Chapter 8
CECILIA
When I was little, Dad used to tease me that if I spent any more time in the water than I had already, I’d sprout gills and become a fish. The taunt never stopped me. If anything, it made me swim more, hell bent on becoming a mermaid, and ever since, swimming pools have been my oasis.
The outside world can’t reach me here. Not when my head is beneath the water, all outside sounds and smells muted.
Whenever I need to get away, I swim.
It doesn't matter if it's in a pool, a lake, or the ocean. The urge to swim is just as strong as my urge to breathe.
The way the water feels as my body glides through it. The weightlessness of floating. There’s something about cutting through the surface with each stroke that helps me wipe my mind and push reality away. For a little while, at least.
I’m hoping I can find that same peace here today, despite my not-so-distant memories. I’m not off to a great start, but I’m not about to tuck tail and run either.
My hands shake as I tuck my clothes into an empty locker and slip on my modest one-piece swimsuit.
When I turn, the pink stained grout in the corner pulls my attention, but only for a moment before I force myself to look away.
I pull my hair into a high ponytail, deciding not to bother with a swim cap, and grab my goggles before closing the locker door.
My ears pound and I glance at the corner once more before making myself move for the door.
Swim season is still a few months away, so the pool is relatively empty.
There are two swimmers in the pool to the far right, regulars who train in the off season judging by their form. Their strokes appear effortless, the ripples in the water nearly nonexistent as they propel themselves forward.
PacNorth boasts three Olympic-length swimming pools matching the three Olympic medals former alumni have brought home.
The first two are your standard fifty meters in length, with nine lanes measuring three meters deep on both ends.
The third includes a high dive and boasts a five-meter depth, but I’m not a diver, so it isn’t a pool I’ve bothered dipping into.
I thought about going out for the swim team last year.
I’m good enough to make the team. Cate Carrington is their lead female swimmer in the fifty-meter freestyle.
Her average time is around twenty-eight seconds.
It’s a decent time, but she’ll need to shave at least four seconds off to qualify for the Olympics two years from now. Doable, but not an easy feat.
My average time is twenty-four point six seconds. I already meet the minimum time to qualify, but I haven’t been able to convince myself to take the plunge and try out.
Swimming is where I go to get away, and I’m reluctant to turn my safe space into a competitive occupation, because that’s what training for the Olympics is. There are no half measures.
It’s a daily grind both in and out of the pool, and I’m realistic enough to know I’m not in a good head space for the level of focus it would require. It’s always nice to dream about, though.
Climbing down the ladder, I slide into the water, forcing my body to relax as I roll my shoulders back and slip my goggles over my eyes. The cool temperature wipes some of my nerves away and I push off from the edge, starting with a sidestroke as I warm up my muscles.
I don’t bother to count my laps. I’m not here to race the clock. I’m here to breathe.
I let myself get lost in the motions. Stroke.
Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe.
I keep up the pattern, kicking with my legs to propel myself forward.
When my fingertips graze the pool wall, I do a flip turn and keep going, increasing my speed on each revolution until I’m sprinting the length of the pool as fast as my body will allow.
I tear through the water, letting all thought drop away until my shoulders burn and my left leg starts to cramp. And even then, I push harder. When I’m here, I feel strong. Powerful. No one can touch me in the water.
I don’t know how much time passes when fatigue starts to worm its way under my skin. There’s a voice in my head that urges me to keep going, but it’s the same voice that sometimes tells me it’s okay to slip away and it’s not, so I ignore it and instead listen to my body.
I come to a stop mid lap and swim to the ladder, pulling myself up and over the edge. My chest heaves and I tear my goggles off my face, dropping them beside me as I take stock of myself.
My thigh spasms, the muscle contracting in a painful way. I massage the muscle with one hand and use the time to catch my breath and survey my surroundings. The two swimmers who were here when I started are long gone.
The clock on the wall reads ten after four. I’ve been swimming for forty minutes. Weird. It feels like it's maybe been half that time.
A movement on my left pulls my attention and I turn to find a familiar face sitting on one of the benches, watching me.
I freeze.
