It's 9:42 and my arm is sore from throwing the ball at my roof.
10:14: I've swapped to my other arm.
11:31: It's loud. People partying, music thumping, and walls vibrating. I've stopped throwing the ball now.
11:40: Oliver's drifting asleep. I'm struggling not to look over at him. To not notice that he parts his lips when he sleeps and his eyelashes fan his cheeks. My chest feels heavy.
By 12:04, I've had enough.
I push off my bed.
Oliver's head is lolled to the side, his eyes fluttered close, lips still slightly parted. Still looking like an angel fallen from heaven. A devil angel.
A part of me doesn't want to disturb him, he looks so peaceful asleep—but the other part is pissed.
Pissed—because there's no way I'm getting to sleep with Oliver in my dorm room. It's not happening. Not when this stupid dorm room is already too small. I'm practically suffocating in his proximity and his cologne.
Fuck he smells good. I make conscious effort to not breath so deeply, my head gets dizzy when I do.
His presence makes it impossible for me to think straight.
I almost hate myself for considering to wake him up, he looks so relaxed, so peaceful and content.
And hell, he's gorgeous.
I spent way too long staring at his face, at him, trying to pick out all the flaws. But it just leaves me feeling very small and imperfect in the end.
Leaves a heat in my lower belly.
It takes a minute, but I manage to muster up the will to do it.
To wake him up.
Come on Beau, you won't get any sleep otherwise if he's here—and lord knows you need sleep.
I step closer grimacing. But the closer I get, the better I see. Oliver moves his head to the side slightly, a curl falling onto his forehead. I also see how tired he looks, almost like he too has been having trouble sleeping.
Something poking out of his pocket catches my eye. It's half hanging out of his pocket, multiple keys. One key, in particular, catches my attention though...
Without letting myself overthink it, I grab the keys, quietly, careful to not wake him up.
Let's hope he stays asleep for a while.
***
The water is cold and the pool is eerily quiet. The bright white lights almost make it look like the perfect horror scene location... I try not to think too much about that as I swim laps.
It helps that when I swim, I usually don't think. I just let my body take control, let it flow through me and I go with it. I have never been the type of person to go with the flow—except when it comes to swimming.
I swim length after length. I get bored, it's boring. But it's a comforting boring, a boring I know I am good. A boring that feels as familiar as breathing.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I don't swim to win. I don't swim so I can be the best. I don't swim so I can beat Oliver or to have the glory.
I simply swim because: I like it.
And fuck if that isn't crazy. I can't remember the last time I did something without external-based motives, and just because it was fun.
Somewhere along the line swimming stopped being fun. Stopped being for my soul and started being for the medal. For the badge of honour, the glory, the respect and adoration. So I could feel like I was worth something.
Swimming was never the same after that.
I started swimming because Mum was forcing me to do that or athletics. I figured swimming would be fewer people trying to talk to me. I was 10.
I got good fast. I was winning golds left, right, centre. I won so many competitions that my Mum had to put my medals in the attic because they were overfilling my draws. She used to think I wanted to win badly because I loved the sport. Really, I just thought if I were good enough, my Dad might show up one.
I won the national title for my age a few times which got me the scholarship for this college. And then I met Oliver Fowler in my last year of high school.
The first time he beat me, I shrugged it off. Blamed it on sore legs. Thought it to be a rough day.
The second time, he didn't even look fazed. Like he expected it.
I almost punched the guy.
And the third time... that's the moment I started hating Oliver Fowler.
But somewhere along the line, I think that might have changed...
And that thought scares me.
***
It's late when I get back, but the night is still alive with bustling students. The number of people I encountered stumbling across the grounds drunk was concerning.
Oliver is asleep when I sneak into my dorm. Sprawled out along my chair, his big form looking surprisingly comfortable on the small chair.
I try to be quiet, but I end up tripping on one of my shoes that I left carelessly around and fall into the wall ungracefully with a loud thud. His keys clatter to the ground next. I wince.
Oliver jolts awake.
He takes a second to register where he is, and then his eyes flick to me.
His eyes take in my damp hair and red chest, the goosebumps on my skin and the red rims around my eyes.
"You went swimming?" He rubs a hand over trying to wake himself up, his voice horse with sleep. I try not to find it as hot as I do.
I open and close my mouth like a fish, unsure how to explain, because it's weird. Who the fuck swims in the middle of the night?
"Your band from the pool Beau."
He sounds like a scowl ding parent. I almost roll my eyes. Here goes golden boy again, being the rule police.
"Who cares, no one saw me, no one knows I..." I wince, realising my error.
"Mmh except for the person whose keys to the pool you stole, and the swim captain at that," Oliver says eyeing his keys on the ground, his voice still sounding sexy, an eyebrow arched.
I scowl. "What? Are you going to tittle-tattle on me, Fowler? Run to coach and keep me in time out for another week?" I shoulder past him to my bed, stripping off my hoodie as I go. "Well go ahead Golden boy, I don't even fucking care."
He crosses his arms over his chest, looking amused as slumps back into the chair.
I try not to notice how rugged and hot he looks tired, his hair mussed and eyes lidded.
I narrow my eyes, watching him across the short distance of my room. "It's not like you're going to tell anyway," I say, portraying confidence I don't fully feel.
