Page 11 of Deceit

“What is your problem!? Why did you grab me?” I snap.

His gaze becomes almost crazed.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You trying kill yourself down there?”

I roll my eyes at him.

“Did it look like I was trying to kill myself? No. I was just taking a moment. I was about to come up for air.”

“Whatever you say, Siren,” he scoffs.

I frown at that and am about to ask him what he means by Siren, when something catches me off guard. His eyes are so grey they look like slabs of slate. They’re a perfect combination between dark and light grey. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.

God, what is it with me and noticing everyone’s eyes? Do I have an eye fetish? Is that a thing? I think it might be.

Some of the anger begins to fade in them as I continue to stare at him before he looks away, practically shoving out of the water as fast as he can. He easily lifts himself out of the pool and onto the concrete walkway, grabbing a towel and a duffel bag in the corner, as he heads for the locker rooms.

Shaking my head, I begin with some warm-up laps before I line up on one end. Though I was never given the chance to actually compete, me and some of the girls at my school and in my swim club would race. It made it all the more fun, havingsomeone push you, someone to compare yourself to and setting new goals to strive for.

I look up at the clock, waiting for the hand to hit twelve before I begin. I’ve always been a fan of the butterfly stroke. Though it is arguably one of the most challenging strokes, it’s the most fun in my opinion. If I could have competed, this is definitely what I would have chosen.

My arms glide through the water and my shoulders burn as I bring my head up to the surface, gasping in a breath before doing it again and again. My legs are burning as they fight to continue propelling me. God, it’s been a while that’s for sure. Like riding a bike though, it starts to come back to me. I can feel each stroke getting more fluid, more synchronized as I make it to the end of the pool, flip and do it all the way back.

As soon as I surface, my head whips around to see my time– sixty-eight seconds. Damn. I mean, it’s not bad but it’s not great. When I was an avid swimmer, I was comfortably under fifty-nine seconds when doing the butterfly 100 meter.

“You again,” a deep voice rumbles from across the pool, forcing my eyes to land on the figure above.

Coach Ronan is wearing basketball shorts today and a sleeveless tank top. His forehead is dotted with sweat, and it looks like he just got done with a run if his shoes are anything to go off of.

I don’t say anything, mainly because I’m not sure what to make of his statement. He let me stay yesterday. Was that just a one-time thing? Did he not want me to come back again? I really hope it isn’t the latter.

He stares at me for several seconds, looking up at the clock before his eyes come back down to me.

“100?” he questions.

I nod quietly as he lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe off the sweat from his forehead, gifting me with the view of gorgeously toned abs.

When he drops the material, I can’t lie that I’m disappointed. Would it be so bad of me to tell him that he missed a spot?

“What was your time?” Ronan pants, taking a slow controlled breath, forcing his chest to settle.

Embarrassment nips at me, he’s a swim coach for an elite college. I’m sure he has swimmers that are cutting my time by ten seconds at least. He continues staring at me as if he won’t accept my silence, though.

“Sixty-eight,” I say softly, lowering my head so I don’t see the disappointment on his face. God, I hate being a disappointment. Chalking it up to whatever kind of mommy-daddy abandonment issues you want, I hate being in trouble and I hate being a letdown. Like, to an absolute extreme.

“When was the last time you trained?” he asks, his tone curious with no judgment.

I glance up to him carefully before I shrug.

“Five years.”

His eyebrows knit together. “You haven’t swam in five years?”

“No, I have,” I say. “Just not in a serious sense. Not outside of doing laps in my friend’s pool.”

“Well, shit. With a time like that and virtually no training in over five years, that’s impressive.”

“Really?” I ask. “What are your other girls’ times?”

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