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Tall, blonde, wearing a high ponytail, tight teacher's uniform, and full-face makeup, I guess that's the gymnast Mr. Fitz was talking about.
"I'm Meredith Taylor, the girls’ gym teacher," she says with a bright smile and holds out a hand.
We shake, and I notice her fresh French-manicured nails. When I look up at her face again, I see that she keeps smiling at me.
"I'm a huge fan, to be honest," she giggles, shamelessly pushing her chest in my direction, fiddling with the zipper on the sweatshirt.
She’s wearing nothing but a sports bra under it, and she opens the hoodie far enough for me to see everything she wants to show.
"Thank you," I say with a slight smile. Usually, I say nothing in response to that, but I don't want to be rude to other teachers. Not until I'm out of this school at the end of the year.
Meredith is obviously attractive: a natural blonde with blue eyes, high cheekbones, long legs, and a supermodel body. Mr. Fitz was right—she is definitely my type. I mean, was my type when I was hanging out with different girls every weekend after practice. I was a superstar during the days after the Olympics, and I didn't even care that I could break someone's heart with my silly actions.
But now, after all these years of being a hermit, I feel nothing when I look at a woman like Meredith. Yes, I see her beauty. Yes, I realize that she's flirting with me, and it will cost me nothing to drag her to bed.
But I feel nothing. Not even when she bites her lower lip and winds the end of her ponytail on her finger, obviously eye-fucking me with those falsely naïve blue eyes.
I still feel nothing.
"Good morning, Mr. Meyers." A group of girls has entered the pool room, and I look at them. The first few giggle, whispering something to each other as they pass through.
The last girl just nods to Meredith, mumbling, "Good morning," and gives me a quick glance, lowering her gaze right away. She’s wearing a sports swimsuit that covers her breasts completely and a high tight bun on her head, the one that all professional dancers and swimmers do. And even though she isn’t wearing makeup, I know that this girl is the most beautiful creature in the whole world.
Gabrielle Marcos, a girl who scared me to death and then saved my life after. The girl who woke me up from the nightmare I was living in just by kissing me. The girl who made me feel alive again.
My cock starts aching when she comes into the room. I smirk at how ridiculous this is—she's not even naked. She barely looked at me while Meredith, a former gymnast, was basically throwing herself into my arms.
But I don't want Meredith. I’m not attracted to the former gymnast at all. For some unexplained reason, I don't want anyone else in this fucking world except for Gabrielle Marcos.
She turns me on even when she simply walks in front of me, while others wouldn't arouse me even if they were swinging naked on a stripper pole.
Chapter Ten
Gabi
Our first swimming lesson is almost over, but Ms. Taylor is still here, shamelessly flirting with Meyers through all the training, not caring that she was supposed to leave before the lesson started.
Anytime I look at those two—by accident, of course, since I don't care at all—Taylor is always laughing at Meyers' words as if he's the funniest guy in the world. I've noticed a couple of times that she touched his hand as if saying,Stop making me laugh.
Who is she trying to fool, anyway? I know Alex, and he's definitely not the nicest man on the planet.
Or do I know him, really? I ask myself, forcing myself to turn my eyes away from them and continue swimming.
To be honest, I have no idea who Alex Meyers is and why he is acting so strangely different with me than he does with other people. He's cold and angry when he speaks to me, and he's relaxed and smiling when he talks to Meredith Taylor.
The bell finally rings, and I'm the first one to leave the pool. Not looking at my new coach, I pass by him and his new 'girlfriend', heading for the changing rooms.
"Ms. Marcos." When I hear his low voice, I startle, my body tensing.
I reluctantly turn my head and force myself to look into his eyes. They express nothing, literally nothing. As if there had been nothing between us, ever. As if we’d never kissed. As if we had just met.
But why do I care? I should be happy about it, shouldn't I?
"Yes, Mr. Meyers?" I say, making the most plausible poker face I can.
Two can play this game, Alex.
"Coach," he corrects, not looking away for a second.
