“What can I say?” I say.
We keep fucking for about a minute, but it doesn’t last too long, which is good, considering the risks we’re taking with this little inter-meet session.
“I’m coming,” pants Allison.
Suddenly, she’s moaning and thrashing around, between me and the wall, bucking her hips wildly.
I massage her breast, and kiss her neck as she comes.
“Matt Belver on deck,” says the loudspeaker, which I can only hear slightly, the sound significantly muffled coming through the locker room door, and drowned out even more by the sound of the shower.
“Shit,” I say. “I’ve got to go.” But a second later, I realize I can’t go just yet.
And that’s because I’m coming. Coming like I never have before. It feels like a flood is being released inside me, a flood meant for one special girl, and that’s Allison.
I buck my hips, pushing my cock deep inside her, and I remain still, frozen and unable to move, as it pumps out of me.
“Wow,” says Allison, her thrashing dying down.
“How was that for you?” I say, already knowing the answer.
“Wow,” she says.
“I’ve got to go,” I say.
“So fast?”
“I’m supposed to be out there already. I’m on deck. I’m racing in just a couple minutes, maybe less.”
She slaps my ass as I pull out of her, and start running towards the locker room door, pulling my swim briefs up as I do so.
“You’ve gotten a lot saucier since the last time,” I say, turning my head to yell at her.
As I push the door open to the pool, there’s someone there, about to come into the locker room.
I turn and look behind me, seeing Allison leaving through the other door, which is at the opposite end of the hallway, and which leads to the rest of the building, where the stairway is to the balcony.
“Who’s that?” says Spellman, peering over my shoulder. He doesn’t have as good of a build as me, or even Dave, for that matter, but he’s tall. Tall and gangly, and a real piece of work.
“Why don’t you mind your own Goddamn business, Spellman?” I say.
“Isn’t that the student reporter? What’s she doing in the locker room with you, right before our relay race?” Spellman has an evil glint in his eye that I know all too well. I can’t count how many times he’s had that same glint in his eye while catching me in the middle of something I shouldn’t be doing. And every time, without fail, he tells coach on me.
“What the hell are you doing here anyway, Spellman?”
“I’m on your relay team, Matt, and you weren’t anywhere in sight, so they sent me to look for you.”
“I guess they always send the least important member of the team. And why can’t you call me Anchor, like everyone else?”
“Because I don’t believe this little bullshit hero aura you’ve created around yourself,” he says. “I’ve been on to you since our first day on campus.”
“So that’s why you think you’ve been following me around, trying to get me in trouble? You’re jealous, is that it?”
“I don’t know how I could be jealous of a phony like you,” he says.
I can feel myself getting angry. The good feeling from the sex with Allison is vanishing rapidly, and it’s being replaced by anger. All the times Spellman has told on me come flashing back in my memory. Why does this guy have to be such a dick? I just don’t get it. I’ve never done anything to him, but apparently my mere presence is enough to annoy him so much that he’ll go out of his way to fuck with me.
“Stop fucking with me, and let’s go race,” I say. “We’re going to win this thing, whether you’re on the team or not.”
“Take that back,” says Spellman, standing a little on his toes, trying to make himself look a little taller, and more threatening, I guess, but all I see is a gangly uncoordinated swimmer who has barely enough talent to stay on the team.
“No,” I say, simply. “Let’s go race.” I try to push my way past him, but he’s blocking my way, holding on to the doorframe for support.
“Take it back,” he says again, like an idiotic automaton. He gives me a push in the chest.
“Asshole, we’re on the same team. We’re probably supposed to be up on the blocks.”
“You sure think you’re some hot shit. You think the team can’t do without you.” He gives me another push, harder this time, and I slip a little on the wet floor. But I regain my balance before falling.
“They call me Anchor because I’m indispensible, asshole,” I say, as I swing my right arm around, turning my hips as I do so, to put all my weight behind my punch. I’ve had enough of this piece of shit, and I can’t contain my anger any longer.
The punch connects with the side of his face before he has time to do anything.
16
Allison
I’ve just climbed the last stair, and I take a moment to pat down my hair and adjust my glasses before pushing open the door to the balcony area.
“You get some good notes?” says Dave, smiling at me in a way that doesn’t immediately tell me whether he knows what happened or not.
But I’m just being paranoid. After all, he can suspect and insinuate all he wants, but there’s no way he could really know what happened. And if he does find out, what the hell do I care?
“I got some good quotes for the article,” I say. “Any developments in the race?”
“I’m glad you’re meeting with some of the individual swimmers, but also trying to get an overall picture of the team by coming to one of the games. I think you’re going about this right way, Allison.”
“Thanks, Professor Beaumont.”
“Hey Prof, they’re called meets, not games,” says Dave.
“Well, that’s why she’s writing the article, and not me. I’ve never been a sports guy.”
“That’s clear enough.”
“Show him a little respect, Dave,” I say, giving him a light whack on his head with my journalist pad, which I pulled out of my bag as I was coming up the stairs, to make it look like I actually was taking notes, rather than fucking Anchor’s brains out.
