Getting Played Page 3

  But that’s not going to keep me out of the pool.

  Tryouts were three weeks ago, and despite my pathetic teammates, or maybe because of them, practice is my outlet. In the anger management class they forced me into after Mom died, the counselor said exercise is one of the best stress relievers. Finally, someone told me something useful. Running or lifting weights sounded like torture, but being in the water seemed to settle the storm raging inside me. I’m happier there alone, but swim season is only in the spring, so I play polo in the fall.

  I head to the pool as everyone else streams out the front doors into the bright late September sun talking about where they’re going to lunch. With everyone gone, the pool should be quiet and I can get some laps in.

  On the way through the gym, I slow as I pass the trophy case along the wall of the lobby. There are pictures of all the league and section championship teams since 1968, when the school was built. As I move slowly up the row, the pictures become more current. Near the end of the row, I find what I’m looking for.

  Marcus Leon is one of only two athletes in the history of the school who has an individual picture with a brass plaque under it. I read the accolades: league record holder in all the freestyle and butterfly sprints, as well as the 200 Individual Medley; state record holder in the 100 butterfly; three year captain of the two time Division II State Champion water polo team, where he earned First Team All-State all four years. And then, tacked onto the bottom, a second plaque outlines all of his accom-plishments at UCLA, including leading his water polo team to two National Championships.

  When she found out I played water polo, my calculus teacher asked me if I knew my coach had been his class valedictorian five years ago—another feather in his cap. As if there weren’t enough of them already. Apparently, he was one of her favorite students.

  I feel my whole body warm, some places more than others, as I stare at his picture and I mentally flog myself as I turn for the doors. It is so high school cliché to crush on your hot coach, and I don’t do cliché.

  But I swear he asked me out.

  I waited for the entire practice the Monday after we met at his sister’s wedding for him to say something to the team about burgers at Sam Hill. I was pretty sure he’d been flirting with me, but until he nearly flipped out, I didn’t realize that he hadn’t recognized me. But then he started stammering about team bonding and whatever and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure…until he said nothing about a team dinner to the group.

  Since then, I’ve shown up and done my job—which basically entails taking out my aggressions on the water, the ball, and my teammates—without really even looking at Marcus.

  I cross the athletic complex to the pool house and am a little surprised to find the gate unlocked and no one around. I change in the locker room and dive in, taking a few warm-up laps.

  Usually, when I swim, the world drifts away and my mind settles into a hum…white noise. But not today. Today it’s full of images that I can’t seem to shake of Marcus in the pool. Every afternoon before practice he swims, and watching him is nothing short of a religious experience. The way the water moves around him as he strokes smoothly through it, I’d swear he’s part dolphin.

  I drag myself out of the pool to stretch, spreading my legs slightly and bending to touch the pool deck between my feet. When I glance between my legs I see Marcus sitting in a molded plastic chair near the locker room.

  I swear my heart skips a beat. I know he wasn’t there a few minutes ago.

  My breathing’s already heavy from the swimming, but when he stands and stalks slowly in my direction, my panting gets shallower and faster. He’s in swim trunks and a white T-shirt with red print that says something I’m not coherent enough to read—because his incredible legs are right there, walking toward me, long and tanned and defined.

  And that’s when I realize I’m still watching him upside down from a fairly compromising position. I straighten up and turn to face him.

  “Your teammates are all at the mall or whatever,” he says, the hint of a smirk lightening his strong face. “What are you doing here?”

  I’m pretty sure those are the first words he’s said directly to me in the three weeks since he asked me out in the park. I slap down the butterflies that explode into flight in my stomach and wave absently at the pool. “Conditioning.”

  One corner of his firm red mouth ticks up along with one dark eyebrow. “You’re already in twice the shape of anyone else on the team.”

  The fact that he’s noticed what kind of shape I’m in sends those butterflies swarming again. I will my eyes to stay on his face instead of traveling over the stretch of cotton covering pecs I’m dying to see. “Not into shopping.”

