Deep End: A Bad Boy Sports Romance by Roxeanne Rolling Page B

to be mentally capable of believing a girl isn’t in love with him. And I’m not in love with him. It bothers me that I have to remind myself of that fact.
    So, go to the party. That’s step one. I’ll hang around the party long enough to see what it is the swimmers get up to the there, but I doubt it’ll be a big surprise. Then I’ll get Anchor alone, and start the extraction process.
    I’m surprised how cold and calculating I’m being. Or at least trying to be.
    It’s been a long, long time, since I dressed up and tried to look sexy. I think I’ve lost my knack for it, or maybe I never had it. I normally wear simple clothes and my hair up in a ponytail , walking around campus without makeup or jewelry .
    Tonight, I put on mascara , lipstick , and a light layer of foundati on, along with a dab of concealer here and there to hide the blemishes and inconsistencies that I’m acutely aware of as I stare at my face in the magnifying mirror my Mother bought me during my first semester at college. I don’t think I’ve glanced at it since she bought it for me, and it’s spent most of its life in the back of my dorm room closet .
    Tonight I’m wearing a short skirt that I’d never be caught dead in normally, and a tight top that shows an ample amount of cleavage. I justify this all to myself by thinking of the famous reporters who did similar things to get the story: Erin Brokovich , for instance.
    My hair is down, falling around my shoulders. I take one final look in the mirror before grabbing my purse and cell phone and leaving.
    As I walk across campus, I take my smallest recorder from my purse and stick it inside the waistband of my skirt. The way my shirt bunches up down there, I don’t think it’s noticeable . I make sure it’s on and running, so that I won’t miss anything from tonight. I also have my pad and pen, but it might impede the flow of the night if I whip it out during the party, or when I’ve got Anchor all alone.
    Anchor. I can’t believe I’m calling him Anchor to myself! What an idiotic nickname. I resolve here and now to call him Matt, his real name, both to myself, and to his face, no matter what the circumstances. Calling him Anchor makes me feel more like a fan than a reporter.
    Every single light is on in the swimming house . It’s just off campus. It’s kind of a run down neighbo rhood, but the swimming house is particularly run down. It looks more like a crack house than a house for college athletes .
    There’s a hip-hop song blaring fro m inside, but it can be heard clearly out on the dark street.
    I stand there for a minute, surveying the whole thing, the bass line from the hip-hop song practically making my hair move and sway.
    Suddenly one of the upstairs windows is flung open, blasting light and more music into the street.
    Th ere’s excited yelling coming fro m upstairs, as a naked man start s to climb out the window. What he’s trying to do I can only guess. He seems to be trying to get on top of the porch roof, but it’s many feet away, and he can’t possibly make it.
    The front door bursts open, and swimmers pile out, many of them shirtless, and apparently covered in beer, holding red plastic cups, and shouting up at the guy, who’s half out the window, moving his foot around wildly and blindly as if any second he’s going to touch the top of the roof. It’s clear he’s gone out the wrong window, and is too drunk to realize it.
    “You’re almost there , man,” yells one of the swimmers . I recognize as Anchor, I mean Matt’s, friend from a couple nights ago. Dave. He’s the guy who accosted me on campus, the guy that Anchor, I mean Matt, tried to “defend” me against.
    The guy who’s half out the window lets out a w hoop and goes falling. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but he plummets like a rock. Fortunately, he lands in a huge overgrown bush that hasn’t been trimmed in a couple decades.
    The swimmers rush over to him, and pull him out, all