“You may be the only one.” I give him a tired smile. “Hamilton has been an ass to me for years. Way before shit hit the fan last year. He and the Devils have carefully groomed the entire student body into hating me.”
“Then why are you doing it?” He wonders, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Is it worth it?”
Why? Because he talked me into it.
No, he orgasmed me into it.
I realize now that I probably just fell into his trap. I handed him the perfect opportunity to humiliate me on a weekly basis. None of the faculty or students could blame him for suddenly acknowledging my existence—Coach James was taking all the blame for that. This is just giving him VIP access to be a bigger dick to me than usual.
Except, of course, if it was a trap, he wasn’t the one setting it. I’m the one who hit him. I’m the one who jumped him. I’m the one who grinded on his dick until I came.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“I don’t know,” I tell Tyson, stabbing my fork into my salad, “maybe it’ll be fine. Or maybe it’ll be the dumbest decision I’ve made yet.”
This is doubtful. I’m pretty sure that ship already sailed last night in the locker room.
How much worse can things get?
Practice was hard. Everyone is tired and distracted once they’re gathered together following cooling down, hopefully enough that this goes more smoothly than I’m expecting. Hamilton’s already out of the water, the trainer strapping a bag of ice over his shoulder.
“Meet me after?” I whisper nervously to Tyson when he and the other divers join us.
“Sure,” he says, squeezing my hand.
It’s not enough to settle my nerves. I have a feeling this isn’t going to go well and my stomach twists anxiously. It only gets worse when I step up to stand next to Hamilton, which is better than facing him, because I don’t actually have to see his expression when Coach tells the team the decision.
Unfortunately, I can see Heston Wilcox’s face, along with most of the team. Heston looks absolutely floored, his regal blue eyes darting to Hamilton’s. It’s a mixture of shock and disbelief. I feel a little surprised, myself. I’d thought Hamilton would have told him.
My teammates are smart enough to keep their mouths shut while coach is around, but on the way back to the locker room, I hear whispers.
“Her? Seriously? What’s she going to do, guilt us to a championship?”
“God, we’ll have to watch everything we do now. Fucking snitch.”
“I feel so bad for Hamilton, now he’s gotta work with that bitch. She probably just wants to fuck him.”
“Heh, right? Who doesn’t?”
“You know Coach just did it because he feels sorry for her.”
It gets progressively worse. Snide remarks about my body, my hair, my face. Then they go into my swimming abilities, how I’m not nearly good enough to be captain of a kiddie pool, let alone varsity-level. And eventually—as it always does—they start in on my family, how we’re mutts and trash. They don’t say Sky’s name specifically, they can’t. But the word slut is tossed about in enough hissed inflections that they don’t even need to.
Hot tears prick at my eyes—something that rarely happens. But I know why. I put my mask on for a reason. I lay low and stay out of the fray. This is why. If I ignore them—if on some level, even superficial, I don’t exist—then I can’t get hurt. But the second I pull off that mask, the instant I try to be present.... here I am. A target all over again.
I duck into the captain’s office, which is a perk that comes with the position. It’s just a small room with a desk and two chairs. A big board hangs on the wall with the season’s schedule and a graph to plug swimmers into position. The nicest addition is being able to leave my suit and other accessories here between practices, as there’s a private bathroom with a shower. This is a big deal after having to share common facilities in the locker room.
I can’t even really take it all in and enjoy it. I can’t feel proud. I can’t even push my shoulders back and lift my wobbling chin. I barely dry off, tugging on my shorts and a shirt and hastily packing my bag. I’ll shower later. I want to get out of there as fast as possible.
I will not let these people see me cry.
Movement shifts in the doorway and I freeze, trying desperately to swallow down the lump in my throat.
I will definitely not fucking let him see me cry.
Wiggling my arms into my bag’s straps, I keep my eyes on the ground, avoiding his gaze, but he blocks the door with the solid wall of his bare-chested body. I stare at the fine trail of hair snaking down from his belly button and clench my teeth.
“Running off?”