The First Meeting
Past
“Only three more days until our first meet, ladies. You ready?” Coach Sanderson tries pumping us up as the entire team arrives on the track for some conditioning.
“Yes, sir!” we respond in unison, our voices still cheery since we haven’t gotten into the full swing of the season yet.
We’re more than ready … at least we think we are. Even though we don’t technically start until the second week of school, we’ve been showing up and getting prepared since the end of July to ensure we get to States this year. I’ve been on this team since I was a freshman, absolutely earned the captain spot. For the last three years, we’ve come close yet no cigar. This season’s going to be different. I’m more determined than ever to leave my mark on this school and the record board that hangs over the pool and taunts me—my personal best is only three-tenths of a second off the school record. I’m gonna break it, or I’ll die trying.
“There’s no doubt you guys are fast in the water, but we always seem to come up short in distance. We’re trying something a little different this year. Every afternoon, before you hit the pool, we’ll meet out here and warm up on the track. Build up your endurance. By the time the invitational comes around, you’ll be the team to beat.”
“How long do you want us out here?” I ask, my face most likely showing how disgusted I am having to run when it’s at least a million degrees outside. I’ve been a swimmer since the first time my mom put me in the bathtub by myself. Swimming’s my passion. However, I don’t have much love for the other sports. Sure, I like to watch them, but there’s a reason I don’t run track, and it’s mostly because I’m not a fan of being sweaty.
“Thanks for the positive question, Charlie,” he chastises, then addresses everyone else. “We’ll start with a half mile and increase from there.” I’m not surprised when a chorus of groans fill the air. “We wanna win, right?”
The girls nod. I answer, “Yes,” but my head shakes the opposite direction, contradicting my words.
“Then stop acting like a bunch of babies and get to running. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you’re in the water. Now, go!” he screams, and as if he’s the gunshot to start a race, we all take off down the track, desperately trying to get this over with and hit the pool.
I start off with a sprint, which probably isn’t the greatest idea in hindsight, and before I finish half a lap, my run slows to a jog, then finally a brisk walk. Looking ahead, most of the other girls are in the same position. Or better yet, what’s the opposite of “great minds think alike”? That!
“Hey,” a male voice bellows a few feet back. I’m not sure he’s talking to me until his pace slows and we’re jogging side by side.
“Hi,” I respond, expecting to see someone I know, except this tall, handsome boy’s a stranger. “Am I in your way? I can switch to a different lane.” Noticing he’s wearing a mesh football practice jersey, I suddenly feel all kinds of embarrassed. Of course coach would put us out here with the most eligible bachelors at Truman High School. The exact bachelors who don’t look at a swimmer the same way they look at a cheerleader. Oh, but we ogle them just the same as every other girl in the school.
“No, you’re fine. What’s your name?” he asks, and my jaw goes slack until I remember how to form words.
“Charlotte. Why?” Is he the new kid getting hazed?
“I just wanted to know,” he casually responds with a wink and starts to jog quickly ahead of me.
Wait? What?
“Hold on. What’s your name?” I try to catch him, but his large frame equals long legs—legs much longer than mine—and he’s about to lap me when I need to slow for a break … again.
Truman isn’t large by any means, but we also aren’t a blip on a larger-scale map. For the most part, we’ve all known each other since grade school. Our parents grew up here, their parents, too. Cambridge isn’t exactly a small town, but you certainly get the feel of it when you live here. Everyone knows everyone, my business is their business and vice versa. The divorce rate is low, education is excellent, and almost every student in the school is a member of some kind of sport or club. Then, you also get the progressive side—same sex couples are just couples, ink is life, piercings are a must, what’s rap, and pot’s an herb. Basically, you get the best of both worlds and there isn’t much to complain about.
So not recognizing the guy who just asked my name is a little different for me. Mostly everyone knows who I am, or at least thinks they do. As I’m getting ready to beg coach for a water break, the boy comes up behind me again. Don’t ask me how I know it’s him, but I do. I’ve heard people say they can feel the presence of a person before they make themselves known, and I’ve always thought it was baloney, until right now. I can feel him. I know what his feet sound like as they pound against the ground, how long between each stride, and even the way he breathes.
This is all so weird to me; I’ve never paid much attention to guys. Sure, some are attractive and others are smart, but nobody has ever really made me want to do more than look. Like, sure, the football players—they’re cute—but I’m not sitting home on a Friday night hoping Danny asks me to the big dance next weekend. This guy is different. I want to talk to him. Know about him. Talk about starting senior year off with the strangest of emotions running through my body. Who am I? And where’s Charlie?
“Hey,” he says again as he starts to pass. I’m ready for him this time. I’ve been power walking for the last half lap and I’m pretty sure if I try, I can sprint to keep up with him. Not for long, but just enough to figure out who the hell he is.
“You never told me your name,” I repeat, casually striding up next to him. As he looks down at me, I realize how sloppy I must look. I can feel my hair matted down with sweat around the sides of my face and the back of my neck. If first impressions mean anything to him, I really hope he digs girls who have zero stamina, repeat questions like a parrot, and probably smell.