Dave and Beaumont leave me alone for a moment. Both seem to be interested enough in the meet that they’re not paying me much attention right now, which is good, because it’s hard to keep this secret inside me while trying to have a normal conversation. I’m just glad they didn’t seem to catch on that I just had the hottest sex of my life minutes ago.
I don’t know what happened to me, but I felt more free than I ever have before down there in the locker room. The last time Anchor and I had sex, I felt somewhat shy and reserved, but this time I was nothing like that at all. I was a new me, the kind of person I’ve always secretly wanted to be, the kind of person who gets what she wants, and takes it without apologizing.
Despite feeling pretty good, not to mention satisfied, I immediately start second-guessing what just happened. No, there’s no way I’m second-guessing the sex, but what about the whole “I love you thing?” This is typical me, since I can be a nervous wreck, at least in my head. No one else might ever notice it, but I sure as hell do. Does Anchor really love me, or was he just saying that to get laid, or, rather, to continue getting laid? Is that something he tells all the girls he’s slept with?
Dave’s obnoxious voice cuts through my little anxious daydream. “What the hell’s happening? Spellman is supposed to be racing. Where is he? And where’s Anchor? Shit!”
“The coach appears to be yelling at one of the team members,” says Beaumont, pointing down to the deck.
Sure enough, the coach is yelling at someone. I sure heard him grumble a lot the time we met in his office, but he had such a tired air about him, that of a poorly-aging jock, that I would never have thought it possible for him to actually raise his voice so much. But he sure is raising it. Even with all the normal sounds of a swim meet, he would h
ave been quite audible all the way up here.
But as it happens, everyone on deck by the pool is completely silent. They’re in between events right now, and even the guys running the show, with the starter guns, have completely paused, just to stare at the coach.
He’s yelling so loud. Who’s he yelling at?
“You fucking idiot! How could you do it? I don’t give a shit if you don’t like him. You can’t injure your own fucking teammate. You know what? I’ve never liked you or your fucking face or your stupid fucking nickname, but I haven’t ever punched you, right? Although I really want to right now. Fucking idiot!”
Someone in the row in front of me shifts to get a better look, and it opens up a better view for me.
I can see who the coach is screaming at.
It’s Anchor.
Of course it’s Anchor. Who else would it be? But who did he punch out?
I catch a glimpse of something else. It’s EMTs carrying someone on a stretcher.
“No way!” says Dave, practically yelling in excitement. “It’s Spellman! He’s knocked out Spellman. Jesus Christ, and their relay is next.”
The coach is still yelling at Anchor.
I can see Anchor talking calmly with the coach, but I can’t hear what he’s saying, since it seems like he’s talking in a normal tone of voice. His body language reads neutral. He doesn’t seem upset at all, even with the coach now yelling directly into his face. The coach’s own face is a shade of deep red, and his cheeks are swollen as he uses them to draw in air for his next round of insults.
“What’s going to happen?” I say, leaning over to Dave.
“Dunno,” says Dave, shrugging his shoulders. He’s laughing his head off at the whole thing.
“Isn’t this serious?” I say, careful to keep my voice down a little, in case the Olympic scout a couple rows in front of us overhears me. Although there’s no way in the world that the scout can possibly have missed the scene unfolding down below.
Dave stops laughing for just a moment to answer me. “Been in trouble before,” he says, now stuffing his face with some chips he’s brought out of his backpack.
Anchor calmly walks away from the coach, who’s still yelling at him.
==
I can hear the coach’s words drifting up here to the balcony. “You’re off the fucking team. You hear that, Anchor? And there’s no way in hell you’re racing this relay. I don’t give a shit if the scout is here just for you. You’re nothing but a spoiled brat with a huge ego.”
I feel the anger rising inside me. I feel myself siding with Anchor, no matter what he did. I don’t care what he did. He could do anything and I would still be on his side, no matter what. That’s how close I feel to him right now. No doubt, it has a lot to do with him taking me like that in the locker room. There’s some kind of special connection between us now, even if he is kind of a cocky arrogant prick…sometimes, at least. Not all the time. No, not all the time.
Anchor’s talking to someone else on the swim team, and this new guy follows Anchor to the blocks at the end of the swimming pool.
Everyone is watching the scene unfold with a morbid kind of silent fascination.
The coach is still screaming at Anchor.
“Don’t you dare get on that block! I absolutely forbid you from racing in this relay. I don’t give a shit if we lose the fucking meet. You can’t knock out other swimmers, let alone your own teammates, whether or not you like them. Spellman is the only one around here who has any kind of conscience. He’s the only one who ever gave a shit about the team, and you obviously don’t. You just care about yourself.”
Coach is still red in the face, but Anchor’s talking calmly to the officials, who are nodding their heads, ignoring, for the moment, the screaming coach.
“Are they going to let him race?” I say,
“Looks like it,” says Dave. “Anchor has a way of convincing people to do what he wants, no matter what the situation. I’ve never seen anything like this, though.”
