Page 15 of Stroke of Fate

The football house—as it’s called—is a massive house owned by an ex-Huska student who went pro some years back. He rents it out to several student football players each year, who find any excuse to throw a party. I'm pretty sure they even had one last year just because the clocks turned back.

Forgetting is easy in a place like that, and that’s exactly what I need right now. Something to distract my mind from things I shouldn’t be thinking about, like silky, soft blonde hair and a body my fingers are itching to explore.

And this time, I’m sticking to the damn plan.

***

“Boys, listen up!” Coach Schmidt yells as he strides through the doors. His ever-present whistle bounces against his retro-style tracksuit top. He’s a burly guy, and his vocal cords only seem to have one setting: loud.

Everyone immediately straightens up and huddles around him. Coach isn’t known for his patience. When he says, “Jump,” the correct response is no response—you jump.

"We have a friendly meet next weekend against Emberwood," he says, resting the clipboard he always carries against his stomach.

A chorus of groans ripples around me, and conversation kicks back up. Coach’s use of the word “friendly” isn’t exactly accurate. There’s nothing friendly about our rivalry.

Emberwood is a private college full of entitled pricks who think they’re better than everyone else, even though it’s Daddy’s money that got them there.

Unfortunately, they are the closest school to us, which means anytime we want to flex our competitive muscles without jeopardizing our standings, it’s against them.

They’re good. We’re better.

My body is already buzzing at the thought of putting those arrogant assholes in their place.Again. Money can buy many things, but talent isn’t one of them.

“All right, stop your yapping. We’ve got home turf advantage,” he mutters without looking up from the clipboard."Heat sheets go out at the end of the week. Since it’s only a friendly, each swimmer will compete in one heat. We’re using last season’s conference standings, so if you sucked then, you better prove to me now why your ass is worth keeping around."

Coach’s eyes narrow as his gaze sweeps over each of us, lingering longer on some. When it gets to Mack, I feel him tense next to me.

He struggled toward the end of last season, but I've seen him at his best. He has the talent to justify his spot on the team, but he needs to put in the effort. He has the talent to justify his spot on the team; he just needs to put in the effort.

He has a lot riding on his scholarship. If he is cut from the team, his chance to graduate goes with it because there's no way he can afford the tuition on his own.

“Starting now, no dilly-dallying at practice, or I’ll pull the nylon so far up your ass-crack you’ll be tasting it till Thanksgiving. Got it?”

“Yes, Coach!” We shout in unison.

Satisfied that he has instilled the necessary fear in us, he lifts his whistle and blows. The high-pitched shriek causes everyone to back up and wince. I swear I see a ghost of a smile on his lips as he lowers it—sadistic bastard.

“Good. Now give me twenty minutes of warm-up laps.” At that, we break up and walk toward the starting blocks.

“Dude,” Mack hisses beside me as I pull my cap and goggles on.

“What?”

“Think those rich Emberwood groupies will tag along next weekend?”

“You mean their girlfriends?”

He waves my words off. “Pfft. Semantics. People forget they’re in a relationship when temptation’s around.”

I'm about to tell him that some people do care about things like loyalty and commitment when our names are called, making our heads swivel simultaneously in Coach’s direction.

“Marino, Wright! I said no dilly-dallying. Are you hard of hearing or what?” Coach’s lips twitch beneath his mustache, the coarse hair shifting like a caterpillar as he swings his gaze between us.

“No way, Coach, these ears are in perfect condition,” Mack says, tugging at his lobes.

Not wanting him to get us into any more trouble, I give Coach a quick apology and drag Mack toward the rest of the swimmers, who are already warming up.

He immediately dives into the lane beside me, but my movements are more methodical. When my feet touch the cool cement of the starting block, I slip my goggles over my eyes. I take a deep breath, my lungs filling with the ever-present scent of chlorine that clings to the air, and dive into the water.

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