The darkness and silence in the locker room is eerie. Leaning against a locker, I inhale deeply. Jack isn’t what I was expecting. He seems too steady and gentle to be a rock star. It’s at odds with the sexy dude on stage earlier, jamming on his guitar, whipping hair out of his face as he crooned to the crowds. I can’t decide which side of him turns me on more, but I know this. I want him. Badly.

And now he stands before me, water dripping from his hair and down his body, boxer briefs stuck to his skin outlining a large bulge. I swallow. I see a lot of guys in Speedos. A lot of bulges. This one is, well, big.

When my eyes rise to his face he has a shy smile on his lips, and it completely disarms me. I’m suddenly self-conscious, and I fight the wave of uncertainty that takes me off guard.

He’s just a guy, I tell myself. Sure, he might be on his way to famous, but he operates like all of them, and I know how to make him crazy. Pushing away the odd emotions, I step forward, taking comfort in my usual decisive attitude.

“Come here,” I say, my voice raspy as I take his hand and lead him through the rows of lockers until we’re safely in the back. Before I can turn around, he grasps my hips in his hands and pulls me to him, my back to his front, the mirror in front of us allowing me to make eye contact.

“Do you do this a lot?” His question surprises me.

“Do what?” I feign detachment, but I’m rattled.

He clears his throat. “Break into the pool, bring guys to the locker room.”

My body stiffens. Though he’s careful to say it with little intonation, I don’t like what he’s insinuating. And why is he talking? I raise my arms above my head, grasping his neck as I roll my hips back, confirming that he’s as turned on as I am. A soft growl escapes his lips as my bottom presses into his erection, and he sinks his head into my neck, gently biting my earlobe. My eyelids droop closed with the onslaught of sensations as I continue to roll my hips and grind into him.

His lips trail along my shoulder, kissing and sucking until I’m begging for his touch lower. When I move my hand down his arm and take his hand, guiding it to where I want it, he groans.

“Kick.” It sounds like a protest, and I still, his hand hovering over my heat, but not quite touching.

Our eyes meet again in the mirror, and when he withdraws his hand and takes a step back, the empty space between us feels like a slap in the face.

“Kick, I—” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “I want you. Obviously,” he says with a sheepish shrug and a gesture to the impressive length practically pulsing in anticipation underneath his briefs. “But I want to do this right. I don’t usually do one-night stands. And I don’t think that’s what I want with you.”

Is he for real right now?

“Jack, we’re having a good time. We’re in the moment. Just go with it.”

My buzz from alcohol, lust, and adventure is quickly taking a nosedive with Jack’s hesitation.

“If I do, then what? Will you disappear on me?”

Jack’s voice is soft, not accusatory, even though the words themselves hold a harsh bite. I might be imagining it, but I think I hear pity. As he stares at me, waiting for my answer, I get that feeling again, like he’s looking right into me, seeing into my soul. This is not the kind of falling in love I had in mind for tonight. It’s not fun. The way he’s looking at me might do things to my body, but this is more than physical.

“Jack, we just met. We’re having fun. Why are you psychoanalyzing it?” I’m trying to keep my emotions in check but the defensiveness is unmistakable.

When he takes a step toward me I want to laugh. We’re dancing back and forth, push and pull.

“I’m asking if you’ll disappear on me. I want to give you my body and I want to take yours, Fireball, so it’s a perfectly reasonable question to ask.” He doesn’t touch me now that we’re only inches away again, but the heat from his body has me wanting to pull him to me and slam my mouth on his so he’ll shut up and stop talking.

I shake my head, let out a dry chuckle. Fuck this. “Then take it, Jack.” I do exactly as I want and pull his head down to mine, our lips colliding as our bodies press against each other. For an instant, I don’t think he’s going to respond, but then he opens his mouth, letting our tongues find each other. When his hands grasp my bottom and drag me up so that my feet lift off the ground and my core presses into his hard length, I know we’re past talking. The rock star I saw on stage is back, and judging by the way his hands grip my ass and his tongue moves, he has very good rhythm offstage, too.

