Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
“He needs to practice. His time was seriously abysmal at the last meet.”
She arches a brow, folding her arms over her chest.
“That all?”
I scowl.
“Yes, Waverly, that’s all.”
“It’s not that you saw, I don’t know, a guy flirting with me, and decided to come over and play caveman?”
My eyes narrow. Basically, she’s entirely right, but I shove it aside.
“Why would that bother me?”
“I’m curious too,” she snaps. “Seeing as there’s nothing here.”
“There isn’t,” I growl quietly.
“So?”
“So what.”
“So I’m not allowed to flirt with a cute boy? What If I liked him flirting with me?”
Instantly, red mist clouds my vision, my jaw clenching tight as my hands close to fists.
Waverly grins wickedly.
“I never pegged you for the jealous type, Coach,” she purrs teasingly. She winks as she leans close, pretending that she’s stretching.
“I don’t want Ian Cavanaugh,” she whispers. “Just so you know.”
“Waverly—”
“I just want you, Coach.”
The words drip from her lips, and I groan as my pulse thunders.
“You realize you’re playing with fucking fire here, don’t you?” I growl lowly.
“Good thing there’s a pool right here.”
I roll my eyes. “Waverly, I know you think this is a game—”
“I don’t.”
“Then stop playing it.”
Her lips purse. “Who say I’m playing at anything?”
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath as my blood pumps like diesel in my veins.
…Seriously, what the fuck am I doing? And suddenly, a sliver of clarity settles over me as I shake my head and open my eyes to look right into hers.
“You know what?” I growl. “Maybe you should go flirt with Ian.”
Her grin fades, her eyes narrowing at me
“Is that what you want?”
“You’re a student, Waverly,” I hiss. “I’m a teacher.”
“You’re a Coach.”
“Same fucking thing,” I mutter. “Waverly, the other night—”
“Camden—”
“Coach,” I say quietly. “And the other night was a gross overstep that could cost me my fucking job and you your integrity.”
“I knew what I was—”
“I sincerely doubt that,” I growl. “And it doesn’t fucking matter. Because this?” My brow narrows as I flip a finger between us. “This is fucked up. I shouldn’t have come to your house last night.”
“So why did you?” She snaps.
I look away. I look away because I don’t trust myself to keep looking at her and not cave entirely.
“This is how this is going to work,” I groan quietly.
“You be you. The student. The swimmer. The fucking eighteen-year-old. And I’ll be me.”
“Which is?”
“Your coach, Waverly. You’re ten years older than you coach. And that’s it.”
“That’s it, huh?” she snaps.
“Yes,” I groan, my pulse racing. “That’s it. That is all this is.”
Her lips purse, and when our eyes lock, I swear I almost break. If she were to reach out and even just touch me with a single finger, I’d snap entirely.
But she doesn’t.
“Fine,” she says quietly, her mouth small and her eyes looking straight ahead. “So, what are we doing for drills today, coach.”
My jaw tightens, and part of me wants to grab her, yank her into me, and kiss her like I did that night at the bar, before I knew she was her and before my whole world was rocked.
“Grab Brynn and Sasha and work on your relay hand-offs.”
“Great,” she mutters flatly before she storms past me, brushing my chest with her shoulder, her hair billowing past my face as she storms off.
I tell myself this is how it has to be. I tell myself this is the smart, rational, right thing to do. I tell myself I’m over the whole fucked up situation with Waverly and that I’m going to just move on from this whole thing.
I tell myself this shit on repeat for the rest of the day.
…It doesn’t help.
5
Camden
I eat dinner out, alone, after practice—catching a little of the Yankees game over a burger before I head home as the sky begins to darken. But I’m not even through my front door when my phone goes off with a text message. I frown, sliding my hand into my jeans and pulling it out, and when I see the message, my pulse begins to beat faster.
It’s from Waverly. Well, it’s from the number I have for MermaidChick01, the one and only woman I’ve ever even chatted with since signing up for Sparkr a few weeks ago, who I’m now very aware is my goddamn eighteen-year-old swimming star.
So, that’s all this is, huh?
Part of me—a very, very large part of me, wants to say “no, the fuck it isn’t.” I want to tell her that I’ve been craving her—that she’s been haunting my fucking dreams and hounding my every waking thought. I want to tell her that the memory of that kiss is like the first hit from the most powerful drug imaginable, and that I’m a fucking junkie for it now.
But I can’t. Not with her. Not with who she is, or who I am. Not with how old she is, or me for that matter. I can’t because the ramifications of me and Waverly Owens could and would destroy her and the life I’ve managed to carve out for myself in the aftermath of what I’ve been through.