Nothing But Wild (Malibu University 2)

Closing my eyes, I tip my head forward and place my mouth on his. And as soon as we touch, Dallas sighs. He actually sighs against my mouth as we gently kiss. And for a moment, while my heart attempts to ram its way out of my chest, I am positive that this kiss is going to kill me.

But it doesn’t.

In fact, I’m the opposite of dead. I’ve never felt more alive, fearless, desirable. More so when he leans into it, takes my face in his hands, and nudges my lips apart with his.

It’s even better than my daydreams. I expected it to be lewd, I guess. For Dallas to take over, to wage an all-out assault on my mouth. Instead, I get sweet seduction. I get tenderness. A kiss I’ll be daydreaming about for a lifetime. Because by tomorrow, he won’t remember a thing…and I will never forget.

Chapter Two

Dallas

“You’re fifteen seconds off, Van Zant,” Coach Becker bellows from the other side of the pool. Sprints. He’s bitching about sprints.

The echo bounces off the walls of the Malibu U aquatics center and nails me between the eyes. My head’s throbbing, my muscles sore. I even slept through classes yesterday, trying to recover, and that did jack shit. I’ve got nothing left in the tank. I stop swimming and bob in the water to catch my breath while the rest of the team blows past me.

“Even Peterman beat you.” Becker shakes his head at me with a look of pure revulsion on his face. “Disgraceful,” I watch him mouth.

Wearing a goofy smirk, Brock swims circles in a lazy backstroke. “Guess there’s a first time for everything, huh?”

The big guy is a defensive player and not exactly known for his speed. I, on the other hand, am––when I’m not hungover, that is.

Water polo is considered the hardest sport to play with good reason. It’s four grueling quarters lasting up to twelve minutes a piece during which there is no touching bottom. It’ll kick your ass six ways from Sunday if you’re not rested and in shape.

Maybe that’s what I like most about it. That it requires all my attention. Complete concentration. Which leaves little opportunity for my mind to drift elsewhere. Like to Beth.

All I can remember about Monday night is walking into the Theta Halloween party at UCLA with Warner, getting into it with Holloway––a douchebag on the Bruins polo team––and one of the football guys breaking it up. Then getting stoned and kissing a girl in a cat costume like the one Beth wore on our first Halloween together.

Slow crawling over to the side, I hang on to the edge of the pool, too tired to even hoist myself out of the water. Warner swims by and I low-key bark, “Bro,” making sure Coach doesn’t hear me.

He stops and a question mark appears on his face.

“Do you remember a chick in a cat costume?”

He shakes his head and the increasingly uncomfortable feeling that I imagined her gets stronger.

“Where’d you get that shit we smoked? I was seeing things. You sure it wasn’t juiced?”

“Nah, man,” Warner replies with a half cocked grin and a shake of his head. “That’s just you being you.”

I flip him off and the bastard swims away smiling.

“Can’t handle the sauce, love?”

Quinn Smith. Goalie. Serious chip on his shoulder. The evil glee on his face makes my balls itch. I’d throw a punch, but I’m too damn tired.

He loves nothing more than to give me shit. Mostly, I’ve surmised, it’s because he resents that I grew up with money while he grew up in public housing somewhere in the UK routinely getting the shit knocked out of him for being gay. Fucked if I know how that’s my fault, but he seems to think so.

I’m about to jump out when a pair of big, hairy feet stuffed into Arena pool slides enter my line of sight. I glance up and find Becker with his hands on his hips, his face hard, and his lips thin. His skin is florid under his deep leathery tan. He’s got the look of an old dude with high blood pressure.

Terry Becker has won more NCAA men’s water polo championships as a coach than anyone else due in large part to his take-no-prisoners style training. Ask him and he’ll tell you, to be the best requires complete commitment. Problem is, I’ve never been good at commitment and probably never will be. What can I say––it’s in the genes.

“Too busy dreaming about unicorns and butterflies to get your beauty rest, Van Zant?”

Taking a weary as fuck deep breath, I say, “No butterflies, Coach. Just pussies.”

That kicks off a chorus of snorts and chuckles from my teammates, none of which have the testicular fortitude to go up against Becker. As much as they say they hate when I make trouble, they love it when I do their dirty work.