Gabriel’s brows are drawn, his jaw tight. He looks at me like he’s trying to solve a complicated puzzle. Almost like he’s convinced if he stares at me long enough, all my secrets will suddenly spill out.
I don’t like it.
I’m not sure what to make of him, but as each second passes, the coil of tension inside me winds tighter. Our eyes are locked on one another, neither of us blinking. For some strange reason, I can’t seem to tear my gaze away even though I want to.
He shifts in his seat, like he’s readying himself to stand, and that’s all I need for a sudden flood of panic to spear me in the chest.
I massage the muscle in my thigh a little hard.
What if he walks over here?
What if he tries to talk to me?
Hard pass.
I flex my calves and roll my ankles. It’s as good as it’s going to get.
Slipping back into the pool, I don’t bother with my goggles this time before I dive right back into my swim, switching it up with a back stroke so I can keep track of his movements. I don’t like that it’s only the two of us here. He’s not even swimming, so what is he doing here?
It’s a question I don’t have the balls to ask him.
Gabriel stays in his spot, never moving, not even to get comfortable. It's unnerving, to say the least. This time around, I count my laps as a distraction. Ten turns into twenty and twenty turns into thirty-three.
One mile.
If I had to guess, I did two miles before.
I figured he’d take off at some point. Get bored watching me and give up on whatever it is he’s waiting to say, but he never does. With another twenty minutes under my belt and my body screaming for relief, I admit defeat and drag myself back up the swim ladder and out of the pool.
Tension pulls at my shoulders, tightening the muscles in my lower back.
I’ll have to hear him out or risk drowning. Not as unappealing as you’d think, but what puts a real damper on that thought is knowing he’ll try, and likely succeed, in rescuing me all over again.
Yay me.
Have I mentioned how much I hate having my own guardian angel?
Not wasting any time, Gabriel pushes from his seat and walks straight for me. But when he gets close, a frantic urge to run consumes me and I slip back into the pool to tread water in the middle of my lane. Shit.
Something flickers in his eyes.
My left leg cramps and I swallow hard, desperate to keep the grimace of pain from my face. Don’t show any signs of weakness. Guys will jump on it. He’ll use it to his advantage to hurt me. I won’t let him hurt me.
My throat tightens just thinking about what he could do to me. Here, alone, with nobody else around.
He hovers a few feet away from the pool's edge, his frown deepening.
“I thought you were done?” He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
I try to take him in. To get my mind off what ifs and onto the here and now.
He’s not in the same clothes he wore earlier. He’s wearing a tight white shirt that hugs his muscular frame and he’s traded in his low-slung jeans for a pair of black athletic pants that are as revealing as they are modest.
Gray sweatpants have nothing on these when Gabriel shifts his stance, angling his body to the side.
I squeeze my eyes closed for a second and shake my head. Do not stare at his dick.
“I am.” My words come out garbled. I swallow hard and try again. “Done, I mean.” My left leg seizes again, and I have to use my arms to keep myself afloat. He’s standing right in front of the ladder, effectively blocking my escape.
I don’t like the idea of getting out when we’re alone, let alone when he’s this close. It’s one thing to be in a crowded hallway, which is moderately safe, thanks to the sea of potential witnesses if anyone was to step out of line.
But it’s a whole other story to be alone in a room with a guy I don’t know anything about, wearing nothing but a swimsuit.
I’m smarter than this.
Confusion is written all over his face. “If you’re done, why did you jump back in the pool?”
I hesitate and try not to let him see how much he unnerves me.
Squaring my shoulders as best I can while treading water, I lift my chin and push the tremor from my voice. “Because you all but lunged for me. Call me crazy, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“Safe? From what?”
From you. I scream in my head, but don’t bother to say it out loud. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, and given that he’s an athlete and that PacNorth requires all players to maintain a 3.0 GPA minimum, he can’t be this stupid.
“You think I’ll hurt you?”
And there it is. I knew he’d get there on his own.
I try to shrug, but the effect isn't the same when you’re struggling to stay afloat in nine feet of water. No such thing as a shallow end in a lap pool.
“I don’t know you,” I remind him. “I have no way to judge whether you’re capable or hurting me or not.” Though let's be honest, I can tell by just one look that he is very much capable.