Chapter 2: Gold Medal Fantasies
The sharp crack of the starter pistol echoed through the natatorium, a sound that always made my teeth clench. The crowd in the bleachers erupted – a wave of parental cheers and student shouts that bounced off the high ceiling and the shimmering water. I was supposed to be checking the trash cans along the pool deck, but my work had slowed to a standstill.
Ruby Rose hit the water like a blade, her dive clean and minimal. She surfaced already in rhythm, her arms cutting through her lane with a frantic, powerful grace. Freestyle. The 200-meter. Her race. From up here in the empty top bleachers, where I was pretending to sweep, she was just a blur of motion and foam, a cap of bright red streaking through turquoise.
My eyes weren’t on her.
They were locked on Salem.
She stood poised at the timer’s table, a clipboard held loosely in one hand. Her coaching suit was a dark, navy blue one-piece, cut high on the thighs and low on the back. It was professional, but on her, it was a weapon. The fabric clung to every curve, every taut muscle. She was utterly still amidst the chaos, a statue of focused intensity.
Then she bent over the table to point something out to the official sitting there.
The movement was practical, ordinary. But the way that navy fabric tightened, the way it cut a deep, severe line between the curves of her ass… My breath caught in my throat. A hot, immediate ache bloomed low in my gut. I shifted my weight, the rough fabric of my work pants suddenly abrasive.
The fantasy hit me with the force of a physical blow. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was pure, frustrated possession.
I could see it, clear as the chlorinated water below: me, stalking down from these bleachers, my boots slapping the wet deck. She wouldn’t hear me over the crowd. My hand, tangling in that high, severe ponytail of hers. Not a caress. A grip. Her head jerking back, a gasp ripping from her throat. Dragging her, not to some romantic spot, but behind the rusted equipment shed outside where the broken lane lines were stored. Shoving her against the sun-warmed metal siding, the smell of algae and concrete dust filling our lungs. Making her choke on it. On my jealousy. On the image burned into my brain of her lips on Ruby’s throat, her hands claiming that young, eager body. Making her taste my fury, my want, until she wasn’t a coach anymore, just a woman writhing under my touch, moaning my name into the gritty air.
My zipper strained. I looked down, adjusting myself with a rough, angry motion. The coarse sound of the Velcro on my janitorial vest was loud in my ears. I was hard, throbbing against the cheap denim, a pathetic testament to the ugliness in my head.
Down on deck, Salem straightened up. She turned towards the pool, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Kick, Rose! Don’t settle!” Her voice, even from this distance, cut through the ambient noise. It was a lash of command.
Ruby, in the water, found another gear. Her turn was a violent flip, her feet striking the wall with a force that sent a spray into the next lane.
Salem watched, a slow, satisfied smile touching her lips. It was the same smile she’d worn in the steam. A smile of ownership.
The phone in my pocket felt like a live coal. That stolen minute of video was a ghost limb, phantom sensations of heat and guilt tingling in my palm. I hadn’t looked at it since that night. I didn’t need to. The images were etched on the back of my eyelids, playing in time with my own twisted fantasies.
The race reached its crescendo. The final length was a splashing, roaring frenzy. Ruby touched the wall a full body-length ahead of the next swimmer. The win was undeniable.
Salem didn’t cheer. She gave a single, sharp nod and made a note on her clipboard. As Ruby hauled herself out of the pool, breathless and beaming, Salem met her with a towel. She didn’t drape it over Ruby’s shoulders. She held it out, allowing Ruby to take it. Their fingers brushed. A brief, electric connection in full view of everyone that meant nothing to the crowd and everything to me.
Ruby’s eyes sought Salem’s approval, shining with that same desperate need I’d seen in the shower. Salem leaned in, saying something private into Ruby’s ear. Ruby’s smile widened, a flush of pleasure warming her chilled skin.
Something curdled in my stomach, hotter than lust. It was a bitter, malignant thing. That should be me. I should be the one she whispered to. I should be the one whose approval lit her up.
But I was just the ghost in the bleachers, clutching a broom.
The crowd began to disperse, the echoes fading. My shift wasn’t over. The post-meet cleanup was a mountain of wet towels, discarded water bottles, and gum wadded under the benches. I started my slow trudge down the steps, my tool caddie clanking at my side.
As I reached the deck level, the smell of chlorine was overpowering, mixed with the scent of popcorn and sweat. I kept my head down, moving toward the first mess.
“Branwen.”
The voice stopped me cold. It was her. It was Salem.
I turned. She stood a few feet away, having broken away from a cluster of congratulating parents. Her arms were crossed over her clipboard, which was pressed against her chest. Up close, the power of her was even more intimidating. Her eyes, a cool, assessing grey, scanned me.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“The girls’ locker room,” she said, her tone flat and administrative. “A pipe’s leaking under the sink in the far stall. It’s making a mess. Can you get it before it soaks everything?”
The far stall. The stall.
My mouth went dry. “Uh. Sure. I’ll take a look.”
She held my gaze for a second longer than necessary. Was there a flicker of something in those eyes? Recognition? Suspicion? Or was I just painting my own guilt onto her neutral expression?
“Thank you,” she said, and it wasn’t warm. It was a dismissal. She turned on her heel and walked back toward her team, her ponytail swinging like a metronome.
I stood there for a moment, watching her go. The fantasy from the bleachers was gone, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. The leak was probably just a leak. A coincidence.
But the far stall.
My hand drifted to my pocket, my fingers tracing the outline of the phone. The secret in my pocket and the mess in the stall felt suddenly connected, two ends of a dangerous thread I’d started pulling the moment I pressed record.
I walked toward the locker room door, the cheers of the meet fading behind me, replaced by the hollow sound of my own footsteps. The corridor was quiet, lit by the same unforgiving fluorescents. I pushed the door open.
The room was empty, still humid from the recent exodus of athletes. The air held the ghost of their shampoo and perfume. And there, from under the door of the last shower stall, a steady drip of water was spreading a dark stain across the tile.
I set my caddie down with a thud. The sound echoed in the empty room. I didn’t move toward the leak. Instead, I pulled out the phone. My thumb hovered over the screen, my heart a dull, heavy beat in my chest.
I tapped the video file. The screen lit up, a rectangle of stolen light in the dim room.
There they were. Grainy, blurred by steam, but unmistakable. Salem’s back, Ruby’s face over her shoulder, eyes closed in ecstasy. The sound was low, but I could hear it—the rush of water, the wet sounds of their kiss, Ruby’s soft, yielding whimper.
I watched it until the end. Until Salem clamped her hand over Ruby’s mouth and told her to look only at her.
I stared at the frozen, pixelated image. Then I looked at the closed stall door, from beneath which the water continued to spread.
The leak needed fixing. But all I could think about was the other, deeper rupture, and the dangerous, intoxicating power I now held in the palm of my hand.