But then he pulls away, puts me on my feet and looks down at me. My eyes are swimming in a haze, and his are dark with need too. But instead of making the next move, his lips curve into a sad smile. “I’m going to leave you my number. If you want more than a quickie in a locker room, call me. I like you, Fireball.”

I want to pull away, embarrassed by his rejection, even as he softens it by using a nickname he’s given me. But he holds me in place, his arms around my waist.

“Told you about my minivan and sang you my sister’s lullaby, but I didn’t do it to get in your pants. I want to know you, want you to know me. If you don’t want that, it’s cool. But you’re not the kind of girl I’ll take on a dirty bench with my friends outside. You deserve more than that, and so do I.”

He pauses, presumably waiting for a response, but I’m speechless. I might even be in shock. Jack’s lips brush my forehead, and then he’s walking away. I didn’t even get a chance to tell him the bench is perfectly clean. The janitors came in after practice earlier.

He might have told me with words that I deserve more, but I don’t feel empowered. Not at all. This night was meant to give me that and instead I feel gutted. Like he reached in and pulled out a piece of me and left it sitting there on the locker room floor, forcing me to stare at it. Really look at it.

He didn’t do anything but kiss me, yet I’ve never felt so ashamed in my life. I was the one trying to use him, so why do I feel like a slut for the first time in my life?

I’m at the pool again the next day, but this time it’s for practice. We’re doing a stroke set – meaning any of the other three strokes besides freestyle. For me, that means breaststroke, which also happens to be the slowest stroke. I’m the only breaststroker in my lane, with Shay and my other roommate Beatrice doing butterfly, and our teammate Tori doing backstroke. I could slip into a lane with slower teammates or other breaststrokers, but I like the challenge. Keeping up in the fastest lane on our team is no joke, and when I’m still with them on the last set, the sense of accomplishment is sweet despite the burn in my legs.

Breaststroke is a give and take, an act of balancing lightness and power. The pull with my arms is just enough to maintain momentum for my legs to follow up with a powerful kick, shooting my body forward to repeat it again. For me, the entire stroke is in the kick. My arms and shoulders are smaller than most swimmers because I don’t rely on the strength of my upper body. As I push through the final lap, I embrace the pain in my legs. It flushes out the shame and anger from last night. I want to forget it happened at all, but it will take a few more killer workouts to get it out of my system.

I’m proud of myself when I hit the wall. That was the hardest workout of the season, and my face is hot from exertion. As I get my breath back, Coach Mandy announces that it’s not over yet, and we’ve got another short but challenging set before cool down. Everyone groans. Of course, Shay takes the lead in the lane, and when I see her break the surface to swim butterfly, I mumble, “Are you kidding me?” The set is choice stroke again, but I’ve got no idea how she has it in her to do the hardest stroke of all when my limbs are about to fall off.

Beatrice must hear me. “She’s a machine,” she says in awe. “I’m doing breast, you wanna go before me?”

Beatrice is a butterflier too but she’s human and can’t pull off more at this point, switching to breaststroke. My muscles are ready for a change so I opt for backstroke. Shay seems to be the only one on the team treating this set as the continued workout it’s supposed to be instead of a cool down, but whatever. I’m content with my effort for the day and thinking about plans for the night as I stare at the ceiling throughout the set.

But then my mind jumps to Jack, and the irony of finding his name and number on a piece of paper in my pants pocket last night. It was only last week that Shay had Jett Decker’s number on a piece of paper and I encouraged her to call him. Except we thought Jett only wanted a hook-up, and based on what I saw between them this morning before practice, it’s clear he wants more than that.

Last night, after collecting myself in the locker room, I came out to watch Jack do a cannonball off the low diving board. I grabbed my clothes and made an escape before anyone could even notice I was leaving. They knew where the exit was, they could see themselves out. Jack must have slipped his number into my pants in the two minutes before I came out.

Now I’ve got Jack’s number, and he made it clear I should only use it if I want… what exactly? I’m not going to entertain it. Shay is the kind of girl guys have real relationships with, not me.