15. Posey
Posey
Since Brent’s practice on Sunday is closer to lunch than breakfast, we sleep in and order room service.
While we eat naked in bed, Brent gives me all the Olympic village gossip from his last trip there.
It’s amazing to hear how much the athletes talk about each other.
Though I suppose almost all of them are famous in the village for one reason or another.
Some of them are just more famous for their STDs.
“That’s the village, and you were eighteen the first time you went. Were you running around getting venereal diseases?” I take a sip from my latte.
“Nope,” he says. “I wanted to prove I belonged there in the pool, not in some chick’s bed.”
“You made it. That doesn’t prove it?”
“I was still clinging to the sting of disappointment from when I was fourteen. To be so close and to not make it. Then I trained, and I grew, and I got a lot faster. Close races were mine to win, not lose. That first Olympic appearance wasn’t much fun. The pressure to perform was crushing.”
“Pressure you put on yourself?” I slop a piece of toast through the egg yolk.
“Me. My coach. The press. My family—my parents and siblings gave up experiences and opportunities they wanted to see me succeed. I was terrified I’d let everyone down.”
“But you didn’t. Do you worry about the same things now?” The sense of pressure is something I’m familiar with—the Bellerive Royals exist under a similar microscope. Except theirs never ends, whereas Brent’s happens every four years.
He spreads peanut butter and jam over a piece of toast. “No. The second Olympic appearance sort of cured me of that. I came home with one less medal than predicted. Fucking fourth in the 400 free.” He takes a bite of his toast and chews.
“There’s only so much I can control, and most of the time, I’m okay with that now. ”
I set my finished plate back on the trolley and bring Brent his second plate of food.
He passes me his empty one, and I set it on top of mine.
I’ve never met a man who could eat this much in one sitting.
Once I’m back in bed, I snuggle under the covers while Brent is stretched out beside me eating his mound of fruit.
I snatch a strawberry off the plate and pop it into my mouth.
“What do you consider in your control?” I ask.
“How often I practice, how hard I work in practice, the food I eat to fuel me, the amount of sleep I get. None of it’s earthshattering. Deviation from any of my routines can impact performance.”
“You’re still two years away from the next Olympics. Not a criticism, but a question—where’s the balance? Is there a balance?”
“You sound like my coach.” He turns a piece of cantaloupe around with his fingers.
“There are a lot of things I’d be happy to coach you on.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Swimming isn’t one of them.”
He chews his bite of melon, and his gaze is alight with amusement. “I’m pretty sure that comment should offend me, but I’m gonna let it slide.”
“I know why I think you should have some balance, but why does your coach think that?”
“He’s worried I’ll burn out before I get to Olympic appearance number four.”
“You don’t think that?”
“I don’t know. That’s the thing about burnout; you don’t always see it coming. Right now, I can’t imagine it happening. Who knows how I’ll feel six years from now?”
My mother and sister thrive on intense organization, which makes them perfect for keeping the king’s life in order. My father and I are twins—spontaneous, quick with a joke, good in a crowd. Even though I’m having a much better weekend than I expected, thinking about them makes me a little sad.
“What’s your big goal?” Brent asks.
“Honestly? You won’t laugh?” I suck in a deep breath.
He crosses his heart and stares at me.
“I want to run an HGTV-type show in Bellerive about interior design. After I’ve been there for a few years. Not right away. People need to care about the designs I’m doing.”
“You’d be good at that,” Brent says. “I can imagine you on TV.”
“What do you want to do when swimming is over?”
“Not a clue.” He gets off the bed to grab a spoon for the yogurt. “I’m taking a master’s in business, but I’m not exactly passionate about spreadsheets and marketing.”
“You could be a coach. You were great with that kid yesterday. God, Bellerive’s swim team could use someone like you. They’re—” Then I realize what I’ve said, and what I’m implying in even bringing it up.
“Go on. You were saying?” Brent dips his spoon in his yogurt and grins.
“I was saying that Bellerive has a swim team. That was the point of my comment. I live in a country where a swim team exists, and you’d be a great coach. No connection there.”
