The last time I was here for a party, there was a guy hanging out the window, if I remember right. This time, there are no less than three guys hanging out of various windows. God only knows what they’re doing!

  There are people rushing all around me, rushing into the house.

  “Party!” yells someone. He looks like a sophomore who I TA’d once in a writing class.

  I grab his sleeve as he runs by me.

  “What the hell’s happening in there?” I say.

  “Oh, hey, Allison. You here for the party?”

  “What party?”

  “The best party the campus has ever seen!”

  “In the morning? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Anchor got kicked off the team. You know Anchor? He’s the captain, the best swimmer they ever had. He got the whole team to cut practice, and they’ve invited practically the entire campus.”

  Oh shit, I think. This has got to have something to do with me. There’s just no way it can’t have something to do with me.

  25

  Anchor

  It’s the best party the campus has every seen. There are more people packed into the swim house than ever in its entire history.

  I can barely tell what’s going on. There are so many people around, most of them already wasted, and it’s still well before noon. The music’s so loud no one can hear anything except super strong bass lines. I convinced one of the rich kids to rig up some kind of super stereo, and the windows are rattling, threatening to shatter.

  “Best fucking party ever man,” yells Dave, directly into my ear. He’s somehow holding at least three beers, in addition to his crutches.

  I was pretty proud of myself at first, for being able to get the entire swim team, even Spellman, behind me…getting them to leave practice when I got kicked off the team, and getting them to help me throw the biggest fucking party ever.

  But now that the party’s actually raging, and I’ve had one or two beers, the excitement is draining from me completely.

  After all, I just found out I’m off the team. No matter what, no matter how I try to spin it to myself, there’s just no way I’m going to be on the Olympic team next year. Sure, getting benched is one thing, but getting kicked off? I just don’t see how they could accept me after this.

  But that’s only a shadow of my most serious problem: Allison. How could she do this to me? I just can’t wrap my head around it. I mean, I guess she was just using me all along to get dirt on the swim team. Either that, or she decided that while fucking me was nice, it just wasn’t as good as trying to ensure her place at The Journal by writing a vicious and cutthroat article about me and the entire swim team.

  I have the college paper crumpled up in my back pocket, and I take it out now, and try to read it, but people are dancing and jumping around wildly, jostling me every couple seconds.

  I take the paper and walk into the kitchen, hoping to get a little solace there, but it’s almost as packed as the rest of the house, despite the fact that it’s beyond all normal health code violations—it’s been described as an absolute pit of despair. That’s how fucking dirty and disgusting it is. That’s what you get when no one cleans it for a few decades. I don’t even know if it’s useable, and it smells strongly of natural gas. There’s probably been a leak here for years, but no one’s bothered to fix it, or even locate it. And it smells like mold, too, that strong kind of black mold that you don’t want to mess with, no matter who you are.

  The music is a little quieter in here. And I mean just a little. It’s still already hurting my ears.

  I’m really not in the mood to party right now. I hope no one tries to drag me into a dance or anything. The thoughts of Allison are just completely ruining my mood.

  I take out my cell phone to see if she’s called. But there’s no call. Not even a text. So she’s just going to stop talking to me after the article? Is that her plan?

  Someone’s bumping up against me, with big breasts that feel soft against my side. Is it Allison? My heart starts beating faster. I realize now I’m excited to see her. I’m not mad any more. I just want to be with her, and I want her to explain to me what happened. For some reason, I’ve calmed down. I know there must be some kind of explanation that makes sense.

  Knowing the connection we have, I know Allison wouldn’t do something like this on purpose. It must have been some kind of accident. I don’t know what kind.

  I recognize that this is some kind of personality shift for me. I’m not sure exactly how to describe it, but I’m pretty sure it’s a big deal.

  “Allison!” I say, turning towards the woman.

  But it’s not Allison.


  It’s someone else, some sorority girl who’s always hanging around the swim team.

  “So you’re the famous Anchor?” she says, sticking her chest out, arching her back, and puckering her lips. Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Allison, but this woman doesn’t seem the least bit attractive at all to me.

  “Get away from me,” I say.

  “Fucking asshole,” she says. She leaves, but not before throwing her drink in my face. It tastes like the cheapest vodka available, and it probably is.

  I’ve had enough of this fucking party. I just want to find Allison. I pick up my phone and try to call her, but there’s no answer.

  I work my way through the crowd in the kitchen, and finally get a little peace and quiet out here on the back steps that lead into the yard. It’s actually quite a nice yard, although a little overgrown. There are some trees that are starting to flower because it’s springtime. It’s the season of love and I’m sitting here alone.

  “There you are, Anchor!”

  “Hey, Allison,” I say. Despite the circumstances, her mere presence, just the sight of her, fills me with a joy that I can’t describe.

  “Listen, Anchor,” she says, as she sits down next to me on the wooden step. It creaks under our weight. “I didn’t want to send in that article. I wrote it while I was mad at you that first night…I want to be with you, and I’m so sorry…”

  She’s trying to get more words in, but I already know that I’ve forgiven her completely. I expected to confront her with anger, as I would have done in the past, but inside I feel calm and peaceful.

  “I’m happy you’re here,” I say. “I love you so much. Sure, at first I was mad. That’s how this whole party started, but it’s just turned into a disaster. The truth is, I deserve to be kicked off the swim team.”

  “You really think so? How can you not be mad at me?”

  “Well, like I said, I was mad at first. But…”

  There’s a wild screaming rising from inside the house.

  “Why don’t we get out of here?” I say.

  “Sure,” she says.

  We walk hand in hand away from the swim house, not even looking back towards it. We’re headed towards the campus.

  “What were you saying?”

  “I realized that you love me too much to do something like that to me intentionally.”

