“Oh, but honey,” chimes in her mother. “Didn’t you say you wanted to go out dancing tonight with some of the other divers?” She splits an anxious glance between me and Margot. “It’s great to work hard, but shouldn’t you have a little downtime? You’re in Tokyo!”
Margot’s father is already shaking his head. “We’re here for diving. Not to party.”
I haven’t said anything because my teeth are clenched too tightly to speak.
Dancing?
Margot out dancing with men in a foreign city?
This is the first I’m hearing about it. Everything is supposed to be run past me. Everything from what she ate for breakfast to her menstrual cycle. I live, sleep and breathe this girl—and she knows it. Her cheeks are flushed at being outed by her mother, her gaze ticking to mine and dancing away nervously. “It was just a possibility. I wasn’t going dancing for sure.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to deny her the night out.
But I’ve been a little too possessive lately with Margot’s time. I’ve been getting away with it because we were preparing for the Olympics, but soon we’ll be back in Austin and I’ll need to draw back on the monumental amount of time I’ve been spending with her. It’s going to kill me. I love picking her up and driving her to the pool first thing in the morning. I love being the last voice she hears at night when she calls me to confirm she’s going to sleep.
Little does she know, I’m usually parked down the block, listening to her move around in bed via the microphone I taped beneath her nightstand.
Jesus, this obsession has gone so far.
Do I really have a hope in hell of reining it in?
Realizing Margot and her parents are watching me expectantly, I cough into a fist. “She needs to get rubbed down by one of the trainers. We practiced a lot today and I don’t want her muscles stiff in the morning. I’ll walk her back to the village afterward.” I force the next part out even though it makes me see red. “If Margot wants to go dancing after that, it’s up to her.”
She breaks into a smile, hopping around and clapping.
Excited to have a night of freedom.
Blissfully unaware that I’ll be watching her every move.
Chapter 2
Margot
I walk barefoot down the concrete tunnel leading to the physical therapy area.
Coach Everett is right behind me. Following silently.
More and more frequently I’ve been getting this hot, anxious feeling. Like I have an itch that I can’t find or scratch and it never goes away. It’s always at its worst in moments like this, when I’m about to be alone with my coach.
Because we both know the physical therapist already left for the day. Hours ago.
I don’t know why we both insist on keeping up this pretense, as if we both aren’t very aware that he’s about to massage my sore muscles in the deserted therapy room.
It’s my favorite and least favorite part of the day.
Favorite because I love Everett’s hands on me. I crave them there, kneading the knots out of my calves and shoulders and thighs. He’s the only one who can do it right, sensing exactly where my aches are most significant.
Least favorite because I feel achy and disjointed afterwards. I don’t know what to do with myself. My body won’t calm down. Which is why I had the idea to go dancing with some of my fellow divers. Maybe if I exhaust myself, I’ll finally be able to get some decent rest. Sleep that I need if I want to win gold.
We turn the corner into the therapy room and it’s empty. There’s no sound, except for the slow drip of the sink faucet. The low buzz of the overhead light.
“He must have gone home for the day,” Everett says casually, his breath ghosting over my shoulders, which are still wet from the pool. “I’ll have to rub you down.” His voice has turned deep. So deep. He never uses this tone around my parents. Only when we’re alone. It lifts every hair on my body, makes my nerve endings quiver. “Lie on the table, Margot. Face down.”
This is the part of the day where I tell myself this is innocent.
He’s my coach.
He’s the best coach. Sought after by every competitive diver in my state.
Maybe all he wants is to unknot my muscles.
After all, it never goes any further than a massage. No matter how bad I’d like it to.
No matter how close he comes to my private places, he never touches them. Never crosses the line into…fondling. Or sex. It’s just a massage. Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. It’s just a functional part of his job. Priming the athlete.
If only I could see it that way.
If only he wasn’t so commanding and attractive and magnetic.