Chase

The Roper YMCA weight room is almost empty. It’s almost eight o’clock on a weeknight, which is my favorite time to come here. I don’t like to lift weights in the high school weight room because I can’t focus with the other guys screwing around.

“Hey, good game Friday,” a bearded guy says as he passes me on his way out of the room.

I nod and get in position for bench presses. My shoulders are already worn out from drills at practice, but I feel like doing presses anyway.

Physical pain and soreness distract me from the thoughts racing through my head. When I got home from practice at dinnertime tonight, my mom had makeup caked on her face. She usually doesn’t wear much makeup, and I instantly knew she was trying to cover up the black eye my dad had given her.

Wrong as it is, I was mad at her. Her fucking eye was so swollen that no makeup could cover it up. How dumb does she think we are? She wouldn’t even look at me, probably because she knew what she’d see on my face.

Rage. That’s what I feel toward my father. All I want when I see her after one of his drunken episodes is to find him and tell him to give someone his own size a go for once.

He doesn’t hit his kids. Only Mom. And afterward, she’s the one who feels ashamed over it. He doesn’t have the decency to feel remorseful.

Seeing her only added fuel to the fire inside me. I’m pissed off about all the crap Gin’s been getting. I told the guys after practice that anyone who so much as looks at her wrong is getting an ass-beating from me, and I meant every word. The “favor” I did her has turned into a fucking disaster.

I knock out all my presses and move on to skull crushers. I’ve been here for more than an hour, but I’m in no hurry to leave. My dad was at the bar when I got home earlier, and I don’t think he’ll be home before ten.

He’s been on my ass about committing to a school, but I put him off every time. I should’ve done it by now, and I know he’s right that some schools will sign other players and I’ll lose my shot at a scholarship with them, but I’m just not ready.

Part of me wants to get as far away from him as I can, but another part wants to stay close to my mom and sisters in case they need me. I don’t know how to choose.

I wipe the sweat from my face, toss my towel into a hamper, and walk out of the weight room to hit the water fountain. There’s a large indoor window that looks into the pool from the hallway, and I glance through it.

There’s only one person in the pool, and she’s wearing a modest, dark one-piece. She’s doing the backstroke, water splashing onto her goggles and white swim cap.

She’s graceful, her long, lean limbs not the build I’m used to seeing in swimmers. I stand off to the side and watch her as she switches to freestyle. I’m mesmerized by the smooth rhythm of her strokes in and out of the water.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring when I shake myself out of the spell I’m under. Just as I’m about to head for the water fountain, the swimmer climbs the pool stairs and slips off her goggles. I crane my neck, trying to get a look at her face, when she pulls off the swim cap and black hair falls around her shoulders.

Gin. My pulse races at the realization. The girl I can’t seem to look away from is Gin.

She’s not wearing dark, baggy clothes or a scowl. There’s no black eyeliner. No clunky boots.

It’s like I’m seeing her for the first time, and what I see is beautiful. She grabs a towel and dries her face, and as she walks toward the locker room, I get a good look at her.

Gin is gorgeous. I can’t believe I’ve never seen her this way. Without that dark hair hanging in her face, I can see all of her for the first time, and it’s making my breathing shallow.

A wave of shame washes over me. I blew it with Gin before I even knew I wanted a chance with her. I asked her to have sex with me and my teammates and got offended when she said no. She must think I’m a real asshole.

The realization hits me suddenly. I wish I could take it all back. I wish she didn’t know who I really was. I wish she didn’t hate me.

When she turns to look out the window to the hallway, my pulse races. Our eyes lock.

I’m expecting another middle finger salute, or at the very least, a dirty look. But she just holds my stare, water dripping from her hair and suit onto the tiled pool deck.

Something’s happening to me. While standing on the worn-out carpet in the hallway of the Roper YMCA, I’m feeling something I’ve never felt before. It’s intense. Heat floods me and longing consumes me.

I want to go in there right now. I want to run through the men’s locker room and out to the pool, where I’ll tell her I’m sorry. I’ll tell her I get it. She’s not just some girl. I’ll get on my knees if I have to and ask her how I can make this right.

I can’t, though. If I walk away from this window, she’ll disappear into the women’s locker room, and the moment will be gone.

She glances down at the floor, then towels off the dripping ends of her hair. I will her to look back up at me. I need to memorize her face like this—clean and fresh and completely uncovered.

I step so close to the window that my breath starts to fog up the glass. I stop breathing, just waiting for her to lift her chin.

Finally, she does. She holds my gaze as she wraps the towel around her waist. My tongue darts out to moisten my lips, my mouth dry.

What the hell is this feeling I’m having? There’s no more drive to lift weights and bring on physical soreness to mask the stress inside me. If she’ll just keep looking at me, just like this, everything will be good.

She moves to walk toward the locker room, and it’s all I can do not to pound on the window and make her look at me again. I don’t know what she’s doing to me, but I know I don’t want it to end.

When she gets to the locker room door and grips the silver handle, I take in her long, fair-skinned legs. Who knew she was hiding those under the cargo pants she wears?

She turns then, looking at me over her shoulder. I have to force myself to breathe.

I wish I could decipher what’s going on in her eyes right now. What’s she feeling? What’s she thinking?

She slips into the locker room, and my heart sinks. The moment is over. I miss the feeling she gave me already.

I could wait for her in the parking lot, but I don’t want to do or say anything that will ruin the moment we just shared. It was just a look, but it did something to me. She did something to me.

Does she know? Could she see it all over my face? Is that why she didn’t look pissed at me for the first time since before the rose?

I don’t even need to know the reason. No matter how unlikely it is, I have a flicker of hope that maybe she’ll stop hating me. I’m not letting anything ruin it.