Out in the Deep (Out in College 1) - Page 1
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“The deeper the waters are, the more still they run.”—Korean proverb
Mist rose from the placid water, lending an ethereal aura to the foggy morning. The stands were sparsely populated at this hour. An eight a.m. Saturday game was a tough sell for most people in the summer, especially for a glorified scrimmage. There should have been a rule stating that all non-crucial collegiate events were banned until after noon in the summertime. Or maybe year-round. I glanced at our crosstown rivals at the opposite end of the pool, lined up on either side of the goal.
Water polo was an insular sport with a strong presence in coastal communities like Southern California. Chances were good that if you’d played in high school and college, you knew the competition well. I recognized the Panthers’ goalie first. Jake was a fifth-year senior like me. We’d been friends since high school. He was six foot five with a wingspan that rivaled a professional basketball player’s. My gaze wandered to Mike Hoskins, on Jake’s left. He was a big partier. I bet he was out late last night and no doubt, he had a hangover. Not a morning threat, I mused. Tim Berkus was slow to start, but he ramped up quickly and—oh, fuck. I forgot about Gabe Chadwick. I fucking hated that guy. I wasn’t a fan of anyone who believed they were God’s gift to humanity. So what if he was tall, dark, good-looking, smart, and a world-class athlete? Gabe was still a dick if you asked me.
And it looked like I was guarding him this morning. Great.
Adrenaline rushed through me when the ref blew his whistle, signaling the start of the game. I checked the tie on my cap, then swam into position and waited to see who won the sprint. Us. I moved closer to the net on the far right side and waved my hand. The second the ball was passed to me, I threw a cross-cage skip shot and scored just before Gabe reached over, pulling me under in a blatant attempt to drown me.
Okay, fine. That was a slight exaggeration. But only a slight one. Gabe yanked me sideways and then pushed me under. It was excessive force and as I held my breath and stared at his enviable six-pack underwater, I figured it was a matter of seconds before the ref called a foul. I popped back up when I realized I wasn’t going to get the call and retaliated by kicking Gabe in the stomach, then swimming partially over him before getting into position on defense.
Like any other sport, the main objective in water polo was to score. The team with the most points won. In that way it was a lot like basketball or soccer. I’d been told that it looked much easier, which always made me laugh ’cause water polo was fucking vicious. Maybe it seemed like keep-away above water, but underneath it was like football. Anything was legal as long you didn’t get caught. The best players knew how to get away with murder. And Gabe was definitely one of the best.
A pissed-off Gabe meant trouble for me. By the third quarter, he was all over me. I’d been kicked in the ribs, the head, and scored on twice. But I somehow managed to hang in the game, jockeying and battling for position and making it difficult for Gabe to maneuver around me. Maybe it was inevitable that he’d lose his cool and “accidentally” kick me in the balls. He grazed my left nut. It didn’t actually hurt, but after getting the crap beaten out of me nonstop for thirty minutes while treading water, it was the last straw. Or maybe it was when he crawled over my back and taunted, “You fucking love having me on top of you, don’t you?” that I came unglued.
I dragged him under and kicked him in the gut. Hard. The surprise factor worked in my favor…for five seconds, anyway. As soon as it wore off, Gabe came after me in his patented subtle way. He gouged my side, then flailed to the surface and put on a show for our meager audience. He should have won an award. His dramatic gasps for air and subsequent coughing fit sent a twitter of worry through the crowd. When he swam to the edge to gather himself and catch his breath, he received a round of applause. And me? I got kicked out of the game.
I was forced to endure the last quarter from the bench in disgrace. And to add insult to injury, we lost. Everyone was pissed…my coach, my teammates. But no one was angrier than me. I shouldn’t have let Gabe get under my skin. There was no excuse. I’d played this game for more than half my life. I knew better than to let an opponent inside my head.
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