He chuckles and licks his spoon. “Because it sounded like you were trying to convince me to move to Bellerive.”
“That is the opposite of something I would do,” I say, and I drag the covers to my chin.
“Heart of stone, Jensen. Heart of stone.”
“Mine is rock solid. It’s been forged in fire.”
“Maybe it’s time you let that burn heal,” he says, and before I can respond, he takes his empty plate to the trolley.
One stupid, thoughtless comment by me, and we’ve dipped into dangerous territory. Except he doesn’t want a girlfriend any more than I want a boyfriend. He shouldn’t push me when he doesn’t want the job.
“I don’t need fixed, you know,” I say when he starts getting his things ready for practice.
“Won’t mention it again.” He shoves a towel in his bag.
“Good, because we’re temporary, and I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”
“Says the woman who invited me to live in her precious country only a few moments ago.”
I grab the pillow from behind my head and whip it at him. He ducks and laughs.
“What are you doing while I’m at practice?” He hitches the shoulder strap higher.
Contemplate why I agreed to be your fake girlfriend and how I can get out of it. “Booked a pedicure.”
“Are you upset with me? It feels like you’re upset with me.”
“No. No. Why would I be upset with you? This is the advantage of a fake relationship. We don’t get mad at each other. We get to be assholes, and no one cares.”
“Right,” he says, dragging out the word. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”
As soon as the door to the hotel room clicks closed, I sigh and throw another pillow at the wall.
After Chris, I never cared about having a boyfriend.
Casual hookups. People around me all the time.
Those things were enough. I didn’t need a specific person; I just needed someone.
Brent Faulkner won’t be the one to change that.
Developing a crush on more than his hot body is a recipe for disaster.
At the spa, they have me change out of my shorts and T-shirt and into a robe and flip-flops.
It’s standard fare for expensive hotels like this, but I’m impressed by the plushness of their robe.
I’m wasting time by examining my eyebrows in the mirror when a familiar voice sounds through the locker room from the exit into the treatment area.
Kill me now. I’m so not in the mood for another encounter with the ex-girlfriend from hell.
The fact that she had so little respect for me as Brent’s wedding date that she had her hand down his pants last night is more infuriating than I expect.
I shouldn’t care where his dick was or where her hands were.
She stops at the entrance to the bathroom area, and her gaze sweeps over me. “He’s training, is he? No such thing as a day off with him.”
Do not engage. Do not engage.
I’ll be early for my treatment, but it’s better to be out there sitting in an armchair waiting to be served than in here with her smugness.
“He eats, he sleeps, he trains, he fucks. Not much to offer a girl like you who’s social all over campus.”
The way she says it makes the implication that I’m a slut clear. Instead of getting mean in return, I draw my perkiness from my toes up into my expression. She doesn’t need to see how much I dislike her.
“You’re right. I am all over campus.” I grin.
“Whatever is going on between you two this weekend, it’ll be over next week. Brent wants a particular type of girl, and I’m able to provide that.”
Does she mean a sex doll? I bite down on my lip to keep from letting my mean girl out. No one wants a catfight in the spa bathroom.
“I guess we’ll see what next week brings,” I say in my perkiest voice. “We already synched our calendars. Maybe he needs more than one woman to provide what he needs.”
“You’re a weekend fling, and I’m the real deal.” Her eyes narrow. “I understand him better than anyone. Brent doesn’t do synched calendars and multiple women. Next week you’ll be in the rearview mirror, and I’ll be back riding shotgun.”
I let out a deep sigh, and my perkiness is expelled with it. “Maybe you think you know him. But if you do, then it means you believe the best you can do is a guy who doesn’t value you. He sees you as a pair of tits and a nice ass. That’s what you want for yourself?”
With that, I push open the spa door and exit into the treatment area. My heart pounds in my chest. I’m not sure whether my little speech will have poked the bear or shot it dead.
As for next week, I’ll gladly put myself in harm’s way if it means Val can’t sink her claws back into Brent. I might not want him to be my boyfriend, but he deserves a hell of a lot better than her.