“Who does he have there on the relay team to replace Spellman?”
“It’s Chucky,” says Dave. “He’s just a freshman, and he’s not too good. It’s a real shame Anchor knocked out Spellman, since even Spellman is faster than Chucky. But I guess no one else wants to go against the coach. Chucky’s always had a kind of rebel streak in him though, from what I can tell. To tell the truth, I’ve never talked to him too much. He’s always at the parties though. Good guy, from what I can tell.”
“You think they have a chance? You think the coach is really going to kick Anchor off the team?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But if Anchor goes ahead with this and races, defying the coach in front of everyone, then I can’t see him staying on the team.”
“That’s not good for his potential Olympic career, right?” I say.
Dave just shakes his head.
He actually looks worried now.
“You getting all this, Allison?” says Beaumont, gesturing to my pad.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, hastily flipping open my pad of paper, to make it at least look like I’m interested in this just for the article, rather than for very personal reasons.
The race is going to go ahead. The coach is still standing there, yelling, still furious. He’s yelling now at the officials, and finally one of them comes over and escorts him over to the other side of the pool, away from the relay team.
Anchor’s standing there at the end of the line of the four guys. The first one is the freshman, Chucky, and he’s up on the blocks. He looks a little clumsy there, like he’s a bit unbalanced, and doesn’t even know how to handle himself on a block yet. He’s even skinnier than Spellman, and a lot ganglier. He hasn’t yet had the four years of college swim team practice that the others have, that helped them build up the massive musculature most of them have.
Anchor looks immensely calm. Even though we just fucked, I can’t help but feeling my desire growing again for him, as I watch him there, standing like he’s so sure of himself, with his big back and shoulder muscles moving just right during the stretches.
“Looks like they’re going ahead with the race,” says Dave, settling down into a hunched posture, with his neck craning forward, intent on seeing everything that’s happening.
The gun goes off, and the swimmers all dive into the water.
It doesn’t look good for our team right from the start.
Chucky the freshman is many feet behind by the time he hits the water.
He looks even clumsier in the water than on land, if that’s even possible. He doesn’t even seem to have mastered the basics of swimming competitively, let alone swimming for fun. It’s amazing he’s even on the team, I think.
“Shit,” says Dave, a frown growing across his face. “Chucky fucking sucks. Probably too much pressure. He’s swimming even worse than normal.”
“I thought you said he was a rebel? I thought he’d like pressure.”
“I guess he just wants to be a rebel.”
“What’s the matter?” says Beaumont. “Looks like he’s in second place.”
I shake my head, trying not to let Beaumont see my expression of amazement. He’s obviously not even aware of which team is ours, since he’s looking at a different swimmer altogether.
Dave just ignores Beaumont’s comment.
By the time Chucky’s done, the team is almost half a pool length behind. Chucky climbs out of the pool, looking totally spent.
The next swimmer isn’t doing much better, but he manages to shorten the gap a little bit.
“Maybe they still have a chance,” I say.
Dave doesn’t say anything.
The third swimmer, though, isn’t much faster than Chucky, and the time that the second swimmer made up is gone, and the team is farther behind than ever.
By the time Anchor’s on deck, every other team’s forth member is already in the water.
It doesn’t look like
there’s any way Anchor’s going to make it. After all, he’s far, far behind.
From my perspective, it looks like all the other teams are practically at the finish, at the end of the pool already. Of course, I’m forgetting that they have to do a couple more laps. I’ve completely lost track of how many laps they have to do.
Dave, though, looks like he’s counting laps on his fingers.
I don’t dare ask Dave right now, since he seems like he might snap if someone breaks his concentration. I’ve always seen Dave as just a complete idiot, an arrogant prick but without the muscle and brains to back it up like Anchor can. But now, I see him suddenly as a really good friend. He obviously really cares if Anchor wins. Although, then again, he is on the same swim team, and maybe he just wants his team to win.
Beaumont doesn’t seem to be able to concentrate, and I can understand the feeling. If I don’t have a seriously vested personal interest in Anchor, I doubt I’d be interested in following these swimmers at all.
Anchor dives incredibly far into the water, hitting it with little resistance, very little splash.
His long arms are swinging like wind turbines, and his body seems to be sliding forward through the water without any effort. He’s cruising alone, obviously going faster than the others.
He’s already overtaken one.
Now another.
“Holy shit,” exclaims Dave, jerking his body back in excitement, knocking his crutches to the floor as he does so. But he’s too excited to pick them up. “I’ve never seen even Anchor swim like this.
“He’s going fast, then, is he?” says the clueless Beaumont. He should really stick to what he knows best, although to his credit, this is pretty much what he does.
Suddenly, Anchor has overtaken everyone but one swimmer, who’s about a foot in front of him.
They’re both rushing towards the end of the pool, and this is the last lap in the whole race.
With furious kicking, water going absolutely everywhere, Anchor suddenly pulls ahead.
He’s won.
“Holy shit, he won!” screams Dave, jumping up, and nearly toppling over again.
Filthy Royal Page 27
