Page 1 of Forbidden

DOUG

The smell of chlorine burns my nostrils, the intense damp heat of the pool coating my skin. It’s loud and uncomfortable. But it’s home. Pushing my fingers through my hair, my heart slams against my ribs as I watch my swimmers flip turn and push off for the final length. It’s close. Not close enough for us to pull back a win for the meet, but if we can take this last race, it might ease the sting a little.

Franklin West is hosting the first meet of the season and, honestly, it couldn’t be going worse. It’s only against Portland Community College, but they’re annihilating us. Sure, the team has had the summer off, but we shouldn’t be getting beaten this badly.

I track Aldo Rossi, the captain of our men’s team, as he powers through the water, the form of his butterfly near perfect, and my chest pulls. I know exactly what every inch of those powerful shoulders tastes like. How the muscles along his toned torso contract under my fingers as I bring him to his knees. I swallow, my mouth dry.

Fooling around with Aldo was a mistake. A mistake we repeated far too many fucking times. Which is why it’s over now. He’s a student and I’m his coach. It’s beyond breaking the rules. It’s forbidden. And as much as everyone seems to think I’m some sort of cavalier bad boy, I’ve never actually hooked up with a student before. I need this fucking job. I can’t afford to get sacked.

The buzzer sounds, signaling the end of the race as the swimmers reach the side. It’s close, but we lose. Portland takes first and second place, with Aldo and Wes taking third and fourth. Not fucking good enough.

“Commiserations, old chap,” the Portland coach says in a really shitty British accent as he claps me on the back.

I haven’t lived in England since I was sixteen. Just over fifteen years ago. My accent is a muddled mess, where Americans think I still sound British as fuck, but Europeans are convinced I’m either American or Australian.

I grimace, pasting a smile on my face before I turn to him. “Congratulations, Dave. It was a well-deserved win.”

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 his hand off. “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 pulling 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 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 shuffles 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 above it, 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 locker 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 the second and final gold medal was hung around my neck, and it’s getting harder and harder to rest on those laurels.

My medals are 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 my 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. Kids in 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 finally breathe.

Ironic, I know.

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