  “Wow, Anchor. First of all, I’m so sorry. I really am.” She tells me the whole story of how she wrote it in the email draft, and even offers to show me the document as proof.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I believe you completely. There’s no reason to show me the proof. I think you’ve changed me, Allison. You’ve made me realize that in a way swimming isn’t the most important thing to me.”

  “And what is?”

  “You,” I say, and I lean in and kiss her. It is a kiss for the movies, incredibly cinematic, the kind of kiss one of those old movie stars would give, although a little less aggressive, a little sweeter.

  “So you were kicked off the swim team?” she says, when we’re done kissing. She’s looking me right in the eyes, and I’m looking into hers. Hers are big and beautiful, and her eye lashes are flickering ever so slightly over her eyes...those beautiful long lashes.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s it for the Olympics. I’ll have to figure out something else to do.”

  “What if I wrote a new article, though? A really good one? I think I can write it well enough that it’ll be picked up by all the national papers. It’d be good for my career, and it might help get yours back on track.”

  “You’d do that for me?” I say.

  “Of course,” she says. “I’d do anything for you, Anchor.”

  26

  Allison

  Of course I’ll do anything for Anchor. And he’d do anything for me. I realize now that he’s changed so completely. After all, a couple months ago, I doubt he would have put anyone in front of his swimming career.

  I’m so lucky to be the chosen girl, the one that he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

  We talk briefly of marriage as we walk back to my dorm room. We’re walking without talking about where we’re headed. It’s understood implicitly that we’re headed to my room.

  The strange thing about it is that I think I’ve changed myself. I realize now that a jock like Anchor isn’t much different than me. He’s allowed me to open my heart up in ways I never thought possible.

  We fall onto my bed, and begin to cuddle, each of us facing the other. He’s got his arms around me, and is holding me tight. I feel so protected and calm in his arms.

  “What if this works?” he says.

  “What if what works? The relationship?”

  “I’m very sure it’s going to work out between us,” he says. “I just mean how are we going to manage it if your article works and I end up back on the Olympic team. We’ll be living far apart.”

  “I would have been worried about that just a week ago too,” I say. “But you’ve taught me a lot, Anchor, and one of the most important things is that sometimes you’ve just got to let things fall in place themselves. There’s no point in worrying too much about that until they actually happen.”

  He nods, as he leans in to kiss me.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “I’m the luckiest guy on the whole planet.”

  “I’m the luckiest woman,” I say, before kissing him back.

  We fall into an embrace, our arms moving around each other.

  His hand is caressing my body, running down and gripping my thigh.

  Things turn hot and heavy pretty quickly. Anchor is grabbing my buttocks, but it feels like a smooth and controlled grip, rather than a frantic one.

  A minute later, his hands are on my breasts and I moan with how good it feels. Although he was quite skilled already when we first met, he’s only gotten better at knowing exactly what turns me on. His timing couldn’t be more perfect.

  It’s as if the second I wish he would do something, he does it.

  His hand is up my shirt, his fingers circling my nipples.

  A few moments later, my clothes are all off.

  I grab his hefty belt buckle, and begin to undo it. I unzip his fly, and his large and thick cock springs out, already rock hard, already bulging, as if it can’t contain all the blood rushing into it.

  He’s on top of me, his chest pressed against my breasts. His chest feels hard and muscular, like warm steel. I run my fingers through the deep crevices between his abdominal muscles.

  I moan as he rubs the head of his cock against my outer lips. Next, he gently begins massaging my clitoris with his cock.

  “I need it now,” I say. “I need your cock.”

  “With pleasure, my lady,” he says, and despite how hot the situation is, I find myself giggling at his feigned British accent.

  He’s inside me, and it feels better than it’s ever felt before. It feels like his cock was made just to please me. It’s the perfect size and shape, and he moves it with precision, pushing all of my buttons.

  Anchor runs his hands through my hair, sweeping it behind my ears, behind my head.

  He’s kissing me on my neck, running his mouth down to my breasts. He’s lifted his torso up while thrusting into me, so that he can take my nipples in his mouth, sucking on them gently, then forcefully, then gently.

  We come together.

  I can feel Anchor’s cock spasming inside me as I begin to moan and arch my back.

  My hips buck up just as his cock floods the condom inside me.

  I’m thrashing wildly. This is the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever experienced. I’m grabbing onto him, around his buttocks, trying to pull his cock farther into me, deeper, deeper. Deeper! I need it deeper!

  Finally, it’s all over, and we fall exhausted onto the bed, still hugging each other as if our lives depend on it.

  27

  Allison

  Two
months later, we’re still together. And it looks like it’s going to stay that way. Things are going better than ever between us, and we’re both delighted. We’ve changed so much to accommodate each other, but we’ve found that the changes are things we needed individually. It’s as if we’ve become complete, by finding each other.

  I wrote the new article. I wrote the article like I’ve never written any article before. Beaumont told me himself he’d never seen a better piece of undergraduate work in his life. The best thing about the article is that it praised Anchor and the swim team to the point of adulation, while retaining a professionally even tone.

  The article was so good that The Journal and all the other national papers picked it up and ran it. Some of them ran it on the front page.

  Anchor ended up apologizing profusely to his coach for all the years of trouble, and they even went out for a couple beers.

  The Olympic head coach called Anchor personally the day my article hit the big papers and told him to pack his bags and head to the training camp.

  “What are we going to do?” said Anchor, after getting the call. He was more concerned with us remaining together than he was excited about being on the Olympic team.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “It’ll all work itself out.”

  And sure enough, it did.

  I got hired by The Journal. The call came right after Anchor received his Olympics call.

  “We’d really like you to join us on the paper. When can you start?” said the editor to me on the phone.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’d really loved to accept the position. I’ve dreamed of working for The Journal since I was a little girl. But I’m afraid I can’t accept the offer.”