Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (2 page)

“Orlando.”

“Same-same.”

“And yes, I
do
have to train her.”

“In the many ways of taking cock?” He looks down into my crotch. “Goliath will be pleased to have fresh meat.”

“In the pool, asshat. Coach wants her competitive. I have to coach her every night after training.”

“But you don’t finish until six?”

“That’s what I said.”

Billy throws the remote across the room. It smashes into a pyramid of beer cans could well have been sitting there since the dawn of time. “Fucking Reed. He really is punishing you. Anything else?”

I put my hand up. “There is
one
more thing.”

Billy grins. He almost makes looking like a hobo attractive. “Does she have one eye? Because eye patches don’t put me off. I’ll happily fuck a pirate.”

I have to laugh. The only thing Billy’s been fucking recently is his Fleshlight.

I take a breath.
He’s not going to like this.
“We have to clear out the game room.”

Billy looks at me like I’ve just announced World War III. “Why the fuck would we do that?”

“Because Tia Reed, soon to be the bane of my existence, is moving in.”

TIA

The one with the rancid hair is introducing himself.

“Name’s Billy,” he says, hand out.

I’m a little scared to touch it. He looks like he splits his time between masturbating and going through the trash. Nice arms, though.
Not as nice as Blake’s.

Shut it.

Reluctantly, I shake. “Tia.” I look around. Mom’s place wasn’t the Hilton, but
this
? I’m thinking I should exchange my tank top for a hazmat suit. “Something smells funny.”

Billy punches Blake on the arm. “She’s talking about your balls, bro.”

Blake shoots him a look, his ‘bro’ soon falling into silence when he realizes that kind of humor isn’t welcome in the presence of an actual, live, flesh-and-blood female.

Blake shoves Billy towards the kitchen. “Why don’t you go clean up a little for our guest, hey?”

I notice the dragon tattoo on his bicep. As if having ‘Champion’ scrawled down your side wasn’t stupid enough.

Billy screws his face up until he realizes Blake’s serious. “Fine. Guess I’ll grab my cleaning gloves.”

And here I was thinking the Jedi mind trick only worked in the movies.

The mighty Blake Johnson takes a step towards me, hands in the pockets of his sweat pants. It’s hard to miss the solid lines of his body, the smooth, corded muscles in his arms. The guy might be a jerk, but he’s a cute jerk.

“Your wife beater’s a couple of sizes too small,” I note.

“Thanks?” he replies, looking at me sideways. “You get out much in Orlando, Tia?”

“Out?”

“You know, see the sights, clubbing, parties?”

“My WoW guild often holds social get-togethers IRL, but I’ve never attended.”

“IRL?”

“In real life.”

Blake looks to Billy, Encino Man now with broom in hand. “WoW, as in World of Warcraft, the computer game?”

I put my bag down. “It’s much more than a ‘game’. It’s a massively multiplayer role-playing environment. It’s very complex.”

Blake folds him arms. “Oh, I bet it is.”

I shoot him eye daggers. “I don’t appreciate sarcasm.”

He studies me—more like studies my chest. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Please show me to my room. I’m tired and I wish to sleep.”

“Right through here, m’lady.”

Billy sniggers from the kitchen.

Assholes. What the hell was Dad thinking putting me in here with Dumb and Dumber?

I pick up my bag and stop next to Blake, a college cliché so stunning I’m thankful I have lived to see one in the wild. I rise up on my toes and whisper into his ear, “If you want your balls to stay attached to your body, don’t call me ‘m’lady’ ever again.”

And what do you know, Sir Cliché’s suddenly quiet.

*

I meet Dad for lunch at a small cafe near the Edmond Manners Memorial Pool, the crown jewel of the Carver campus. He’s put on a few pounds since I saw him last, hair more salt and pepper than city noir.
It has been a decade.

He looks down at my plate. “You still love pancakes, huh?”

“Butter, sugar, syrup—what’s not to love?”

He leans back still uncomfortable around me, and so he should be. “Your mother was the same. She could shovel in a stack of those things a foot high for a week straight and not gain a single ounce. She could eat anything and keep that killer body of hers. Guess you got her genes.” He reaches down and takes hold of his gut. “You certainly didn’t get your old man’s.”

