Page 30 of Bombshells
Ten
Part Mermaid
ANTON
“Again!” Coach yells. “Last time!”
With sweat dripping into my eyes, I set up for the drill once more. He blows the whistle, and I carry the puck past Trevi’s attempt at a poke check and make the pass to Campeau.
“Yaaaas!” Eric hollers from the bench. “That’s it!”
Normally, I care a great deal what he has to say, but when Coach blows the whistle three times to signal the end of practice, I am the first guy skating for the chute. I give Eric a wave but I don’t even stop to say hello.
I’ve got six minutes to clean myself up, or I’ll be late.
After the world’s fastest shower, I’m pulling my socks over still-damp feet when O’Doul stops in front of me. “Hey—can we have a quick defense meeting before tonight’s scrimmage?”
In nine hours we’ve got a preseason matchup against New Jersey. But first, there’s somewhere I need to be. “I’d love to,” I hedge. “But I’m doing some volunteer work for the foundation, and it starts in half an hour.”
“Dude!” Drake yells from over by the laundry cart. “It’s not volunteer work if you get paid to do it!”
“Work that hourly wage!” someone else yells.
“Okay, whatever. Then call it my side hustle.” I yank on my shirt and step into my shoes. “Can I catch up with you tonight, instead?”
“Sure, man.” He gives me a thoughtful nod. “I bet the organization appreciates you helping kids even on game day.”
I don’t deserve this praise, but I am not going to argue. “It’s a cool program. Happy to do it.” Clothed now, I give him a salute. I grab my gym bag and high-tail it out of there.
O’Doul might understand my zeal for charity work if he could see me a half hour later. Specifically, if he took note of where my eyes go every chance they get. Sylvie is distracting as fuck in a purple Brooklyn sports bathing suit. It’s a modest one-piece, the same suit that all our female students are wearing, too.
But good grief she is spectacular. The suit hugs her strong, athletic body, showing off every ridge and curve. And every inch of her smooth skin begs for my touch.
Or I wish it did, anyway. I’m just a lovestruck guy in purple trunks listening to Sylvie tell these kids how to tread water. “Move your arms laterally today. But for your certification, you’ll need to tread water for two minutes without using your arms.”
“What?” one of the girls squawks. “How can we stay above the water without our arms. That’s impossible.”
“Today you can use them,” Sylvie says quickly. “But when you’ve got that down, we’ll practice without. Just because it seems impossible today, does not mean it will seem impossible next week.”
The girl, sitting on her towel, does not look convinced.
This is our second session, and also the second time I ran in five minutes late. Morning skate always runs overtime.
Sylvie is always prompt, and now she’s up there in front of a pack of teenagers, calmly explaining the skills they’ll work on today in the pool.
Last session was different—with everyone wearing street clothes and learning some basic lifesaving techniques from a presentation projected onto the wall. This time, we’re going to get into the pool. Even me.
“Okay, so let’s take a quick poll. Who feels confident enough to swim across the pool and back again without stopping?”
More than half the kids raise their hands.
“Who can swim the crawl stroke and breathe every other stroke?”
The number of raised hands falls sharply.
“Okay,” Sylvie says, undaunted. “Who is not a swimmer yet at all?”
Nobody volunteers to self-identify this way. But I notice that a couple of boys evade eye contact.
