Page 66 of Fake Crown

My enthusiasm seems to surprise him, and he chuckles. “I promise it’s not that exciting.”

“Do other people come watch? Is there a designated spot where I have to sit if I’m a Ra-Ra-Raven?” I pretend my fists are pom-poms and make a few cheerleading poses.

He tugs me along the bed beside him, and he molds himself around me. “No designated spot in the stands.” His hand travels up my inner thigh and between my legs. “Later, I’ve got a seat reserved for you.”

“Oh yeah?” I spread my legs and rub myself against him. “Where’s that?”

He nibbles at my ear, and the alarm on his phone sounds for him to wake up. “For the first time in my life, I’d rather race you to the finish than someone else.”

“Quickie?” My request is breathless, and I’m already so wet from thinking about him while he slept that it won’t take much to get me off.

His phone buzzes again, and he lets out a groan of frustration. “I gotta go, or I’ll miss the meeting. Team captain and all that.” He tugs on his discarded clothes, but before he leaves, he comes back to the bed for a long, leisurely kiss that promises so much more later.

“Look for me in the stands,” I say.

“I’m sure I won’t be able to miss you.” He kisses my temple.

Once the hotel room door clicks shut, I flop back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. A plan starts to form, and I can’t help the slow smile that comes with my idea. He may hate it, but we might as well see whether he can take the full Posey experience before I let myself sink any deeper.

Brent

My first championship final is the 400 IM. Given that I was the fastest qualifier, I’m in the middle lane, but the margin for error with this race is slim. My breaststroke is weak, so my strategy is not to lose too much ground there and to go hard during the other three strokes. Ethan is also in this final, and while we’re in the marshalling area, he lets out a chuckle.

“What?” I ask.

“Posey is here.” He nods his head toward the stands.

If I glance in her direction, I’ll be distracted. Whatever made him laugh is likely going to have the same effect on me. Can’t afford it. Not this race.

“You’re not going to look?” Ethan asks while we swing our arms and shake out our limbs.

“This and the relay are my closest events. After the relay, I’ll check the stands for her.”

“She charmed the pants right off Jess at lunch. I need to learn her skills.” Ethan rotates his torso as the heat before us steps onto the blocks.

The final ahead of us makes their turn on the wall, and Ethan goes to his lane while I start stripping off my Northern University Ravens tracksuit, securing my cap, and getting my goggles ready. The person racing in my lane is in the homestretch, and instead of staring at the end of the pool visualizing my race, I sneak a glance at the stands. There, with a sign large enough to block the view of several rows behind her if there’d been more fans, is Posey. I read the sign.

Hey, Faulkner, is your real name the 400 IM? Because you take my breath away.

I grin and shake my head. She’s quite possibly the most interesting woman I’ve ever known. When she sees me looking, she jumps up and down and waves profusely. My heart swells at her adorableness.

The race in the pool finishes, and as we’re whistled onto the blocks, I stare down my lane to the end. Normally, I want to win for myself or my school or my country. Tonight, I want to win for her, and there’s a fire in my belly at the thought of her watching, being here, cheering me on in the stands. Turns out she’s not a distraction. She’s added motivation. Not at all what I expected.

As soon as the electronic beep sounds, I’m off the blocks and in the water. My brain switches off, and I race on instinct, letting years of training take over. At the final turn, I catch a glimpse of Don Davidson from Michigan State hot on my heels. Or more like at my shoulder. Too fucking close. I dig deep and pull hard, pushing myself to finish each stroke even though my muscles are on fire.

At the final five meters, I focus on the black line and propel myself toward the finish. My fingertips touch the pad, and I check the race clock on the wall. First by a few hundreds. Don leans over the lane rope and holds out his hand. I take it and congratulate him on his race.

When I glance up at the stands, Posey is jumping up and down with the sign above her head. At some point, she’ll show up at a swim meet in a cheerleading outfit, and I’m not going to be mad about it.

I hoist myself out of the pool, and the campus YouTube channel calls me over to chat about my race. While I’m there, Posey turns her sign around. On the back, if it’s possible, is something more punny, and I stumble over my words on camera as I read it.

Faulkner, you’re one pool guy.

When they’re done recording, the interviewer turns to look over her shoulder. “Girlfriend?”

“It’s her first time at a swim meet. I think she’s confused about the lack of Ra-Ra-Ravens fans.”

“Not generally a sport people cheer for.”