“They gave up on him? What do you mean?”
Releasing a heavy sigh, he looks out the large window. It makes me wonder what he’s looking for. Relief? Answers? A moment’s respite from all the heavy feelings? I don’t know, can’t say for sure, but when his attention returns to me he looks tired.
“They forced him into rehab three times. It was easy while he was still a minor. But then he turned eighteen and they, uh…they gave up.” Lost in thought, he shakes his head. “Stopped trying to get through to him. They threatened to have him arrested if he came by the house…cut him out of the family like he was already dead to them.”
My hand automatically moves to cover my mouth. “That’s…” I eat my words, not sure what’s okay to say or not say. I’m appalled that anyone would do that to their own son. But does he want to hear that I think his parents are monsters? Probably not.
“Fucked up,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. It is.”
“You’re close? With your brother?”
“Used to be.”
A commiserative silence falls between us.
“I don’t remember my mother,” dribbles out of me. “She died when I was five…cancer,” I add before he can ask. Because inevitably everyone asks.
His head turns, he holds my startled gaze. Startled because I don’t talk about my mother. Not to anyone. Mostly because of what I just confessed to a basic stranger. “I can’t remember anything about her.” I shrug. “Except that I liked the sound of her voice and she would snuggle with me and watch movies.” I brush my damp palms on my denim miniskirt and shift uncomfortably. “It makes me feel guilty that I can’t remember her. That I can’t…miss her.”
“You were five––” I nod. “A baby. Why would you expect to remember her?”
Guilt is a strange thing, a self-inflicted wound that’s hard to heal because your own mind keeps opening it up.
“I don’t know, I just do. You can’t reason with guilt.”
His brow furrows. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”
His gaze cuts to my lips and the silence thickens again, buzzing with pent-up sexual tension. I can’t be the only one feeling it. The air around us pulses with it, my body becoming increasingly aware of the lack of space between us. Heat travels south of my waist and north to my face.
Not a moment later reality intrudes in the form of a sharp knock. “Reagan?” a girl’s voice calls out. It puts a quick end to the heat.
Reagan places his index finger to his mouth gesturing for me to stay quiet while some heavy eyes-to-lips contact happens.
On the other side of his door, the girls speak in hushed voices. More is said that we can’t make out. Then we both hear a distinguishable, “Whatever. He’s not in his bedroom. Come on, Kaitlyn. Let’s check the beach.”
At the sound of footsteps moving away, he gets up and retrieves a water bottle out of a small refrigerator. “Want one?”
“No. I’m good.” But I’m not good. I’m irked. He doesn’t even have to go out for it. The “smorgasbord” has legs, probably long tan ones, and it comes to him.
He drains the entire bottle in a few long gulps, chucks it into a bin, and lies back down. Closer this time––a lot closer. Every nerve ending in my body starts calculating exactly how close.
“You missed the party,” he says, voice low and raspy.
“I’m not much of a party girl.”
I’ve always been more of a one-on-one person. Parties force me to seek out conversation and that’s not my jam. I’m more of a hang-back-and-observe kinda girl. “I always end up hanging in a corner, wondering why I’m at a party in the first place.” More heated glances get exchanged, making me increasingly more uncomfortable. “Anyway, my friends are probably looking for me. I should, umm…get going.”
“Do you guys need a ride back? I only had the one beer. I can drive.”
“No. That’s alright. Dora’s the designated driver.” A question crosses his face. “A friend,” I answer. “We live in the same dorm suite.”
He gets off the bed and I throw my legs over the side, reach for my crutch. He beats me to it, props it up for me, and holds out his other hand, palm up.
I stare at it the same way I stared at it the first time he offered it to me. At the ridge of calluses, the pale skin of his long thick fingers. What would it feel like to have those hands all over my body? This time I don’t want to refuse.
I place my hand in his and his fingers, warm and strong, close around it. He pulls me up and doesn’t let go until I’m safely balanced on my one crutch. Our bodies are only inches apart. And while his eyes say go, the rest of his face holds a fair bit of reluctance.
“Bailey…”
“Yeah…”
He sighs deeply, gaze flickering over my features. “I can’t do relationships. I can’t. I have medical school next year and…” His voice fades, lips fall shut. His gaze stays on me shuttered, reserved.