  As if he read my mind, he tugs off his T-shirt. I turn and kick my leg up onto the starting block to stretch my hamstring, because it’s taking every ounce of will I have not to scour his body with my eyes. As I stretch, in my peripheral I see him helicopter one arm then the other.

  “Glad for the company,” he says. “I’m less likely to dog it if someone’s here to push me.”

  I blow out a laugh and turn to look at him. “I seriously doubt you’ve ever ‘dogged’ anything in your entire life.”

  He lowers his head to scratch the back of it and I take the opportunity to let my eyes slick down his body. He’s got the classic swimmer’s build: long and lean, but seriously defined. There’s a part of me I never knew existed that is dying to trace the ridges of his abs with my finger…or tongue. And he’s nearly a foot taller than me—at least six four.

  The tingle of my tightening nipples reaches my consciousness and shakes me out of my lust-induced fog. When my gaze snaps back to his face, his hand is twisted into his unruly sable hair and he’s looking at me from under the thickest eyelashes I’ve ever seen with warm cinnamon eyes. “Why would you say that?”

  The way he’s looking at me, with a hint of amused curiosity mixing with something darker and more intense, I know he saw everything, from my ridiculous ogle to the resulting peaks of my nipples poking into my wet swimsuit.

  I turn and kick my other leg onto the block so he won’t see the pink I feel rising in my face. “You were valedictorian here five years ago, right? But then ended up with a athletic scholarship to UCLA instead of an academic one?”

  I shoot him a glance and find him nodding slowly, the amusement in his expression gone.

  I turn and lean on the block to stretch my calves. “And you were First Team All-Conference all four years at UCLA, Second Team All-American freshman year, First Team All-American for the other three, and National Player of the Year your junior year after UCLA’s back-to-back National Championships.” I push off the block and look at him. “Did I miss anything?”

  His eyes study my face but I feel him deeper than that, rooting through my thoughts and turning them to chaos. “All-Academic all four years.”

  I tear my eyes away and stretch my arm overhead. “They left that off the plaque.”

  The intensity of his stare fades and a smile kicks up one corner of his mouth. “So, now that we’ve run through my bio, what about yours?”

  I look at him, then realize I’m doing it past an armpit that hasn’t been shaved for two days. I lower my arm. “What do you mean?”

  He tips his head at me. “You came from somewhere. And from the look of your game and the way you move in the water, you played polo there,” he adds with a flick of his wrist at the pool.

  Action to be avoided: talking about my past. Which is why, in the month since school started, I’ve yet to say more than three words to any of my classmates. No friends means no questions. No explanations. But if I don’t answer Marcus, it will just lead to more questions. “I went to Roosevelt High.”

  “Which Roosevelt High? There have to be hundreds of them.”

  I think about lying, but something about Marcus makes me trust him enough to tell the truth. “In San Mateo.”

  He gives a slow nod. “From the bay to the mo
untains. That has to be a pretty big change.”

  I shrug and go back to stretching. “I’m adjusting.”

  When there’s no response, I look at him again. His full upper lip is sucked between his teeth and he’s biting on it as he scrutinizes me with eyes that suddenly seem darker.

  “What?” I ask, wiping my forearm under my nose, thinking there might be snot dangling there. One of the hazards of swimming.

  “Are you?”

  When I realize what I’m seeing is pity, I feel my eyes narrow. “You think because I don’t hang around with Barbie and her league of Skippers that I’m not adjusting? The pathetic new kid?”

  “I didn’t say that,” he says with a slow shake of his head.

  I shrug. “I have better things to do with my time than waste it on trying to impress people.”

  Something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone before I can read it. “I guessed that about you.”

  There’s an intensity to his gaze that I’m totally un-prepared to handle. The one skill I’ve mastered in the last few years is invisibility. Flying under the radar. But Marcus’s radar just pierced my lead cocoon and I suddenly feel totally exposed.