He cocks his head to the side, intrigued, curious. "And why is that?"
"Because.. you like picking on me too much. You just love correcting my every flaw and fault. My fuck ups and failures," I say spitefully. "But most of all... you like beating me. And telling coach would mean your scapegoat is gone for longer."
He looks at me for a moment, expression unreadable. Shakes his head, rolls his jaw.
"Perhaps.." he considers. "Or maybe I just want you to get better? Maybe I know you're good, and I want you to be great. Maybe.. me critiquing you makes you swim faster. Swim harder. Perform better."
He leans forwards, resting his arms on his knees. "Maybe I have to be the bad guy, so you can be your best."
He shrugs unapologetically. "I can be your bad guy, Beau. The one that tells you when your movements are off and your stroke is shit. When your turning is bad and your position is wrong. But don't misread my intentions; I'm only the bad guy because I'm the good guy."
All my witty snarky comments that I hold in a special part of my brain for our interactions, runs dry. Blanks out. My jaw is slack and my heart is doing this weird jumping thing.
I don't know what to say to this.
What do you say to that?
This throws me off-guard. This whole, 'kill them with kindness' thing he has got going on—is hard to navigate. This whole, 'I care for you', even though I've been a massive dick to him—I don't understand.
Our relationship doesn't go like this.
We insult each other, we bicker. We are fierce competitors. We are supposed to have a rivalry going on!
So why isn't he playing the part?
"Whatever" I mumble quietly, pretending like he didn't just make my heart hurt. Like him caring about me—wanting me to do well, even though I am his competition, doesn't mess with my head.
I don't know how to respond appropriately. I've never been good at this type of stuff.
So instead, I pretend he isn't being nice and making my stomach feel all weird and shit. Instead, I go to my drawers and shuffle around for my clothes until I grab my PJs. It's 1 in the morning and I'm well ready to go to bed now.
I chuck him some of my shorts. "You can sleep in this."
For a reason I can't explain, I don't tell him to leave. I want him to stay. I'll never admit it, but secretly, right now (and only this one time), I don't hate his company. It's nice to not be alone on a night like tonight. And I don't know if he could tell or not, but I'm glad he stayed.
When I have my PJs in my hand, I flush.
Am I supposed to get changed in front of him?
I don't turn to look at him, instead, I decide to rip it off like a band-aid and start to get changed. I pull my shirt over my head and pull my shorts off. I keep my back to him while I pull my PJ shirt over my head. Even though he's seen me in less at swim trainings, this feels different.
I feel his eyes on me and I know I'm red. We don't talk, no words needed.
He gets changed next, and I force myself to get in my bed and look up at the ceiling. He crawls under the covers soon after and my heart is pounding out of my chest. I shuffle right to the end of the bed to give him as much space as I can.
My bed is small, a single bed, forcing our arms to brush. His leg to lightly brush mine. Oliver doesn't seem to mind that much though, he rolls casually onto his stomach and stretches out, tucking an arm under the pillow. His head is facing me and his breath brushing my shoulder.
I shiver.
His even steady breath calms me, but his proximity and skin touching mine cancels out the calming effect it seems. We lay there for a while before I work the courage to speak.
"Oliver?" I say, voice weaker than I'd like.
"Mmm?" he hums, sinking further into his pillow.
"Have you lost many races before?"
His eyes are still closed but his lip tugs at the corner. "A lot more then I'd like."
My eyes widen. "Really?" I've never seen him lose a racer. Ever. It's hard to imagine it, I can only imagine a mini Oliver being all lanky and shit and kicking everyone's arse.
"There's this one kid that I could never beat for a while. He won the races easily, smooth and effortless. Like a fish in water. And I was second place for a whole year when I was in second to last year of high school."
I look up to the roof, mulling over his words. "Did it bother you? Him beating you?"
Oliver is quiet for a moment, like he's thinking it through.
"No," he admits. "I thought he was awesome, if anything. I wanted to be his friend, I wanted him to think the same about me. I worked my butt last year of school to get as good as him, to get better. Make him notice me."
I turn to look at him. "And did it?"
Oliver opens his eyes, a lopsided grin on his lips. "I don't know... did it?"
My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. The air leaving my lungs. "That was... me?" I can't hide the disbelief in my voice.
He nods, watching me carefully.
"And the day I beat you, you looked at me like I murdered your puppy. I got the memo pretty quickly you weren't interested being friends."
I grimace, feeling guilty. I remember that race. The first race I lost in a long time.
I let out a heavy breath. "That was the only race my Dad showed up to," I admit. "I was trying to impress him. Instead he told me that I should train harder, that second place is the 1st loser."
"Fuck him," Oliver grunts, leans forwards and sloppily kisses my shoulder.
I would laugh — if I wasn't on fire— if I didn't want him to do that again.
***
Author Note:
I sat my butt down and forced myself to finish this chapter for you all. Took some discipline with my fish focus—but I eventually got there.
Not gonna lie, I feel a bit a pressure when writing for it to be good now that there's a lot more people reading the story. It used to only be a few and now there's a lot lol.
Very flattered and appreciative of all the support you guys have given me for this story. Your nice comments honestly make my day.
Vote if you enjoyed the chapter and want the next one ❤️