In the Fast Lane (Fast Series Book 1) (9 page)

Unfortunately, he’d shown up right in the middle of her personal crisis. If there was one thing she knew for sure, she was not in need of another ego-inflated swim-boy at the moment. Dalton McKinney was way more than enough for one woman to handle.

Chapter 9

“Who is the French fuck?” Dalton asked, coming to stand next to Sawyer in the observation room.

“Huh?” Sawyer looked up from the time sheets he was perusing. He looked bewildered to be suddenly sharing the room with someone. He came around quickly though, there being only one “French fuck” in the vicinity at the moment. “Oh, that’s Claudel Lemaitre.”

“The French kid?” Dalton had heard of him, but he had looked like a drowned rat the last time he had seen him—all awkward and lanky, his Speedo almost falling off of his skeleton of a frame. Of course, Claudel had probably been about sixteen or seventeen at the time and at his first international races, but still. It was a shock to see the kid all grown up... and sniffing around one of his swimmers.

“French kid, French fuck, call him what you want, but yes. That is Claudel Lemaitre, in the flesh,” Sawyer said and went back to his time sheets.

“What’s he doing getting all up on Jessi like that?” Dalton asked. He looked down at the pool deck and scowled. Lemaitre was finding little ways to touch Jessi, and by the look in his eyes, was thinking about how best to climb her frame. Practice had been over for a while now, and while the reporters had access to the swimmers for the next fifteen minutes, Dalton had an overwhelming urge to tell Lemaitre his time was up.

“Probably trying to get laid,” Sawyer replied nonchalantly, still not looking up from the time sheets.

“What?” Dalton felt the blood rising to his face. He was beginning to notice an irrational sense of anger he didn’t want to put a name to. The last thing he needed to do was get jealous over Jessi Pruitt. Not only would that be seriously ridiculous, but of all people, he
certainly
had no right to tell Jessi who she could and could not date.

“Dude, he’s French. Those guys are like, born trying to get laid. He’s also her ex-boyfriend, so...” Sawyer added and turned back to his time sheets. As if that explained a damn thing.

Annoyed by this obvious lack of concern, Dalton flipped him the bird once he turned his back. “Well, if he’s her ex-boyfriend, why are we letting him interview her?”

Sawyer sighed, put the time sheets down, and lifted his head to fix Dalton with a look of extreme annoyance. “One, because she’s a big girl and can handle herself. Two, because in that relationship, she decides if and when they sleep together. If she wants to, they do. If not, they don’t. It doesn’t affect her swimming, and she sure as hell isn’t going to get a chance to screw him while she’s locked away in her dorm room, so I’m not terribly worried about it. Settle down, okay, Daddy?”

There was something sick and wrong about being referred to as Jessi’s daddy...unless of course they were in the middle of fooling around and he asked her to call him—

Dalton brought his mind back around. He shouldn’t be thinking of Jessi like that, and he really needed to focus. Dalton was trailing off less and less since he’d been coaching. He still slipped up though.

Forcing his mind back to the current situation, he was unpleasantly surprised to realize that part of his anger toward Jessi and her little French boy-toy had everything to do with a hurt ego. It wasn’t that he thought she hadn’t slept with someone by now, or that he was under some grand illusion that she’d spent all these years pining after him. It was just that...well, yes, he’d always sort of assumed those things when he thought of Jessi. He wasn’t that much of a dick, really. It was just that his only lasting memory of their time in Brazil was of her being so enamored with him. He supposed his thoughts should really have focused on how epically devastated and disappointed she’d looked when she found him on that balcony.

He should have known better though. Women like Jessi didn’t lick their wounds for long. So, she’d gone and rebounded with
le boy-toy
. Great. Dalton only hoped for her sake that the little douche had been filling out his Speedo a little better by the time they’d hooked up.