  I turn and dive into the pool, swimming my lane as fast as I can. I’m only half a lap in when I feel the shift. Someone’s drafting on my left. And, since Marcus and I were alone on the pool deck, it has to be him.

  I reach the wall and flip-turn, then keep swimming. Now that my head is clearing and I feel mostly back in control of myself, I don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing I even care he’s there by speeding up or slowing. He keeps pace at my heels through forty laps, though I’m sure with his six foot four swimmer’s frame, he could leave me in his wake if he wanted.

  But I’m a little pissed. I was looking forward to solitude—a chance to decompress. Swimming laps with my too-hot-for-his-own-good water polo coach is not relaxing.

  At all.

  Because all I can think about is him in those low-slung swim trunks. The sinew of his legs; the deep grooves of his hip lines; the cut of his abs and pecs; the V of his back; the defined shoulders and curve of his biceps. Every inch of him is ripped and hard. And his strong, intimidating face…the dark hair and square stubbled jaw contrasting with light skin; the intense cinnamon eyes that seem to darken every time they look into mine…

  Despite the cool water, I feel hot all over.

  Intentionally, I only breathe to the side away from Marcus. I don’t want to chance catching a glimpse of him and risk my body forgetting how to function altogether. The last thing I need is to drown and wake up with him giving me mouth-to-mouth. But, damn. I feel him electrifying the water all around me. My skin tingles and my brain is threatening to short circuit. Sort of the same sensation as when I stuck my finger in a light socket when I was five.

  But just because my coach is so hot he could start the entire pool boiling doesn’t mean I’m going to let him turn me into every other girl on his team—all fluttering and swooning, intent on making a total fool of herself. Any high school girl who thinks a guy like Marcus would be into them is deluded. Knowing this should be enough to keep my hormones in check.

  Should be.

  First key to invisibility: Don’t react to anything.

  So I keep swimming.

  I lose track of laps somewhere around a mile, but as long as Marcus is on my heels, I keep going. Somewhere around the eighty lap mark, I feel myself just run out of steam. My adrenaline rush begins to ebb and it’s as if someone flipped a switch. I struggle to finish the last half lap, then pull myself to the edge of the pool, where I hook my arms on the edge and suck wind.

  Marcus stands with his back against the pool edge and the water laps against his eight pack abs. “Just what I needed, someone to pace me.”

  He’s not even breathing hard, so I work to control my breathing too, even though my lungs are screaming for air. “I should have gone faster, then.”

  “No,” he says with a shake of his head. “That was perfect. You set a steady pace and you’re quiet in the water. Good technique.” He dips under the lane divider between us. “The only suggestion I have is to keep a brain cell trained on your left shoulder.” He comes around behind me and pulls me away from the pool wall with a hand on my stomach, and as he leans over me to reach for my wrist, I feel his hard abs all up my back.

  A shower of sparks ignites in my belly at his touch. He says something about technique as he pulls my shoulder back until it’s against his chest and moves my arm, but it may as well be in Farsi, because I can’t process his words. When he lets me go a minute later, I suck in a shuddering breath.

  I know he hears, because when he skims through the water so he’s in front of me, there’s a crease between his dark eyebrows. “You okay?”

  I nod, then realize my mouth is hanging open and I’m an inch from drooling. I snap it closed.

  His eyes narrow as his gaze examines the contours of my face for the lie. “You’re sure? Because you feel hot, like you might have a fever or something.”

  Oh, God. I am so in hate with my body right now for being so obvious. “I’m fine,” I say, pulling myself out of the water and sitting on the pool edge.

  He follows my lead, kicking out of the water in one deft move and sitting next to me. “I know you played polo at Roosevelt. Even a natural needs to be taught the eggbeater, and you’ve got it down. Did you swim too?”

  I nod.

  “What events?”

  “Not as many as you,” I say, realizing with my words that I’m more out of breath now than I was when I finished my swim. “I’m not an overachiever.”