I put my knife and fork down. “Tell me about Blake.”

Dad looks surprised, poking at his barely touched muesli. “Blake? He’s a contender, probably the finest swimmer I’ve seen come through this place in a decade. He’ll go places if he applies himself, but he’s got… issues.”

“Elaborate.”

Dad shakes his head, hands together above his cup of joe. “Self-control problems for one. He’s a party animal, can’t keep his dick in his pants, excuse the French. He’s one of those kids who’s just a magnet for trouble. I’m sure you had your share down in Orlando.”

“And you’re letting me live with him?”

Dad places a hand on my shoulder. It should be natural, but it’s awkward after all this time. Even as a kid we weren’t big on physical affection. “Don’t worry about Blake, Tia. You’re my daughter. He wouldn’t dare touch you.”

I shiver, even though the idea of his body isn’t completely repellant. “Good. I wasn’t keen on catching herpes in my first semester.”

Dad swallows. “That’s what the pepper spray I gave you is for. I mean, are you…?”

I look at him confused. “Am I?”

He rolls his hands together, shifts on his seat before leaning over and whispering. “You know, are you… sexually active?”

I cut a slice of pancake, stabbing it with my fork. “Wow. I haven’t seen you in ten years, not even a birthday card, and you want to know about my sex life. ‘How’s the weather?’ not hip enough?” I’m being cruel, and he
is
trying to help, but screw him. It’s going to take more than a stack of pancakes to buy my forgiveness.

He hangs his head, licks his lips, dry and cracked from too much time poolside. “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

But I’m too soft. I weaken. I place my hand on his arm, kind of feel sorry for him being caught out like this. He probably had a nice, quiet life sliced out here before he got the call. I bet the last thing he expected at sixty-five was to be dumped with his long-lost daughter. “I’m a virgin,” I tell him, adding a wink. “You don’t have to worry.”

He exhales, sitting upright. “Okay. Glad we got that sorted out.”

“Are you going to ask when I get my period next?”

At the word he looks around anxiously. It’s like I’ve just proclaimed my love for the KKK. “
No
.”

I’m loving this. Making a grown-man blush is stealing-baby-candy easy. “My first kiss? My abortion? What else would you like to know about?”

“Your wh—”

“I’m kidding,” I reassure. “Geez, lighten up a little. Everything’s so damn serious here.”

He sighs. I know he used to be a drill sergeant, a SEAL, but right now he just looks lost. “It’s nice to have you around, kiddo. That’s all.” He speaks to his coffee, but I appreciate the sentiment. “And I’m sorry about what happened with your mother. I really am.”

I don’t want to talk about
that
right now. I don’t think I ever want to talk about it. “Me too. Now, tell me again why you decided to shack me up with the two biggest womanizers on campus?”

*

The pool at Carver is a little bigger than the one back home, floor-to-ceiling windows let light stream in slanted columns across the space. I spot Blake waiting by the diving blocks.

I expected he’d be wearing a full body suit, but his torso and lower legs are bare. The dragon tatt is rather interesting up close. I make a mental note to enquire about it at the appropriate juncture. Half-naked, he’s more cut than I realized, toned abdominals and thick arms, not a spot of hair apart from the inky mess swept up on his head. For a second I catch myself staring at the rounded bulge between his legs wondering whether that space is shaved smooth, if those supposed big balls of his are more plum than pine nut.

Tia!

He’s attractive, I’ll give him that, but without a brain to back it up I really couldn’t care less. I’m here to swim and study, not get knocked up and kicked out.

He looks me up and down as I approach. I pretend I’m not self-conscious in this one-piece that leaves precisely zip to the imagination. He lingers a little too long on my rack, snapping his eyes up and smiling. The pool’s empty. It’s just the two of us.

He places his hands on his hips and I swear he pushes his crotch out. Yep, there’s a definite bulge there alright. I’m surprised it’s not a hindrance in the pool, a sort of penisy rudder.

Imagine what happens when he’s hard.

I snap my eyes up from his package when he speaks.

“Soooo, how did you train back in Orlando? What did your coach get you to do?”

I cover my breasts, tucking my hand under my arm. “I’ve never had one.”