Even though I am painfully aware that I am not the type of girl he dates, it’s hard to hear it said out loud. I turn redder than hot sauce. Regardless, he’s right. We both have goals to accomplish and lives leading in separate directions. I can’t lose sight of that. I only have so much time and money.
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. A lot of guys your age struggle with it. Just keep working on it and you’ll be fine. There are a lot of books on the subject. Maybe there’s even a TED talk you could watch on YouTube.”
A wide grin splits his face in two. The first true carefree grin all night. “I guess I deserve that.”
“We’re good, Flipper. I’m not looking for one, either.” Which is mostly the truth. I’m not looking, but if one finds me I’d go with it.
A faint smile remains. “Thanks for keeping me company. I really wasn’t in the mood to be out there”––he tips his chiseled chin at the door––“tonight.”
Despite all the inconvenient heat between us, I can be his friend…and I can let him be mine. “Thanks for giving me your corner to hang in.”
“It’s yours, Bailey. Anytime.”
“Only friends, then.” Because sorry not sorry––I am not about to become part of his walking buffet.
He goes to speak and pauses. Nods. “Friends.”
Chapter 12
Reagan
I walk into the aquatics center ten minutes before practice is due to start. Our head coach practically built this house. Five of the seven NCAA championship banners draped along the walls are a testament to not only his skill as a coach, but also as a motivator.
The guys are already either undressing by the bench or stretching. Armed with a heavy dose of resolve, I approach Coach Becker as he’s nearing the pool. I figure if I got him in public he’d have less of a chance to think through what I’m about to ask of him.
“Coach, can I talk to you?” I murmur. No way do I want the guys sticking their noses in this. Coach eyeballs my neutral expression. I’m not giving anything away until I’m good and ready.
“Gimme a minute, Reynolds,” he tells me, then scans the crowd milling around the edge of the pool. “Van Zant?” he shouts. “Where the fuck’s Van Zant?” Coach searches us one by one. “Moss?”
Warner stops stretching. “Yeah, Coach?”
“You seen him?”
“No, sir,” Moss returns immediately.
“Reynolds?”
“No, sir.”
Coach grimaces. The guys glance around the group. Mostly because they all know the drill––if one of us is in the doghouse, we all are.
The name Terry Becker is synonymous with legend in men’s water polo and it’s well-earned. He’s won everything there is to win. An Olympic medal. The coveted Peter J. Cutino award as the nation’s best player while he was at Cal. Five championships as a head coach.
He doesn’t suffer fools and he has even less tolerance for guys that aren’t serious about this sport. Which is why he flushes deep red all the way to his graying blond hairline when he sees Dallas stroll through the double doors without a care in the world.
“Here,” Dallas shouts. He does not have the look of a guy that’s five minutes late to practice and on the verge of being eaten alive by Coach Becker. “Sorry, Coach. Late getting back from an appointment in Beverly Hills.” He shucks off his t-shirt and shorts.
Coach plants his hands on his hips, a twitch pulling at the corner of his left eye. “Getting your hair highlighted?”
“No, sir. These are natural,” Dallas answers flatly and points to his head. “Thanks to Brenda Van Zant.” Then he cannonballs into the water and the rest of us groan because we know what’s coming next.
Guys come from Hungary, Montenegro, even as far away as Australia to make this team. There’s a string of them sitting on the bench ready to take Dall’s place at a moment’s notice. And yet, despite all the stunts he pulls, Coach has yet to bench him because Dallas is by far the best driver we have. Quick as lightning and just as deadly.
So he’ll make the rest of us suffer instead.
Coach nods slowly. “In honor of Van Zant’s oversized testicles the rest of you ladies will now do an extra fifteen minutes of eggbeater intervals. I want you crossing the length of the pool and outta the water waist high.”
More groans.
Heads swivel in Dall’s direction and everybody issues death warrants with their eyeballs. Unfazed, Dallas shakes out his hair and flips them off, double-handed.
“You, Van Zant, will be benched for the first quarter of the game this weekend.”
I never thought I’d see the day. And by the sound of the quiet gasps and muted murmurs, neither did any of the other guys.
“What?!” Dallas shouts, all trace of amusement dropping from his face.
“You heard me, princess. Everybody in the water while I speak to Reynolds.” He waves me over. “Let’s hear it, son.”