“All right, Shermer,” he says, “it’s about time you woke up. Stay mad, get your ass in the water and use that fire to show us what we can expect from you on Sunday.”
I can hardly believe it. I just cussed him out—about as heavily as I will ever cuss out anyone—and he’s not going to punish me.
I hop on the platform and dive in at his whistle.
His loud, angry corrections through the bullhorn compel me to go faster, push harder, do better. The more he shouts, the more his stern voice echoes off the damp walls, the more I want to please him. And beg him to keep pushing me. To give me no mercy.
I want this man to ruin me. Wreck me. Take me in his office and break my cherry with his fingers. Oh my god, do I ever want that—the sooner the better.
When I’ve finished with my practice event and hoisted myself on to the pool deck, he marches up to me. My blood rushes and I gasp, but then realize he’s coming over to show me the timer. He leans in close to show me my time on his watch. I pop my goggles onto my head and look closely, but all I sense is his cologne. This is as close as we’ve ever been to each other, physically, and it’s everything I can do to keep my knees from buckling under the spell of his fresh, woodsy scent.
He speaks, leaning in closer to make sure I see my numbers. “Shaved off eight seconds, Shermer. I knew you had it in you.”
I just stand there and breathe him in. Everything is falling apart around me. I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m confused. But I stand there for a few seconds and breathe him into my lungs.
Weston Ford. My torturer, my hero.
Before I can catch myself, my eyes flutter closed. It’s just for a second. When I open them, everyone is staring at me—including him.
For a brief moment it feels like everything around us has fallen away. The pool is gone, the people are gone. He and I are equals. And I feel calm. Everything is going to be OK.
“You OK, Shermer?”
I nod and turn away, harsh reality coming back into focus.
His voice is sharp again, booming, like he’s preparing us for battle.
Somehow, he and I are going to happen.
It has to.
Or I might go mad.
10
Weston
So. She can stick up for herself.
Good girl.
I ask her to stay after practice; I have a valid excuse, because her first progress report is due for her independent study.
We meet in public because I haven’t completely lost control of my senses. Her and I, alone in my office way back in the aquatics wing, is a recipe for shenanigans. So what am I thinking, asking her to meet with me now, instead of during school hours? The answer to that is simple: I just want to see her. Talk to her. Be near her.
She offers to meet me outside on the walking path of the school grounds.
I wait for Shermer by the main entrance with its massive limestone archway. When she arrives, she still looks salty.
r /> Her face is still flushed and she looks put upon. This might be the first time I’ve seen her dressed in anything except her school uniform or swim gear. Shermer’s wearing a fitted v-neck sweater covered in polka dots and skinny jeans that show off the lines of her swimmer’s body.
When she approaches me, I tell her, “You look full of piss and vinegar.” It comes out dumb, not good-natured ribbing, as I intended.
“What?” She furrows her brow at me.
I wave it off. “Something my grandmother used to say about me. Forget it. Let’s walk.”
Shermer and I make our way along the stone walkways that encircle the high school building. The conversation goes as expected, as she fills me in on her progress on her project. Frankly, I don’t care as much as I should, and most of it goes right over my head. But I do enjoy listening to her voice. She radiates confidence when she talks about things she cares about. Her eyes become fierce. The young woman who usually lacks confidence disappears and she shows me who she really is.