Plunge (Alpha Athletes #1)

C
opyright
© 2016 by Violet Paige

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places or events are entirely the work of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

A
ll rights reserved
. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate in piracy of copyrighted material.

Cover Design: Jacqueline Sweet

W
hat the fuck
? Coach and I stared at the sign on the set of glass double doors leading to the pool.

I looked at Jim. The man had coached me since I was fourteen. He knew I was fucking pissed without me uttering a word, but I did it anyway.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

I heard him exhale.

I threw a towel over my shoulder, slapping my back with the edges. “I can’t believe these incompetent bastards.”

“Wait here. I’ll find out what this is about,” he announced

“Like hell I’m going to stand here. I need to get in the water. Someone needs to answer for this.”

“They will, Blaine. They will. But I don’t want you to throw a punch before heat races. That’s the last thing we need. Give me ten minutes.”

“All right. But if I’m not in the water in ten, someone’s losing their job. I’ll take this to the head of the Olympic Committee.”

He shook his head. “I’ll get you in.”

Jim knew as much about the aquatics training facility as I did, but he took off as if he knew which direction to go for answers.

I tucked a pair of earbuds in my ears and turned up the music. I couldn’t let this fuck up get in my head. The music had a way of drowning out the background noise and problems. It worked before a meet. I needed it to work now.

The games opened a week from today. There was no excuse for this. None.

I scowled at the sign that read:

Pool Closed

It had just become the biggest cock blocker in my life. Shit.

I’d break the lock on the damn door if I had to. They couldn’t keep me out of the water. I had to train. I needed to fucking swim.

I took one day off to travel, but that was it. There was no room to slow down. No time for rest. No day to take it easy. The gold was mine, but only if I got in the damn pool.

Jim was probably the one coach who understood my intensity. He knew I couldn’t slack off on my training. It wasn’t in my DNA. I heard other guys in locker rooms talk about rest days or vacations they planned. They complained that they needed a mental break from the game. That the pressure was about to make them crack.

That was a bunch of bullshit.

I didn’t buy into it and neither did Jim. That was why we worked so well together. If I wasn’t in the pool, I was in the gym with weights in my hands.

He was probably the only one willing to put up with my shit. Hell, I knew he was. But he was also the only one who had his hands on a champion.

You didn’t get this kind of body by sitting on your ass. I worked every fucking day. There were endless hours of laps. Mile after mile of runs. Strength and stretching sessions. You name it—I did it, if it made me a better swimmer. A faster man. A competitor. I wasn’t born Australia’s greatest swimmer—I
earned
that title.

I cranked up the volume on my music. The smell of fresh paint was stronger than the smell of chlorine. Something wasn’t right about this place. I tried to look past the frosted rings on the door and see if anyone was working inside. The water was still.

J
im tapped
me on the shoulder. I swung around, yanking the music from my ears.

“So?”

“Not good.” I read the expression in his eyes.

He pulled the navy cap with the Aussie logo from his head. He scratched the side of his salt and peppered hair. I was responsible for at least a few of those patches.

“There’s a problem with one of the water pressure valves. The pool is closed for at least another day. That’s all I got out of them.”

I peered through the frosted glass.

“There’s no one inside. It’s dark.”

“The contractors are coming out this afternoon,” he explained.

“That’s not good enough. They can’t tell me I can’t swim. I need a pool.”

“I checked with the diving pools, and they’re booked. We have to wait until the repairs are made.”

“They aren’t even working in there. I want the name of the person responsible for this.”

“Let’s get a work out in while we wait. We can hit the gym. Maybe get a run in until it’s fixed. Forget the pool. We’ll make this your best training day. What do you think?”

I pounded my fist on the doors. “No one is going to bloody keep me from swimming. This is the fucking Olympics, Jim. Not amateur finals. I’m not some sixteen-year-old kid they can kick around like a rookie.”

I paced in front of the doors. “I’m on the buildings here. The billboards. My face is everywhere, Jim. And this is what they do? They use me? They owe me this. Someone is getting me in the pool today.”

The coach slapped my back. “It’s no use. I’ve already made a few calls. We’ll come back tomorrow and you can get your laps in.”

The adrenaline pumped through my veins. It rushed to my temples, fueling the anger that was already there.

I kicked the door. “Fuck.”

“Come on. We’ll head back to the village. We can still train. Let’s do some rowing if you don’t want to run. I’ll race you.” He raised his eyebrows.

Jim always knew when to push me. When I thought I didn’t have enough air in my lungs to make another lap, he got down at the edge of the lane and screamed my name. When I thought my shoulders would smolder from the butterfly and couldn’t take another stroke, he made me do it again. I cussed. I yelled back. But he knew how to make me a better athlete. The harder he shoved, the better I got. That was why I was the best in the world. I was going into the Olympics as the world record holder. I was Australia’s poster child for the games. I was Jim’s star.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “We can get a work out in, but I’m coming straight here tonight. And I will call.”

He slapped me on the back as he led me toward the door. “I know you will.”

“Who’s that bloke?” I nodded toward a guy with a maintenance cap on. “Should we wait?”

Jim kept walking. “It’s going to take hours. I spoke to the arena manager. We’ll come back later.”

I watched as an array of equipment was unloaded from a utility van. Shit. It looked like they had an entire new pump in there. I was suspicious Jim didn’t get all the information. From all the tools and parts, it looked like there was more than a valve problem.

How the hell did something like this happen? How could the pool for the world’s greatest competitors not be ready? This was a fucking disaster.