“You’re self-taught?”

“I nod.”

He looks stunned, crouching down before standing up and nodding. “Okay then. Jump in. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I stand on top of the nearest block and pull down my goggles. “What stroke do you want me to use?” It sounds a touch more sexual than I intend.

He laughs. “I like it…” he stops, knows his little one-liners are going nowhere with me. “Freestyle’s fine.”

He swipes a stopwatch off the block beside him, pressing the top button. “Go.”

I spring off the blocks, a welcome rush of air across my body before I hit the water. I let it envelop and roll over me as I pull up into the stroke, driving forward with my hands and using my legs for propulsion.

It’s good to be back in the water facing the line again. That’s what I’ve always liked about swimming—the simplicity of it. It’s just you and that line, your breath and body working. You don’t need fancy equipment. You don’t even need to be particularly well built. It’s all about efficacy of motion, physics. The world’s a complicated place, but that—inertia and energy and leverage—I can understand.

I tumble and head back, falling into the groove, everything coming back to me. When I surface, Blake’s looking at the stopwatch like it’s going to punch him in the face.

I lift my googles and grip the edge.

He scratches at the chiseled line of his jaw, abs crunching on one side. “Damn. You’re fast.”

I catch my breath. “I can do better.”

He squats down, thighs bulging. “Have you ever swam competitively?”

I shake my head. “No, never.”

“It’s different when you’re running against the clock, against other swimmers. The surface of the water changes, the disruption of it more or less pronounced depending on what lane you’re in, where you are in the pack. Give me an open pool and I’ll hand you PBs for days, but throw another nine swimmers in and you sure as shit better be at your best.”

As he speaks, his whole demeanor changes. The campus playboy is gone and replaced with a man driven by passion. Yes, a tight butt and abs of steel are great, but when I listen to someone talk about what really drives and excites them, no bullshit,
that
is sexy. Still, I can’t help myself. “Is that what my father tells you?”

Blake looks up to the dark windows of Dad’s office overlooking the pool. “Coach Reed is Daft Punk on repeat. All I ever hear from him is ‘harder, stronger, faster’. That or ‘get off your ass, son’.”

My arms are getting sore from holding onto the edge of the pool. I’m also pretty sure I’m giving Blake a perfect, private viewing of my cleavage bunched up together. “You like him?”

To his credit, he speaks to my face. “As a coach? Sure. He’s brought out the best in my swimming.”

“And away from the pool?”

“A solid guy. What do you want me to say? It’s not like we wrap up here and head on back to his place for Scotch and bridge.” He claps his hands together. “Enough small talk. Let’s slow the pace, concentrate on technique. You’re fast, but you’re far from perfect.”

I don’t miss the split second when his eyes drop down the front of my swimsuit.

Problem is, I kind of like it.

*

Three-thousand yards down and I’m ready to hit the showers, the hay—anything but another lap. If anything, the drill sergeant in Dad has rubbed off on his pumped-up Padawan here.

Blake reaches down and pulls me from the pool like I weigh nothing. I stand on the tiles breathing hard, my chest lifting and falling. My legs burn, my arms ache, but there’s also a sense of achievement that progress has been made, however small. I never really appreciated the idea of a coach before. I thought I could handle this like I’ve handled everything else in my life—alone. But now I get it. You need someone behind you pushing you harder, pushing you further than you’re prepared to go.
Someone to break you.

‘Coach’ tosses me a towel. “Good work tonight.” For a moment the cliché is gone, the college chugging champion absent.

Holy shit. There might actually be intelligent life in there.

I pull my cap off and shake my hair out, drying it with my towel still trying to regulate my breathing.

“What do we have here?”

A group of guys in matching hoodies and sweat pants approach from the far door. They’re even walking in formation.

Jesus. It’s the Rat Pack.

I’m sure they’re speaking to Blake, but as they get closer I realize the tallest one, the ‘leader’, is looking right at me.

Blake stands between us. “What are you fucktards doing here?”

The tall one leans around his side, staring at me. He looks like money, entitled. “You weren’t down at the Trophy Room, man, made us come out in the cold and look for you.” Guy sounds like a bad Matthew McConaughey impersonator.