  He laughs, then shakes his head a little. “I’m making you captain.”

  Second key to invisibility: Never do anything noteworthy.

  I’m momentarily stunned into silence. It takes a minute before I’m able to respond. “I don’t want to be captain.”

  “Tough.” He stands from the edge and grabs my towel, handing it to me, then towels dry his hair with his, leaving it spiking up all over his head. I hate that it just makes him look hotter. “You have this insane work ethic, and I need someone out there who can run both sides of the ball. I think that’s you.”

  “Does Corinne know?” I ask, gaining my feet.

  “She will soon enough.”

  The second I’m up, I wish I’d stayed down. Everything spins and I grab onto the starting block for balance. And that’s when I realize I forgot to get lunch before I came over to the pool. I skipped breakfast this morning because Dad overslept his alarm and I had to get him cleaned up and out the door for an interview before I left for conditioning. Adrenaline was the only fuel my body had, and now that it’s spent, there’s nothing left in the tank.

  “You okay?” Marcus asks.

  When the spinning stops and I look up, I see he’s moved closer. Which makes everything spin again.

  “I’m fine. Just a little dizzy. I think I forgot to eat.”

  “Forgot to eat,” he repeats. “How can you forget to eat?”

  “I just…forgot.” I don’t mean for that to sound as defensive as it does.

  He looks at me for another second before turning for his duffel. “Your blood sugar’s low. I’ve got a Power Bar you can have. It should help with the dizziness, but you’re going to need a real…”

  His voice fades as stars flash in my eyes. And then I’m vaguely aware of my legs giving out.

  “Fuck! Addie!” is the last thing I hear before the side of my head cracks off the corner of the starting block and an ice pick sears though my brain.

  The sooty smell of smoke fills my lungs, choking me. I cough and it sends stabbing pain through my chest. Over the sound of a blaring car alarm, there’s a siren in the distance. Closer, I can hear people shouting.

  “Mom?” I croak.

  I turn my head…and scream.

  An ear-splitting screech pierces though my dream and my eyes snap open. With every blast of the alarm, my head explodes. A sick sense of
déjà vu rolls through me as I take in my surroundings, and my fingers curl tighter into the sheets.

  I’m in a hospital room. The shades are parted and I can see the scarlet and gold of a sunset sky through the sparse branches on a tree outside my window. The lights are on about half wattage, but even that feels like a death ray straight into my brain.

  And through it all, off to my right, someone is snoring.

  I know it’s Dad, but when I turn my head to look at him, I gasp with the blinding pain that shoots through my brain.

  The door across the room opens and a nurse races toward the bed.

  “You must have lost your finger monitor, love,” she says to me without taking her eyes off the noisy machine at the head of my bed.

  I press the side of my head into the pillow, blocking the sound in one ear until she turns off whatever’s making that god-awful noise.

  “Let me check your monitor, sweetie.” She unearths my hand from the blankets. “Ah, see. There’s the problem.” She clips something onto my index finger and grabs a roll of tape, securing it there. “While I’m here, let me check your bandages.”

  “Bandages?” I croak.

  I start to bring my hand to my right ear, but I get tangled in the IV line taped to the back of it and stop when I feel it yank.

  She brings the head of my electric hospital bed up a little and pokes at the side of my head, then starts peeling some tape off my right temple. “Your stitches look good. As soon as the swelling comes down this won’t look so bad.”

  “Stitches?”

  “You hit your head, sweetheart.” Her brow creases as her face turns all concerned. “Don’t you remember?”

  What is the last thing I remember? Half-day…I went to the pool. Marcus. I was swimming with Marcus then…

  Crap.

  “How many stitches?” I ask, trying to untangle my hand so I can assess the damage. Scars draw attention.

  “Six,” she answers, her concern shifting to sympathy. “It’s a pretty good gash, love. But the good news is most of it is behind your hairline. The scar won’t spoil your pretty face.” She pats the tape down. “Do you have any pain, sweetie?”