For the purpose of seeing the sun rise the next day, Dalton fixed his scowl into what he hoped looked like a coach’s concern for his swimmer as opposed to a jealous ex-whatever-he’d-been. When he felt like he had his features under control, he turned to Sawyer. “How long are these interviews going to take? I’ve got a hell of a problem with Tanner’s dolphin kick, and a little board work wouldn’t hurt any of them.”

While it was mostly pretense, Dalton inwardly smiled at the thought of throwing kick boards and making them dolphin kick all the way down the pool...and back. Over and over again. He found his mood improving exponentially as he continued to build the workout in his head.

“I’m really proud of you, man.” Sawyer said, bringing Dalton back to the present.

It didn’t escape Dalton that Sawyer’s little touchy-feel-good statement had carefully avoided answering his question about how long the damn interviews were going to take.

“Thanks. How long?”

Sawyer ignored him and continued his masochistic attempt to make them both feel uncomfortable. “You need to learn to take a compliment. I’m serious. You’re doing a really great job. It’s only been a couple of days and you’ve got them shaping up nicely. I’ve never seen you so focused.”

“You weren’t there eight years ago when I was trying to beat your ass,” Dalton replied with a grin.

Sawyer grinned right back. He rolled his tongue in his cheek and gave a few short nods. Apparently, he had some fond memories of his own when it came to their rivalry. “Man, you really went after me. I gotta admit, after Omaha, I was scared shitless. I didn’t realize how bad I wanted to go out with a bang. I was beat up, tired, and ready to be done racing. Then you kicked my ass and I thought to myself, ‘No way in hell I can let that asshat beat me in Brazil.’” Sawyer’s grin widened into a smile.

Dalton grinned right back. “I really did kick your ass at trials, though, didn’t I? Good times.”

“Yeah. They were. But you really need to know how important you are to my goal for Canada.” Sawyer furrowed his brow and looked like a man who was going to say something that he really didn’t want to.

He cleared his throat. “So, um, I just want you to know that you’re the best coach I’ve got here and the only one I really trust. I handpicked you for a reason; the rest of the coaching staff was put together by the committee. I really appreciate being able to bounce ideas off you.” The words rushed out of his mouth. He took a deep breath before he looked up at Dalton.

“Are you done being a chick?”

“Yep.”

“Good. I’m happy to be here too. Can we be done with this?”

“Yep.”

Both men took a step in the opposite directions. For a second there, Dalton had been afraid they were going to hug. All of a sudden, Dalton’s original question popped back into his head. While he didn’t question Sawyer’s sincerity with that little bonding moment, he had sneaking suspicions that the man had been trying to divert his attention.

Well... Dalton felt righteously smug as he eyed Sawyer down. Sawyer had counted on Dalton’s knack for forgetting things and going on tangents. Sawyer’s fault for not realizing how much being near the water helped his attention span.

“What?” Sawyer asked. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

“How long?” Dalton replied.

Sawyer threw his hands up. “What are you talking about now?”

“You never answered me. How long will the interviews take?”

Sawyer pursed his lips. “Remembered that, did you?”

“I told you, the pool helps out with the ADHD. Sucks when I’m right, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Sawyer admitted. “All right, here’s the deal. The interviews will be over this afternoon. Except for Jessi’s. Lemaitre’s doing an exposé piece for one of the national news stations—”

“I thought he worked for French media?”

“He
announces
for French broadcasting. He does a bunch of freelance shit for all kinds of media, pretty much all over the world. Nice gig, actually.”

“Hmm. So, what you’re telling me is this little douchebag is actually a rich little douchebag who wants to do unspeakable things to my best swimmer’s body.”

“Pretty much.”

Dalton didn’t like that at all. If he couldn’t do naughty things with Jessi, there was sure as shit no way anyone else would either. Just the thought made him unreasonably upset.

“Okay, so again, why are we letting him interview her?”

“Because if I saw one spark of interest in Jessi’s eyes, I would have pulled the plug. I didn’t. She couldn’t care less that he’s here or that he’s the one doing the exposé. She’s here to swim, and that’s all that is on her mind. She wants nothing to do with the prick.” Sawyer slapped Dalton on the back. “Better get to it, Coach.” He started walking down the hall to his office.