Reluctantly I followed, but someone was going to pay for this. No one kept Blaine Crews out of the water. No one.

I
nervously chewed
the end of my pen. These meetings weren’t getting any easier. I listened to the catalog of things I was responsible for reporting. It was an extremely long list, and none of it interested me.

I tried to tie my auburn hair away from my face. They told us the air conditioning was broken, but looking around, I wasn’t sure it had been installed yet. Rio was hot. Always hot, even though it was winter. The city was trying to cope with an unexpected heat wave. Add weather problems to the growing items of concern.

It was the kind of hot that made your clothes stick to you and made you wish you could take another shower as soon as you stepped outside.

The long strands of hair clung to the back of my neck. It was pointless. I gave up and let it fall down my shoulders.

The campaign director, Vic Lawson, loosened his tie.

“Any questions?”

I raised my hand.

“Go ahead, Ava.”

“What are we supposed to do when the real stories come out? You know, the truth?”

I heard the grumble around me, but kept my eyes straight ahead on Vic.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

I was pissed. This wasn’t rocket science. I hated how everyone pretended things were perfect.

“We all saw what happened in Sochi. Social media blew up with it. Athletes are arriving here every day. It’s not going to be long before the entire world finds out Rio de Janeiro just isn’t ready. Brazil was never going to be able to handle ten thousand athletes. We need to show the public the truth here.”

Vic unbuttoned his top collar. I could see the perspiration beaded along his forehead.

“We aren’t reporters. We’re a public relations team contracted to promote the successes here. We don’t answer to the public. We answer to our client. Our client is the US Olympic team. That is who we need to worry about.”

It must have been the heat, or maybe the jet lag, but I pressed my new boss despite his tirade.

“You’re asking us to pretend the city is ready. It’s not. Look at us—we’re sweating to death in the committee headquarters main building. Something is wrong with this. We can’t keep this from everyone back home. They should know what it’s like where they sent their athletes and their money. We’re sitting on a crisis.”

He tossed his tie over a chair. The guy next to me backed away from the table a few inches.

“No one outside of this room gives a shit if we have AC. You write feel-good PR pieces. You find the symbolic craftsmanship that went into building these facilities. Talk to locals participating in the Opening Ceremonies and how they’ve practiced with their colorful flags for months. Find the athlete whose village raised money to fly him here. You hear me? You get what I’m saying? Feel-good pieces, people.”

He slapped his palm on the table.

“No one gives a shit about AC or toilets, or cramped rooms in the village. We work
for
the Olympics. If you want to be an investigative journalist, there’s the door. This isn’t the place for a tell-all.”

I felt a pit in the bottom of my stomach, knowing the comment was aimed directly at me. I seemed to be the only one who had a moral conscience in the room.

“Any other questions?’ Vic barked.

The room was silent. How could they all sit there and pretend they didn’t see what I saw? Opening Ceremonies were a week away. Were we really going to pretend Rio was the land of rainbows and princess castles?

“All right. File stories by 8pm. Drop them on the server and I’ll select what goes out. See you back here tomorrow,” Vic instructed.

He dismissed us while quickly chugging a bottle of water.

I stuffed my notes in my backpack and filed out of the stifling room with everyone else. I wanted to stay behind and fight for the truth, but I didn’t have that kind of clout with this PR firm. I was lucky I had a job. I was lucky they had hired me. It was a reminder of one more compromise I had to make.

I’d been in Rio for three days. I hadn’t quite acclimated to the time difference. I kept telling myself if I drank enough water and spent enough time outside, the jet lag would pass, but it still made my stomach roll. It seemed to be worse at night.

I walked outside, detesting how the heat clung to my skin.

I still hadn’t figured out how to cool off. The hotel room temperature never dropped below eighty degrees. The cold water side of the shower was as tepid as bath water.

I wished I were at the winter Olympics. At least with snow and ice I could find a way to keep warm, layering like a snow bunny in scarves and gloves. The heat was ridiculous.

I strolled along the umbrella lined sidewalk and ducked into a juice bar. The doors opened onto a patio, dotted with climbing vines and tropical flowers.

The three semesters of Portuguese I took in college didn’t necessarily prepare me for nearly a month in Brazil, but I had brushed up on a few podcasts during my morning runs before I flew out.

“Oi,” I greeted the girl behind the counter.

She smiled at me. “What for today?” she asked.

Even though her sentences were mixed up, her accent was beautiful. I doubted I sounded that sexy trying to speak her language.

I looked at the menu scribbled in chalk next to the register.

“Do you have anything for jet lag?”

She looked at me questioningly.

“Travel sickness?” I tried again. I had no idea how to translate the concept. “Time change?”

“Ahh.” She nodded. “Bee pollen. Lots of energy. Make you feel better.”

“Sure. I’ll take a mango smoothie with bee pollen.” I placed my order, hoping the Rio bees had something that would shake this feeling.

She started working on my drink, measuring and pouring.

“Lots of ice,” I added. I didn’t know the Portuguese word for ice, but she tossed in another scoop. I could only imagine how many times a day Americans walked in asking for more ice.

I discovered this quirky café my first night in the city. It was too freakin’ hot for coffee. Big, lazy fans spun overhead as I waited.

Maybe it was because I was an American I was so impatient, or maybe it was the sweat dripping down my neck that made me irritable, but it felt as if the girl was making my drink in slow motion. I teetered between my feet, drooling over the bucket of ice on the counter.

I considered asking her if it was for sale.

And that was when Blaine Crews walked in.