Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Read online

  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.

  I cross my arms, press my legs together, the stench of chlorine suddenly strong.

  “I’m busy,” Blake replies, short.

  I notice the hoodies have ‘Carver Elite Swimming Squad 2016’ printed on them.

  The tall one puts on a smug little smile still staring at me. “I can see that. Lining up your next lay?”

  Blake looks back at me. “Penance for the Bell tower thing.”

  Word up, big boy, that’s not what a girl wants to hear.

  The tall one takes a step forward, eyes settling on the vee between my legs. “If that’s penance, I’m not breaking enough laws. Where are you going to fuck her? The cleaning room? Reed’s office? She looks like she likes it rough.”

  That’s it. I put up a hand. “I don’t—” but Blake’s on the move.

  The others snigger, Blake rushing forward and pushing the leader in the chest with two hands.

  The guy stumbles back, surprised. “What the fuck, bro?”

  Blake holds a finger up. “Stay the fuck away from her, Ethan.”

  ‘Ethan’ steps forward again, two hands on Blake’s shoulders. “Brother, it’s all good. I’m only playing around.” He lets go of Blake, side-stepping him and putting his hand out. “Ethan Knight, pleased to meet you.”

  Reluctantly, I shake. “Tia.”

  He leans forward and kisses the top of my hand, lips well moisturized. “A pleasure, Tia. Sorry about the intrusion.”

  The others watch, Ethan cutting his eyes sideways to Blake as he stands back. “See you at training tomorrow?”

  Blake nods, hands finding his hips again. “Yeah. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Ethan smiles, winking in my direction. “Sure thing, superstar.”

  The T-Birds leave through the same door they entered, jumping on each other’s backs, rough-housing and shouting as they vanish into the night. And I thought Blake was a cliché…

  I pull the towel around myself and continue to wring out my hair over the tiles. “Friends of yours?”

  Blake breathes out. “My squad.”

  I roll my eyes. “Great. “What’s The Trophy Room?”

  “A bar.”

  “Of course.”

  The air grows awkward, especially in the wake of what just happened, but it’s not lost on me the way Blake jumped to my defense. I’ll remember that—not that he has a snowball’s chance in hell of sweet-talking me out of my swimsuit anytime soon, soaking as it may be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  BLAKE

  “I checked the calendar this morning, gentlemen, and it ain’t April Fools. I’ve seen seven-year-olds who can swimmer faster than you asshats. If you douchebags don’t place in the top five at the next meet you can kiss your Olympic dreams goodbye.”

  Coach Reed is never in a good mood, but today he seems particularly out of sorts. I don’t blame him, really. The entire squad is off its game, me included. I can’t stop thinking about Tia, weird as that is. Usually I can’t even remember the names of the girls I sleep with, let alone the exact shape of their face, the soft length of their lips…

  You haven’t even slept with her yet.

  And you’re not going to, the voice of reason commands. Not if you want to keep your balls.

  Coach crouches down at the end of the lane. Ethan surfaces in front of him. Coach hits his stopwatch and nods with approval. “That’s the way, Ethan. Fifty flat. It’s about time one of you ladyboys pulled a finger out.”

  It was a fast run for Ethan—uncharacteristically fast.

  But the brown-noser doesn’t stop there. He keeps digging all the way up Coach’s back passage. “I can do better, Coach.”

  Reed looks pleased. “That’s the spirit. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He addresses the pool. “All you other shit-for
-brains, pay attention.”

  *

  I’m annoyed at myself in the showers. I lean forward to let the water stream down between the blades of my back.

  Cutter, the antithesis of a professional swimmer if ever there was one, with his neck tatts and mohawk, slaps me on the ass. “How the hell do you even get around with that third leg of yours? What do you do? Tie it in a knot?”

  I blow him a kiss. “Fuck you, Cutter.”

  He leans close. “Hey, you see Ethan out there today?”

  I run my hands through my hair. “He was fast.”

  “Like really fucking fast.”

  I look at him through the curtain of water streaming off the front of my face. “What are you getting at?”

  “I think he’s using.” Cutter might look like he just got out of the local penitentiary, but he’s the biggest gossip queen going around. Besides, I know what it’s like to be behind bars. Cutter wouldn’t last a second.

  I shake my head. “No way. He wouldn’t be that stupid. You can’t get anything past the screenings these days. We’re months out from the Olympics. He’s a shoe-in if he keeps those times up, most of us are. He wouldn’t jeopardize that, not now.”

  Cutter shrugs, turning the taps in the wall, steam billowing in pale clouds around us. “Just sayin’. What’s the story with Coach’s daughter, anyhow? How’d you pull that gig?”

  I shut off the water, watch it trail down between my legs. “Fuck knows. What can I say? Coach loves to punish me.”

  Cutter laughs. “Fine piece of ass like that ain’t punishment, my friend. It’s a gift to the dick gods.” He glances down at my cock. “Goliath is hungry, is he not?”

  Touching Tia would be death to my dick. “She’s lava, completely off limits. Can you imagine the shit-storm I’d be swept up in if I touched her? Coach would have my head.”

  Cutter grabs my ear, pulling it back and forth. “And it’s such a pretty head.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Trophy Room tonight?”

  I shake my head, reaching over and grabbing my towel from the railing. “No can do. Like I said, Coach loves to punish.”

  *

  Billy’s out when I get back to the apartment. I find Tia in her room with headset on, speaking rapid-fire gibberish while her fingers work feverishly on the keyboard. The screen of her PC looks like some kind of medieval troll orgy.