Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance by Roxeanne Rolling

watch him with complete fascination as he looks so determine d standing there, swinging his arms back and forth, and doing little stretches here and there.
    I’m instantly thrown back into the time we shared together in my bed, when he was on top of me, kissing my neck, his hands all over my body in the sexiest way imaginable .
    “Hey, Anchor’s about to race,” says Dave, interrupting my little sexual fantasy reverie.
    “Is that him, there?” says Beaumont , but I’m not paying him any attention. I’m vaguely aware that Dave is telling him something about Anchor, and pointing out what type of race it is.
    I know that it’s a 100 M freestyle, which I think is about one length of the pool but I’m not sure.
    The pool is shimmering an amazing blue , and the plastic lane buoys are red and white, and seem to be shimmering. But maybe the shimmering is just in me, just in my perception. Every time I look at Anchor, it seems like there’s a magical sort of aura glowing around him. Everyone else, all the other swimmers, seem absolutely dull in comparison. They seem like nothing. I know Anchor’s going to win.
    Anchor is now up on the blocks, the little stands that the swimmers dive from at the start of the race. Even bendin g down, with his fingers gently against the block, he seems to be taller than everyone else. His body looks great bent over like this.
    The Olympic scout in front of us in the stands is fumbling with his camera. I wonder what his job really is. If he’s just going to record the race, what’s the point of sending a so-called expert here? I realized that I’m already assuming Anchor is the best of the best, and that there’s little point in even testing him for the Olympics—he should just get a spot on the team automatically. How silly I’ve become! Have I just fallen in love with him again? Wait , love ? Was I in love with him before?
    The gun goes off before I know it, and Anchor’s flying through the air.
    He lands in the pool gracefully, somehow hardly making any splash at all. He’s jumped fa r ther than any of the other swimmers, and is abou t a head’s length in front them from the start.
    He’s at the front, and his arms are moving like a machine, pulling his streamline d body through the water like a front-mounted motor on a jet ski.
    “He’s going to win,” I scream, forgetting myself, and forgetting that I’m in the presence of Beaumont .
    “No doubt! Way to go, dude!” screams Dave, trying to get to his feet to stand up, forgetting that he’s injured, and nearly toppling over completely in the process .
    But there’s another swimmer coming up next to him. He’s in the lane right next to Anchor, who’s in what might be called the middle lane.
    Shit, he’s beating Anchor now by about a full body length.
    The edge of the other side of the pool is approaching fast, as they all zoom towards it.
    This can’t be! Anchor is going to l ose.
    But at the last moment, Anchor pulls ahead of the other swimmer. He’s going so fast it seems like he’s going to simply c rash into the side of the pool and seriously injure himself, but he hits the wall gracefully somehow. Now he’s holding onto the side of the pool, pushing his goggles above his eyes, and looking up at the scoreboard.
    “Did he win?” I say, looking anxiously over at Dave.
    “Of course,” says Dave, clapping his hands, and letting out a very bro-like whooping noise.
    “He did well,” says Beaumont , somewhat stiffly. He gives me a quizzical look. I know he’s wondering why I’m cheering so much for Anchor.
    “Does Anchor have another event?” I ask Dave.
    “Yeah, he’ s still got the relay, you know? ”
    “Ah, that’s how he got such an unusual nick name,” says Beaumont , instantly deriving the meaning of the word Anchor. He isn’t a professor for nothing, after all.
    Dave just nods his head, as if this should be obvious. And maybe it should. I realize I think it should be obvious too, even though it