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“You lost your balance,” he observes calmly, dragging my eyes to his face as I tread water.
“Huh?”
“When you got out of the pool. You fell and had to try again.”
A chill settles at the base of my spine. If I’m forced to take more time off for physical therapy, my professional career will fall apart and I’ll be lost, drifting aimlessly with nothing to show for myself. “I didn’t.”
He takes a step back and points to the ground in front of him, a gesture I really shouldn’t find hot. “Then let me look at you.”
Silently cursing him with every name I can think of, I grip the wall and hesitate, trying to work out how to look normal. Finally, I push off on my good arm and twist, hopping my butt up onto the lip of the pool.
“Stay.” I stiffen as he crouches down behind me, his breath stirring my hair. A hand wraps around the back of my neck–fuck, it’s big–while the other smooths along my shoulder, demanding and intrusive, exploring the joint. “How does this feel?” He catches my elbow and slowly rotates my shoulder through its full range of motion. My eyes water as I grit my teeth, trying not to whimper as the pain surges into a relentless burning. If my shoulder isn’t fucked now, it will be when he’s done with it.
“Feels absolutely wonderful.” I keep my voice light as I tug my arm free.
“Is the team’s doctor keeping an eye on this?”
“Uh-huh,” I lie, resisting the urge to squeeze my shoulder to try and relieve the pain. I told the doctor that I was seeing a private physical therapist so I could get him off my back and figure out how to fake it until I make it. “He said I was good to go.”
Tate’s still holding my neck firmly, like you’d scruff a puppy, his knee pressing into my back. “He did?”
“Dude.” I throw him off and scramble to my feet. “Fuck off back to your basement and tweet me the rest of your questions.”
“Do you want help with your dives?” I can hear in his voice how much he’s enjoying this. He doesn’t have to come up with insults anymore, because real life has given him all the material he needs.
“Hell no.” I head for my duffel bag and start stuffing things inside. “They’re a work of art compared to yours.” When he doesn’t answer, I glance over my shoulder. He’s leaning casually against the wall, studying me with a smug little head tilt.
He doesn’t speak until I pull open the door to the hall. “I’ll pick you up Friday morning. We can spend Friday night near the meet location and drive back Saturday evening. Sound good?”
“Stop saying we. There is no we.” I was already having nightmares about this weekend–my arm falling off in the middle of a race, drowning, the team laughing at me–and now Tate’s going to be in all of them, just watching with that small smirk and those flat, mocking eyes.
3
TATE
I expected Darius to rock out of his apartment complex on Friday morning with an unnecessarily large bag and flaunting his team jacket. Instead, he skulks into the sunshine, flinching and pushing his aviators into place. His wrinkled black tee looks like he slept in it, and the canvas backpack dangling from his hand seems mostly empty.
Pausing to give my Jeep a judgmental once-over, he yanks open the passenger door and throws his bag carelessly into the back before slumping into his seat.
I’m a morning person through and through. “Rise and shine,” I chirp, enjoying the way he curls up like a pill bug when it gets poked with a stick.
“Christ,” he mumbles in a sleep-thick voice, flipping me off.
“I brought coffee.” I can’t see his expression behind the glasses, but he straightens up a little and stares at the two paper cups steaming in the cupholders, then at me. His light hair sticks out in every direction, and I’m pretty sure he’s chewing mint gum in lieu of brushing his teeth. Nothing like the flawless, self-assured man in his photos. He silently puts his back to me and props his forehead against the window.
“Did you pack your shoulder brace?” I set my phone GPS for the three-hour drive to Vancouver, switch on NPR, and put the car into gear.
Stiffening, Darius glares over his shoulder at me. “Why would I need that?” I catch the faintest tremor underneath his question, and it scares me how good it feels to know that I’ve found a weak spot in all his perfect walls.
I hum thoughtfully. “I don’t know, just a hunch I had. I can’t imagine why.”
He sits up and rests his hand on one of the hot coffee cups. “Do you want this poured in your lap, or are you going to leave me alone?”
I shrug with exaggerated innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”
Muttering something I can’t hear, he goes back to his original position against the window, wrapping his arms around himself. Darius doesn’t move a muscle for almost an hour, but something about the tension in his body tells me he’s still awake.
The smell of his sporty body wash slowly fills the car. It’s been six months since I’ve had another man in my passenger seat. On the day before he dumped me, my ex drove us home from the beach with his hand on my leg, watching the sun set. Maybe that should have been my sign that something was wrong–he hadn’t touched me like that for a long time. I thought it meant he wanted to give us another try, but in reality, he was saying goodbye.