“Rowan Thorne,” he offers, and shoots me a grin that shows off the most gorgeous set of perfectly straight, white teeth I’ve ever seen. I swear, the guy should be doing commercials for toothpaste they’re so perfect. Better idea … who the hell notices teeth? Couldn’t it have been his eyes—a light-brown at first glance until the sun catches them just right and the deep-blue ring around the iris is noticeable? The perfectly sculpted chin that screams all testosterone? Nope. Teeth.
“Nice to meet you, Rowan Thorne.” With that statement, I use every ounce of energy my exhausted body has left to sprint the rest of my lap, finishing before the rest of my team and effectively leaving Rowan in my dust. Coach Sanderson waives me off, letting me know I’m excused and can start my indoor, non-sunshining or running workout. I decide to not wait and allow Rowan see me gulping air like a fish out of water and bolt straight for the locker room. Point Charlie.
Thankfully, I have my suit on under my shorts and tank top—I can’t imagine the battle I’d be facing if I didn’t think ahead. Quickly shredding my clothes, I dive in the water, the coolness meeting my overheated skin in a welcomed embrace. I’m winded and more tired than I’ve been in a long time, so I start a slow pace, using the silence of the pool to think about what the hell’s going on.
Am I really into a guy I only spoke to for a few moments? What is it about him that makes me feel all kinds of girly? Why do I want him to follow me around and ask me more questions? Do I have food in my teeth? You know … the important things. I bet it’s hormones and the TMI knowledge Sheena—my best friend—shared with me a few weeks ago about regarding her virginity and the lack of existence of said “V” card. Since then, that’s all she’s talked about; therefore, it’s all I can think about. Yeah, that’s gotta be it.
Shortly after I finish a warmup, the rest of the girls join me. Coach runs a few drills with us, and I have no doubt in my mind we’ll kill it at the meet in a few days. Being a creature of habit, I’m the first in the shower and out of the locker room when practice ends.
I have to push myself harder than the other girls; putting my grades and my sport before boyfriends and makeup. Not only am I shooting for a scholarship for my athletic abilities, I’m well on my way to an academic one, too. My parents never ask me for much, except to try my hardest, and I take that advice to heart. Not to mention, an athletic scholarship is hard as hell to come by, especially if you’re a girl, so why not back that up with a 4.0 GPA? What school wouldn’t want me?
I walk through the parking lot and am almost to my car when I feel his presence again. I know he’s close. When I reach my car, I finally see him standing next to it. I silently freak out, wondering how the hell he knows what I drive, then I realize it isn’t my car he’s waiting at but his as he opens the driver’s side door.
“You again,” he teases, tossing his bag in the backseat and leaning against the frame of his oversized truck to match his oversized body. Holy mother of God, that truck makes him look even hotter. How is that even possible?
Words, Charlie. Speak. Don’t be weird.
“I could say the same thing,” I return with a joke of my own. Not nearly as funny as I’d like, but at least it makes sense and I don’t look like a fish with my mouth hanging open and no words being spoken. Taking the win where I can. “Isn’t this the part where you should say ‘Funny meeting you here’ or something equally as lame?”
“I don’t think it’s funny. Maybe fate, but nothing laughable, that’s for sure.” Well, shit. Maybe if the other boys I’ve encountered in my limited seventeen years had half the charm as Rowan, I’d have experience with dating. Is it possible to fall in love this quickly? Very rarely can anyone match my wit, let alone not be offended by my dry sense of humor. He seems to not only get me but speak the same language without an interpreter. And the most important part? He gives it back just as well. He’s a keeper.
“You’re a rare breed, Rowan Thorne.”
“Rare enough that you’d let me take you out Friday night?”
Once again, I lose the ability to form words. This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked on a date, but it is the only time I’ve wanted to accept. My only concern is coming off too desperate. He’s new here, and if I jump at his offer, he might assume I’m the same as all the other girls, instead of the smart, athletic, worthy-of-conversation-that-doesn’t-involve-sex kind of girl.
“Maybe,” I answer coyly. “I have a meet, and I’m sure you have a game. Another time?” Hopefully, he can’t see through my indifferent exterior to the acrobat version of myself doing backflips on the inside, praying he suggests another night for us to go out.
“Saturday?”
Yessssss!
“You sure are persistent. If I say yes, what do you have in mind?”
“Dinner? Movie? Whatever you want to do, I guess. I’d just like to get to know you, Charlotte …” His words stop and he looks to me to finish. Taking a second to understand the problem, I prove my smarts and answer his unasked but evident question.
“Thompson.”
“Thank you. I’d just like to get to know you Charlotte Thompson. So … Saturday? A date? Your choice of activities?”
“Saturday sounds good.” Attempting my best casual demeanor as I stroll over to where he’s standing, I pull a pen from my purse and write my phone number on the top of his hand. “Call me and we’ll figure out details.”