Free Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance by Roxeanne Rolling

be alone. Is this some kind of dumb swimmer trick? It’s not surprising to me that this is the first thing my mi nd goes to: after all, I don’t trust Anchor farther than I can throw him, which isn’t very far at all. I doubt I can even pick him up.
    Anchor had turned some of the lights on, to get a nice effect down at the pool.
    Now more of the lights turn on. It seems like all of them are on down below. It’s still dark up here in the balcony.
    Anchor has pulled away from me . He’s frozen still, but I can’t read his expression, except to know now that it isn’t some trick. He isn’t expecting anyone else here either.
    My heart is thumping strongly, as if it’s about to burst through my chest. It feels like it’s b eating so loudly that someone down in the pool area would be able to hear it.
    “Who’s t here?” shouts someone, down below.
    I remain frozen.
    “It’s coach,” whispers Anchor, sounding terrified himself. I suddenly realize there might be more to this jock than I thought. Or maybe not: after all, he’s probably just worried about getting kicked off the team. From what he told me earlier, it sounds like he’s been in trouble so many times with the coach that one more wrong move and he’s off the team, despite being the (self proclaimed, no less) best swimmer ever to grace the college’s pool with his hunky presence.
    Despite the tenseness of the situation, I notice that I’m calling him Anchor again in my head. What a stupid name.
    But part of me likes calling him that. And part of me likes being the girl that the fastest swimmer took away from the party to make out with. It’s the part of me that never had a date for the high school prom. It’s the part of me that’s been secretly dyi ng for attention from a guy all these four years at school.
    “I know someone’s up there,” yells the coach. It sounds like he’s stomping around down below.
    “He’s trying to find the light box for the balcony,” whispers Anchor.
    Shit.
    Suddenly , the situation seems a lot more serious.
    I think I can hear coach coming up the steps now.
    If I’m caught here with Anchor now, Anchor’s not going to be the only one in trouble.
    I know I told Beaumont that Anchor’s going to be my inside source, and that I’m going to extract all kinds of great stuff from him for the story, but that doesn’t mean he’d approve of me breaking into the pool with Anchor way after hours to make out with him. There’s not going to be any good way I can explain this away, no matter what spin I try to put on it.
    Real reporters don’t commit crimes with their sources, and they certainly d on’t make out with them!
    “This way,” whispers Anchor. “I think I know a way out.”
    I feel pride surging up through my chest, as I watch Anchor movin g silently and gracefully over to the wall, keeping his body low so that he won’t be visible from down below, in case the coach has come with someone else, and they’re waiting down below by the pool .
    I don’t know what Anchor’s thinking, though.
    It sounds like the coach is making his way up the steps. He’s almost here.
    I can hear his heavy body on the stairwell.
    “Through the vent,” hisses Anchor to me, motioning for me to come over.
    I dash over to where he is by the wall, trying to keep as low as possible, trying to make no noise, but I can hear the flats I’m wearing smacking against the concrete floor loudly.
    “I know you’re in there,” yells the coach from the stairwell. I can hear him fumbling with the door to the balcony. I wonder if Anchor had the foresight to lock it. Probably not. “There’s no other way out of here,” yells the coach, sounding seriously upset. After all, this is his pool.
    I look up, and Anchor has somehow undone the grill to the vent. It must be part of the air-conditioning system, although I find it hard to believe there’s ever been air conditioning here, given how hot and stuffy it always is up here.
    Before I know