I look down to find Peyton, a defender from the women’s lacrosse team, in front of me. We hooked up last year at the end of season gala, but nothing really came of it. She’s cute, though, and as she smiles up at me from beneath her dark lashes, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she’s wondering if there’s a chance of a repeat.
“Hey, yourself.”
She grabs my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor, immediately pressing her back to my front, her toned ass doing a great job of waking up my dick as she moves to the music. My hands move to her waist and as she reaches back and loops her hands around my neck, I let myself go. This is what college is all about, right? Drinking, dancing, and getting laid.
I close my eyes, breathing in her sweet, floral scent, but all it does is remind me of how delicious a certain other spiced smell was. Frowning, I open my eyes and glance over at the kitchen. Wes is right where I left him, his muscular frame easy to pick out through the crowd. When I meet his gaze, my stomach twists and I look away.
I have no idea what the hell that’s about, so I down the rest of my drink before ditching the cup and give Peyton the full attention of my hands as I lose myself to the party.
WES
My lungs burn as I plough through the water, the ache of my muscles comforting and familiar. Swimming has always been the best form of meditation for me. Focusing on every kick and pull of my limbs, measuring my breathing, helps shut down all the crap that usually resides in my brain.
Like the phone call from my dad last night.
He wants me to shadow him at work in December. I made the excuse of being too busy with swim meets, but I know it won’t hold. I’m going to have to tell him that I want nothing to do with his company, and soon. It’ll break his heart.
Coach’s booming voice reaches me every time my head breaks the surface to take a breath, and I push myself harder. We didn’t do great against Seattle at the meet last weekend and he’s making us pay. I don’t mind. I relish the challenge. After all, the season only lasts until March. There are a couple of events later in the year, but no one cares by then. Everyone is fully immersed in lacrosse by the time February rolls around.
A burst of annoyance floods my system at the thought of the lacrosse team. Okay. Not the team. Its captain. I hate that I’m doubting myself, but I’m sure he was giving me signals. As a gay man, who’s been out since freshman year of high school, I’m pretty fucking good at recognizing when someone is checking me out. And Sol Brooker was doing just that. Straight guys don’t stare at your mouth like they haven’t eaten in a damn month.
If I’m honest, I’m angriest at myself. Ever since we brushed up against each other at the Wolves’ party, I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind. He couldn’t be further from my type, either. I don’t do athletes. He’s only a little shorter than me and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s ripped as fuck under those clothes. The guys I usually hook up with tend to be smaller and slimmer. Although, maybe that’s more about lack of options than preference, as I’ve definitely had some thoughts about Sol.
It's not only the athlete thing, though. He’s so put together. From his perfectly styled hair to his all-American vibe. He screams ‘straight’, despite the way he looks at me. Which is why I’m a goddamn idiot. He practically bolted after I flirted with him, running straight to the nearest female and putting his hands all over her like he was trying to prove something. Maybe he was. There’s a chance he’s figuring his sexuality out, and if he is, I really don’t have time to be someone’s coach this year. What I would like, is some great sex with no strings attached. Is that really too much to ask for?
My hands grasp the edge of the pool and I break the surface, breathing hard as my heart slams against my ribs. Pushing my goggles up onto my swim cap, I seek out Coach McMann.
“Not bad, Bowers,” he calls out, holding up the stopwatch, even though I can’t see from the other side of the pool. “You shaved point eight of a second off.”
I sink back into the water, letting it cool my rapidly heating skin. That’s good. Looks like I just need to think about how frustrated Sol gets me and I’ll have a chance of winning my heats at the next meet.
Swallowing a sigh, I heave myself out of the water, pull off my cap and goggles and grab my towel. Aldo and Coach McMann are arguing about something at the other end of the pool and the rest of the team are still finishing up, so I take advantage of the head start and make for the locker room.
I’m barely through the door, when I hear my ringtone, tinny through the metal of my cubby. It’s barely past seven in the morning, which can mean only one thing.
Chucking my towel on the bench, my stomach lurches as I dig my phone out of my bag. Six missed calls.Fuck.All from Ella Toure, the deputy editor of The Howl.
I’m about to call her back, when my phone leaps in my hand, the screen lighting up with her name, and I swipe quickly. “What’s wrong?”
“Someone compromised this morning’s edition.”
I sink down onto the bench, pinching the bridge of my nose as I try to figure out what she just said. “Compromised? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Someone added a page to The Howl before it was published. Apparently, it’s a page from Sasha Darryn’s diary.”
I sit bolt upright. “President of the Bees, Sasha Darryn?”
“The one and only.”
“Fuck.” Scraping a hand over my closely shaved hair, I close my eyes. “Is it bad?”
“Bad enough.”
Disbelief morphs into anger as the news settles. The Howl is my baby, and someone has deliberately messed with it. “I’ve just got out of training,” I say, standing and pulling my bag out of my locker with my free hand. “Get everyone over to Halston immediately. I’m calling a meeting.”
I don’t wait for Ella’s confirmation before clicking out of the call and onto the Franklin West intranet where we post the daily issues of The Howl. As editor in chief, I know every damn word of every issue, so it doesn’t take me long to find the additional page near the end.
It’s not as bad as I imagined; a small, doodled line about being so hard up that she enjoyed her pap smear. Embarrassing, but not life ending. What has my teeth grinding together, is that someone has added a caption. It’s not only a photo that’s been inserted. I scan the words, looking for some clue as to who on my team it might be, but I’ve got nothing.