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I rolled my eyes. “Of course.”
“Then what’s with the face?”
I turned my head to look at the tall, broad swimmer with dark hair and eyes. His skin was olive-toned and warm-hued, which wasn’t strange for me to notice considering we were both standing here in tiny Speedos.
At his side, he clutched a pair of swim goggles with sweet silver frames, but I didn’t allow my eyes to linger on them long for fear he’d think I was looking at something else.
“What face?” I asked, my eyes colliding with his.
He swung his finger around in front of me. “That one.”
“I’m not making a face. I just came all the way from Sweden. It’s a big change.”
He whistled beneath his breath. “Damn, makes my cross-country transfer look like a cakewalk.”
“A cakewalk,” I repeated. Americans had some weird sayings.
He nodded, not bothering to explain. I didn’t really care if he did anyway. “That explains the accent.”
I didn’t have an accent, but I was tired of telling people that. “You came here from across the country?”
“Yep,” he said, popping the P at the end.
“This must be a really good swim program.”
“That why you transferred?” he questioned.
“No,” I replied before thinking better of it.
A quick, wolfish grin that frankly made him look like a criminal filled the lower half of his face. “Me either.”
The door to the locker room banged open, and the shrill, ear-splitting sound of a whistle echoed through the entire room. “Didn’t you hear me call you?” Coach Resch bellowed the second he let the silver whistle fall from his lips.
Obviously, we didn’t, or we wouldn’t be standing here.
“Sorry, Coach,” was all I said.
“Well, come on. Meet your new team.”
I fell into step behind the other new guy, my stomach twisting with nerves as we stepped out of the locker room. A bunch of other swimmers dressed just like us stared from the bleachers as we trailed along behind Coach. I felt their scrutiny, and with that came the urge to prove myself.
“Listen up!” Coach’s voice boomed through the massively large pool area. “As you know, last semester, Elite lost two swimmers.”
“More like we flushed out the water pollution,” a guy sitting in the front cracked. He had messy dark-blond hair and broad, muscular shoulders.
Coach blew his whistle. “Owens! I didn’t ask you.”
The big guy laid a hand over his chest. “You never do, Coach. It hurts my feelings.”
A few low snickers echoed around the room, and a shot of amusement burst through the nervous fog hanging over my brain.
“You wanna talk about your feelings, go see your adviser,” Coach quipped.
My eyes slid to a guy sitting on the other side of the jokester. He was smaller than his friend, with brown hair flopping over his forehead in big, loopy curls. Feeling my gaze, he lifted his, and instant familiarity rushed through me, bringing a surprising sense of warmth.
I looked away instantly, stomach fluttering.
“Meet your new teammates,” Coach said, gesturing toward me and the other new guy. “Lars Eriksson and Jason Rush.”
