Because we both know the physical therapist already left for the day. Hours ago.
I don’t know why we both insist on keeping up this pretense, as if we both aren’t very aware that he’s about to massage my sore muscles in the deserted therapy room.
It’s my favorite and least favorite part of the day.
Favorite because I love Everett’s hands on me. I crave them there, kneading the knots out of my calves and shoulders and thighs. He’s the only one who can do it right, sensing exactly where my aches are most significant.
Least favorite because I feel achy and disjointed afterwards. I don’t know what to do with myself. My body won’t calm down. Which is why I had the idea to go dancing with some of my fellow divers. Maybe if I exhaust myself, I’ll finally be able to get some decent rest. Sleep that I need if I want to win gold.
We turn the corner into the therapy room and it’s empty. There’s no sound, except for the slow drip of the sink faucet. The low buzz of the overhead light.
“He must have gone home for the day,” Everett says casually, his breath ghosting over my shoulders, which are still wet from the pool. “I’ll have to rub you down.” His voice has turned deep. So deep. He never uses this tone around my parents. Only when we’re alone. It lifts every hair on my body, makes my nerve endings quiver. “Lie on the table, Margot. Face down.”
This is the part of the day where I tell myself this is innocent.
He’s my coach.
He’s the best coach. Sought after by every competitive diver in my state.
Maybe all he wants is to unknot my muscles.
After all, it never goes any further than a massage. No matter how bad I’d like it to.
No matter how close he comes to my private places, he never touches them. Never crosses the line into…fondling. Or sex. It’s just a massage. Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. It’s just a functional part of his job. Priming the athlete.
If only I could see it that way.
If only he wasn’t so commanding and attractive and magnetic.
If only I hadn’t vowed at age sixteen to save my virginity for him.
Bottom lip clamped between my teeth, I remove my swim cap, letting out my long fall of white-blonde hair. Then I climb onto the table to lie face down, turning my head to watch Everett cleaning his hands in the sink, rolling back the sleeves of his button-down shirt to reveal strong forearms. He applies lotion to his palms and comes toward me, a muscle popping in his cheek. “You did well today, Margot,” he says, rubbing those big hands together, hesitating a second, then laying them on the backs of my thighs. Digging his thumbs into the tense muscle and dragging them all the way up, up, stopping just beneath the curve of my buttocks. “But something is bothering you. Preventing you from giving the dives your full concentration. Do you want to talk to me about it?”
Talk? Right now? With those magical fingertips trailing slowly down my calves, thumbs coasting up the curve of my instep. “Oh, um…” My mouth is completely dry, my pulse loud in my ears. Because his touch is traveling back up the full length of my legs, coming closer and closer to my bottom. Touch it. Touch me. But he just barely grazes the start of my bathing suit before retreating back down to my feet. “I didn’t realize I seemed distracted,” I lie.
In the ensuing silence, Everett crosses back to the lotion dispenser, methodically applying fresh white cream to his hands and slowly striding back in the direction of the table. “Now tell me the truth,” he says.
Do I dare?
It’s not a conversation I should be having with a man almost twice my age. A man who isn’t a member of my family. He’s my coach. But if I really stop to think about it, there is no one else in my life who I trust more. Everett always has my best interest in mind. Always. “I think maybe…” I squeeze my eyes closed. “My body seems like it’s changing. It’s…different lately.”
He takes a long breath and lets it out, sort of unevenly. “Different how?”
“Well.” I swallow. “Certain parts of me don’t fit as easily into my suit now.”
No taking it back. I’ve said it out loud.
I’ve been watching the changes in me take place in the mirror at home, concerned they’ll have a negative effect on my diving, but I haven’t shared my worries with anyone until now. It’s actually kind of a relief. At least, until he says, “Which parts, Margot?”
Oh God.
I’m flushing head to toe. Burying my face in the leather of the table.
“My hips,” I mutter, giggling a little bit out of discomfort. “But mostly my boobs.”
He hums in his throat and I can feel his gaze running the length of my body, assessing me, and it takes every ounce of my willpower not to squirm. Or squeeze my legs together in an attempt to muffle the incessant pulsing.
“Turn over on your back. Let’s take a look.” His gruff instructions cause my feminine flesh to seize almost painfully. To flood with heat. Wet liquid warmth. This has never happened before. He’s asking me to take down my bathing suit? Like, show him my breasts? “It’s late, Margot. We don’t have all night.” He grips me by the waist and turns me over, resting a hand just beneath my belly button. So close—so close—to my sex. Does he realize where he’s touching me? Does he realize his touch is making me clench? “Peel it down, Margot.”
“Yes, coach,” I whisper, my fingers trembling as they reach up and hook beneath the damp straps of my bathing suit, first pulling my arms through the holes, then slowly pushing the material down to my waist. Immediately after exposing myself to the cold room and his sharp eyes, I stare at the ceiling. But my curiosity quickly gets the better of me and I look at Everett, finding his attention locked on my breasts, his jaw tight. Eyes glittering. What does that mean? “Does everything look…normal?” I ask quietly, resisting the urge to yank the suit back up.
“Yes,” he heaves, nostrils flaring. He takes a tissue out of his back pocket and pats his forehead—and that’s when I notice the bulge in his pants. It’s…massive. Pushing straight out from his zipper. My breath catches and Everett’s gaze shoots to mine. “It’s a natural reaction to seeing a woman’s naked body, Margot.”
“Oh,” I manage breathily. “I…I know.”
Only, I don’t know.
I know nothing about sex or the chemistry between men and women.
But I do know that Everett’s penis being hard means he’s aroused. That much was explained to me in health class, all the way back in middle school. The male genitalia hardens when it’s preparing to go inside of a woman. In other words, I’ve…aroused him. And that fact excites me, makes my toes curl at the end of the table.
Everett’s hands are still covered in lotion. I forget about that until he splays his palms on my tummy and slowly, slowly, slides his hands up and over my breasts, cupping them firmly. “There is nothing wrong with you here, sweetheart. You’re perfect. You’ve just matured.”
I can’t breathe. Is this really happening?
Everett is holding my bare breasts in his hands.
Now he’s massaging them, running his thumb back and forth over the nipples, making them pucker excruciatingly. The combination of pleasure and pain is so intense that I make a sound. A brief desperate one, accompanied by my thighs shooting together.