Interesting.
I sigh down at my lunch tray. “You’re putting such a massive target on your back right now, you have no idea.”
By now, enough people have noticed the new kid. And they’ve definitely noticed him talking to me.
“Eh,” he shrugs and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t really care what everyone else thinks, do you?”
A bubble of laughter bursts from my throat and escapes in an awkward squawk. I know it’s not exactly that easy. But hey, that is my usual mantra, isn’t it?
“No.” I pick up my fork, supposing an appetite won’t be the hardest thing to muster.
“Good. I mean, I’m new and I’m going to need a friend. You’re not new and,” he looks around and makes a face, “well, it looks like you’ve got some wiggle room for friends. If you want, I mean. You may totally be into this isolated, hot-girl thing, though. Which is also perfectly respectable.”
A wave of warmth floods my cheeks at him calling me hot. Years of diving practice must have deprived his brain of oxygen at some point, because no one thinks I’m hot. I’ve never been anything but the human embodiment of shoe-scum to these people, and it might be fine and well to decide not to care what everyone else thinks, but it doesn’t make it any easier to look in the mirror every morning and see myself as anything but.
“If there’s one thing I want,” I decide, shaking off the negative mood before it can find a toehold, “it’s to have the best senior swim season yet. Diving included. And yeah, it’d be nice to have someone to hang with.”
He grins, tucking back into his lunch, and my grin comes strangely easy, natural. I lean back and marvel at how such a minor thing can change an entire psychological trajectory. I don’t know who or what sent Tyson Riggins into my life. I’m not religious, but who knows? Maybe it was divine intervention. My eyes skim the room for the red and black jackets, seeing them clustered across the room, and I know one thing for sure.
It definitely wasn’t a Devil.
I like competing, and I genuinely enjoy swimming with others, but there’s nothing better than facing an empty, still pool. The flat glassy surface, as if suspended in time, the whirr of the pumps, the sharp scent of chlorine; this is home. Most swimmers and divers prefer just jumping in, but me? I like toeing the surface before I take the plunge, feeling that first zing of cool water and following the ripple it creates—our fond ‘hello’.
My toes push off the side of the wall and my body slices through the water. Each stroke gets me closer, each turn an opportunity to get ahead. Down in the blue, where the water is clear and the only sound is the muted whoosh of my strokes, I can finally and truly escape it all. I don’t think of anything but cool enamel blues, the burn of my muscles, and water rushing against my sides. I don’t think of Sky. Of Hamilton. Not anyone.
Although I guess I do think about Tyson a little bit.
His arrival had been a surprise.
After we parted, I did my research by checking him out on social media. To my relief, he actually does seem entirely legit. Photos on ChattySnap show him at dive competitions all over the country. There are a few pictures of him at Northridge’s homecoming a few weeks earlier. He looked adorable in his tux and was obviously having a good time with his friends, particularly the cute girl that seemed to be his date. He’s a junior—not a senior—which makes the school transfer far less suspicious. Truthfully, even I had flirted with the possibility of transferring when everything happened with Sky. Mom and Dad offered, but really, I didn’t want to start over. I just want to move on.
I finish my final lap and check the clock on the wall. Coach James will be by soon to lock up, and I’m not supposed to be in here—not exactly. There’s no guard on duty and it’s against school rules to swim without one. I know the schedule, though, and I know if I get in between 8:15 and 9:20, after water polo practice finishes but before lockup, no one will be the wiser. The clock says 9:13.
Plenty of time.
Water rushes down my body as I pull myself out of the pool. I grab my towel, wrapping it around my midsection, and then enter the small co-ed locker room. The main one is always closed once activities are over for the day, but this one has a combination lock, allowing for after-hours entry. I walk in and head to the locker where I left my towel and a change of clothes. After hastily drying off, I pull on my flannel pants right over my suit, hoping they’ll warm me, then bend over to wring the excess water out of my hair. I’m just like that—head between my knees, hair all tangled in a towel—when the door opens.
I freeze.
Shit. If Coach James catches me, I’m beyond screwed.
I fling my hair back, prepared to twist it into a bun, but instead yelp when I realize that I’m not alone.
And it’s not Coach James.
I still with my hands over my head, blinking at the scowling boy in front of me. His eyes dart down to my chest, and hey. I just got out of a pool that isn’t heated particularly well. It’s cold. I don’t have to look to know my nipples are peaked.
His cold gaze slithers up to mine, mouth slanting into some unholy marriage of sneer and smirk. “Well, well, well. Happy to see me?”
I don’t even grace him with a reply.
“Using the pool after hours? With no guard on duty?” Hamilton’s smirk transforms to an amused sort of satisfaction. He shakes his head, tsking. “This doesn’t seem like the kind of behavior befitting a student vying for team captain. I’m thinking it might be my duty to report this to the coach.”
His hair and T-shirt are dark with sweat. The sleeves of his shirt have been ripped off, allowing my eyes to take in his wiry biceps, glistening forearms, and the weight-lifting gloves covering his hands.
I raise an eyebrow. “I could say the same about you. The gym closed an hour ago.”
His eyes flash in anger, weightlifting gloves rumpling as he fists them. But his anger is just as quickly gone, replaced by the same cool demeanor. “Go ahead and tell whoever you like. You’ll find I have permission for extra gym hours for physical therapy.”