“Wait a second, smartass!”

Sawyer didn’t stop. “What do you want now, asshole?” he asked over his shoulder.

“How many days will Lemaitre be
working
with my swimmer?”

Sawyer stopped in front of his office door and stared at it.

“A week. Make it work.” He stepped into his office and closed the door behind him.

“Fuuuuck.” Dalton exhaled. He tilted back his head and put his hands on his hips.
Might as well come to terms with it
.

Sawyer’s little bit of news had put the nail in his coffin. Yes, he was pissed that Lemaitre would be messing with his schedule. But mostly, he really hated the thought of Jessi spending an hour or two every night rehashing old stories and remembering good times with a guy that had meant a lot more to her than Dalton ever had.

Yep, he was attracted to Jessi. His reaction to Lemaitre’s presence
couldn’t be explained as anything else. He’d just have to deal with it. Jessi was his swimmer, and his most important duty was to make sure she was in optimal shape when they headed to Canada. Beyond that, she wasn’t and couldn’t be anything more.

With that settled, he turned around to find his own office. He couldn’t do a fucking thing about the two of them hanging out together. Still...he would be damned if he let Lemaitre weasel his sneaky little French ass into his best swimmer’s suit.

Chapter 10

“Can you believe I’m working with Claudel for the next week?” Jessi stared dubiously at Dalton.

“Trust me. Not my idea.” Dalton’s voice was gruff. His eyebrows were drawn in an annoyed scowl. He was all pissed off coach, which, unfortunately for her sanity, was kinda hot.

“Well, then why am I doing it? Don’t you have the final say in my schedule?”

Dalton tilted his head and gave her a look that simply said, “Really?”

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Golden Boy and Allie seem to think it will be fine, so you’ll be meeting with him every afternoon after practice. If it’s messing with your swimming, just say so. I’ll figure out a way to pull the plug.” A hopeful look entered his eyes.

Jessi couldn’t help but laugh at this man-child standing in front of her. He was sexy as hell and cute as a button all at the same time. It wasn’t fair, really. Shaking off these unhelpful thoughts, she patted his arm. “Don’t worry, Coach. I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever,” Dalton huffed. He was clearly unhappy with the situation but coming to terms with it. “All right. I gotta go yell at some kids. Have fun with your interviews—and be good.” He pointed at her for emphasis.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m onto the bastard. I know what that little ass is up to. Don’t give him an inch.”

Jessi giggled. “Really? Seriously?”

Dalton didn’t say anything, just stared at her.

“Okay, Daddy. I’ll be a good girl.”

Dalton pursed his lips, then turned to leave. “Not your dad,” he sing-songed over his shoulder.

Didn’t she know it. Jessi shook her head and headed for her interview. She wasn’t excited, but at the same time, she wasn’t as put out as Dalton was. As long as this didn’t mess up her schedule, she was good with it.

Fifteen minutes later, she regretted ever laying eyes on Claudel Lemaitre. He’d been flirty before, but now, when they were alone, he was downright obnoxious. At the moment, Jessi was fending off a pair of dark blue bedroom eyes that peeked out of what were, admittedly, really good, shaggy blond bangs. She needed to ask Claudel where he was getting his hair cut—probably at some thousand-dollar-a-service spa located on the Spanish Mediterranean coast. Ugh.

“I’m sorry, Claudel, I wasn’t listening. Can you repeat that?” Jessi asked.

“You seem preoccupied,
chéri
.”

“Knock it off with the accent, Claudel. It’s not like that right now,” Jessi replied with a scolding look. Despite Sawyer’s mocking criticism of Claudel’s voice, particularly when he watched film where Claudel was announcing, Claudel really didn’t have much of an accent when speaking English. He’d spent a lot of time in the States. The accent was for her benefit, or whomever he was trying to sleep with at any given moment. Given his current inability to pronounce consonants, the honor appeared to be all hers.