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A faint smile remains. “Thanks for keeping me company. I really wasn’t in the mood to be out there”––he tips his chiseled chin at the door––“tonight.”
Despite all the inconvenient heat between us, I can be his friend…and I can let him be mine. “Thanks for giving me your corner to hang in.”
“It’s yours, Bailey. Anytime.”
“Only friends, then.” Because sorry not sorry––I am not about to become part of his walking buffet.
He goes to speak and pauses. Nods. “Friends.”
Chapter 12
Reagan
I walk into the aquatics center ten minutes before practice is due to start. Our head coach practically built this house. Five of the seven NCAA championship banners draped along the walls are a testament to not only his skill as a coach, but also as a motivator.
The guys are already either undressing by the bench or stretching. Armed with a heavy dose of resolve, I approach Coach Becker as he’s nearing the pool. I figure if I got him in public he’d have less of a chance to think through what I’m about to ask of him.
“Coach, can I talk to you?” I murmur. No way do I want the guys sticking their noses in this. Coach eyeballs my neutral expression. I’m not giving anything away until I’m good and ready.
“Gimme a minute, Reynolds,” he tells me, then scans the crowd milling around the edge of the pool. “Van Zant?” he shouts. “Where the fuck’s Van Zant?” Coach searches us one by one. “Moss?”
Warner stops stretching. “Yeah, Coach?”
“You seen him?”
“No, sir,” Moss returns immediately.
“Reynolds?”
“No, sir.”
Coach grimaces. The guys glance around the group. Mostly because they all know the drill––if one of us is in the doghouse, we all are.
The name Terry Becker is synonymous with legend in men’s water polo and it’s well-earned. He’s won everything there is to win. An Olympic medal. The coveted Peter J. Cutino award as the nation’s best player while he was at Cal. Five championships as a head coach.
He doesn’t suffer fools and he has even less tolerance for guys that aren’t serious about this sport. Which is why he flushes deep red all the way to his graying blond hairline when he sees Dallas stroll through the double doors without a care in the world.
“Here,” Dallas shouts. He does not have the look of a guy that’s five minutes late to practice and on the verge of being eaten alive by Coach Becker. “Sorry, Coach. Late getting back from an appointment in Beverly Hills.” He shucks off his t-shirt and shorts.
Coach plants his hands on his hips, a twitch pulling at the corner of his left eye. “Getting your hair highlighted?”
“No, sir. These are natural,” Dallas answers flatly and points to his head. “Thanks to Brenda Van Zant.” Then he cannonballs into the water and the rest of us groan because we know what’s coming next.
Guys come from Hungary, Montenegro, even as far away as Australia to make this team. There’s a string of them sitting on the bench ready to take Dall’s place at a moment’s notice. And yet, despite all the stunts he pulls, Coach has yet to bench him because Dallas is by far the best driver we have. Quick as lightning and just as deadly.
So he’ll make the rest of us suffer instead.
Coach nods slowly. “In honor of Van Zant’s oversized testicles the rest of you ladies will now do an extra fifteen minutes of eggbeater intervals. I want you crossing the length of the pool and outta the water waist high.”
More groans.
Heads swivel in Dall’s direction and everybody issues death warrants with their eyeballs. Unfazed, Dallas shakes out his hair and flips them off, double-handed.
“You, Van Zant, will be benched for the first quarter of the game this weekend.”
I never thought I’d see the day. And by the sound of the quiet gasps and muted murmurs, neither did any of the other guys.
“What?!” Dallas shouts, all trace of amusement dropping from his face.
“You heard me, princess. Everybody in the water while I speak to Reynolds.” He waves me over. “Let’s hear it, son.”
After practice we all meet up at the quad near the cafeteria.
“What are you smiling at?” Dallas says, sitting next to me on the stone bench. Across the way, my eyes find Jersey girl the instant she makes it up the steps.
“Nothing,” I answer absently, incapable of peeling my eyes off of her.
I was a wreck Saturday night, the lowest I’ve been in a long time and she was…well…amazing. A surprise, a comfort, everything I needed.
On crutches, she slowly makes her way to the cafeteria entrance and pauses to take in the view. From this vantage point, the scenery looks unreal, worthy of a screen saver, and I grew up here. I wonder what she’s thinking.
“That’s the chick you ran over?”
Glancing sideways, I catch Dall’s eyes all over her. He runs a hand through his wild hair and smirks, causing an uncomfortable twist of my gut.
