Fearless Like Us (Like Us 9)

I grunt. “Sounds like we’re gonna be having a shit ton of fun.”

“I’m banking on it.” He smiles. “See what I did there?”

“Take my name in vain, yeah.” The two of us command the hallway, student athletes and swimmers parting as we walk.

Once we reach the office, Akara raps his fist.

“It’s open!”

I follow my boss inside.

Coach Ryan Reed is seated behind a mahogany desk and toiling over a stack of papers. Two buttons are undone at the top of his long-sleeved floral shirt, and his light brown hair has a dramatic fade on both sides, plus he has black gauges in his ears.

He’s twenty-nine.

Just like me.

I knew that before I walked in here, but if someone asked me to play Guess This Man’s Age, I’d say he was a college student. Not a head coach of a swim team.

Feels backwards.

Coach Reed pries his attention off his work. “You both made it, great.” Seems friendly enough. “Did you get your student IDs?”

“Have them, and we already talked with administration,” Akara says with the same friendly rapport. “We just need to walk around the facility and chat with some of the swimmers.”

I thread my arms over my chest. Giving off the stiff bodyguard vibe, but while Akara talks, I’m inspecting the coach’s office.

Covertly.

No photos of kids or of a wife or husband. Of course we did an extensive background check on Coach Reed before today.

He’s not married.

Verified and confirmed.

But he could be in a long-term relationship. Since he’s an “infrequent” social media poster (mostly uploading pool pics) Ryan Reed isn’t a complete open book ready for us to flip through. And I know well and good that people harbor secrets.

Whether or not he’s the kind of guy who’d shove a skeleton behind a wall—that’s yet to be determined. All I know is that Sulli will be around him, and it doesn’t hurt to be heedful and vigilant.

At first, quick glance, he appears ordinary.

Coach Reed stands up. “I can give you a tour.”

“That’s kind but unnecessary,” Akara replies. “It’ll be easier to get a feel for the space on our own.”

He wavers for a beat. His cautious stance throws me off.

What does he have to be cautious about?

“Sullivan is safe here at Warwick. The team is excited to have her on board, and so am I.”

First impression: I don’t like him.

Maybe it’s his unbuttoned shirt or perfectly styled hair or the fact that he looks more ready to be a lifeguard on Venice Beach than a collegiate swim coach.

“That’s good to hear,” Akara nods, authority puncturing his words. “Her safety is our first priority.”

Yes, it is.

Coach Reed smiles. “I’m just happy she chose to come here for the job. Princeton was about to reach out to her before I made the call.”

Princeton. Talk about bougie.

Sulli would have rejected the Ivy League invite on location alone. Warwick isn’t a far drive from the penthouse and suits her better, even if it’s a slightly smaller college.

“Do you have the key to her locker?” Akara asks.

“Right, yeah, it’s over here.” Coach Reed retrieves the key from a filing cabinet and hands it to Akara.

“Can I leave this here while we walk around?” I raise my tote bag. Do not want to haul this thing everywhere, but I’m not about to toss perfectly good cups.

“Yeah, no problem.” He has trouble looking me in the eye. Intimidation is just the skin we wear, but I’m damn glad I’m intimidating him.

We leave at that.

Akara twirls the keyring around his finger. The hallway is quiet as we both slow our pace to take notes of exits, entrances, and security cameras. Akara logs some of the information on his phone, while I take the old-fashioned approach and jot in a small spiral notebook.

With a Warwick University pen.

This thing writes nice. Smooth crisp ink. Simple pleasures, man.

As we pass a Fizzle vending machine, Akara tells me, “I’m going to ask her out.”

I click the pen, a bit surprised. “You’re already dating her, Akara.”

He cranes his neck behind us, ensuring no one is rounding the corner. We’re alone. “On a date, Banks.”

I scratch the pen against my jaw. “That kind of asking out.”

Concern pulses behind his brown eyes. “I’m not asking for permission—”

“You don’t have to,” I interject. “Take her out. She deserves to be wooed and doted on and loved, and I’m just pissy ‘cause I haven’t even considered where I’m taking her yet—and I bet by the time I do, you’ll be on date number thirty-seven.”

Logistics.

Never been my specialty.

But they are his.

Akara takes his baseball cap off, pushing back his hair, then fits it on to ask, “Are you supposed to come along?”

I scrunch my brows. “On your date?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you want me to?” I wonder.

He asks, “Do you want me to join yours?”

I lift my shoulders as an answer.

“Yeah…that’s where I am too.” He sighs. “Either way, I think I’d be okay with it.” He flips his phone in his palm. “This is really hard to figure out. I don’t know the right way to do any of this shit.”