Page 110 of Golden

He squeezes my shoulder, the crow’s feet around his eyes wrinkling as he smiles widely. “Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix. Right?”

Fuck this guy. Seriously.

“I don’t like tea,” I say, shrugging out from his hand. “See you in a couple of months for the rematch.”

His smile fades but I don’t give a shit about hurting his feelings. And I was telling the truth. Tea tastes like crap. Turning my back on him, I stride over to where Aldo and Wes are shrugging on their dark green Franklin West robes, while being consoled by the team.

“What the fuck was that?” I bark.

Aldo flinches and the crestfallen look on his face almost makes me back down. Almost.

“Sorry, Coach,” Wes says. “We’ll pull it back.”

I have to look up a little to meet his gaze. I’m not short at six feet, but Wes has a few inches on me and with the huge expanse of his shoulders, it sometimes feels more like a foot.

“You’d better,” I snap. “That was fucking embarrassing.”

Aldo looks up meeting my glare, and it takes everything I have to keep the frown on my face. His eyes are fucking beautiful—huge, and a deep, rich brown, with long, thick, dark lashes.

“Sorry, Coach,” he says. “We’ll train extra hard this week. I don’t think we were expecting Portland to bring such a strong game for the first meet of the season.”

My jaw clenches. “Well, you should have. You should always expect the other team to be better. As Captain, it’s your job to make sure the team knows that, too. Maybe I made the wrong choice.”

Hurt flashes in his eyes and his fingers clench at his sides, but he says nothing.

Around us, the team shuffle nervously. I shouldn’t be tearing him a new one in front of them, it’s unprofessional. But being unprofessional is my M.O..

“Go get showered,” I say to the team. “Aldo. My office.”

I turn on my heel and stomp through the locker rooms and out into the corridor. The pool is connected to the enormous gym, frequented by the lacrosse teams as well as the rest of the student body, and my office is on the first floor, overlooking the pool on one side and the gym on the other. When I first saw it, I was impressed. Even though Franklin West is a posh-as-fuck fancy college, I’d expected my office to be a small room off the pool changing rooms. Three years later, the novelty has well and truly worn off. It has electric blinds, but I keep them up, letting the morning light flood the space alongside the garish white from the strip lighting above.

Sinking onto my plush leather chair, I lean back and chew at one of my nails. It’s been ages since we lost a meet, and to start off the season like this means my ass is going to be under some serious scrutiny, and not in a good way. I might be an ex-Olympian, but it’s been nine years since that gold medal was hung around my neck, and it’s getting harder and harder to rest on those laurels.

That medal is the only reason Elizabeth West hired me. I’m sure of it. Franklin West is all about image. These college kids come here with some real talent, but most of them won’t pursue swimming professionally. They all have CEO positions waiting for them somewhere. A huge, cushy safety net to fall into. There are only a couple, like women’s captain, Joy Blake, and our token scholarship kid, Jordan Summit, who have possible Olympic medals in their future.

It wasn’t like that for me. For me, swimming was an escape. British schools get swimming lessons once before they go to high school. I was nine the first time I so much as dipped a toe in a pool. But by the end of those three months of lessons, I was slicing through the water like I was born for it.

The swimming instructor noticed and contacted my parents. They couldn’t afford lessons or the membership fees for the local club, so they managed to get me some sort of scholarship. I was so young; I just went along with whatever they said. All I knew was, when I was in the water, I could breathe.

Ironic, I know.

With just the steady, measured breaths, and the burning of my muscles, I felt free. It was like my shitty future wasn’t mapped out in front of me. It didn’t matter that I could barely read or write or that numbers were a jumbled fucking mess. It wasn’t an issue that the soles of my school shoes flopped open when I walked, letting the rain soak my socks; that my trousers were too short and too tight.

When I started qualifying for national competitions and bringing medals home, my parents started to take notice. Swimming was no longer a way to keep me out from under their feet. But I didn’t want them to take notice. It wasn’t because they started showing up to meets or anything, it was because they started to see potential. That I could be worth something.

Which is why, when I got the chance to come to the States to train for the Olympics, I stayed. My family have never seen me as anything other than a cash cow, and quite frankly, fuck them. The only person who ever seemed to genuinely care for me is my nan. I speak to her once a month, but I haven’t been back to the U.K. in years.

I’m so lost in my own thoughts, I don’t notice Aldo stepping into my office until he closes the door behind him.

“You’ll make your fingers bleed,” he says. “I thought you were trying to stop.”

I narrow my eyes. “Yeah, well I’m stressed. And you’re dripping on my carpet.”

“Well, if you’d let me get changed first, I wouldn’t be.” He folds his arms across his chest, and I try to convince myself I’m not an asshole.

“Sorry for talking to you like that in front of the team,” I mutter.

Aldo’s shoulders sag a little and he pushes his hand through his still-damp hair, his fingers tangling in the thick, dark strands. “It’s okay.”

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