"Like death by drowning, a really delightful sensation after you cease to struggle" – Edna Ferber
It was a long practice. Good practice. The rest of the team has long since showered and gone. You stayed behind to stretch your muscles a bit. It's not that you need the extra work - even though you took time off from the sport, you're feeling good in the water. No, you're doing this for you now; swimming for fun.
Swimming always did relax you.
But now, you're wiped out, so you decide to call it quits for the day. A long, hot shower would feel good. That's all that's on your mind between the last few kicks and the moment that you pop your head out of the water -
Only to have it forcefully dunked back under - what the fuck? You're scrambling; almost panicked as you force your head back above the surface, gasping for air as you see that it's her - Paige Mc-Fucking-Cullers, yelling something about crying to the coach. Confused, you spit out some words in your defense before she forces your head down again. But you're Wayne Fields' daughter - Lieutenant Colonel Fields - and your overprotective dad has taught his only daughter a few things about self-defense:
Stay calm.
Think it through.
Leverage your advantages.
You think it through: Obviously, Paige isn't trying to kill you. She just wants to scare you. She'll let you up again, and, when she does, you'll be ready.
You realize what this is about. You've caught the glances that she snuck in your direction. You've noticed how she averts her eyes in the locker room - looking at the ground; looking in her locker; looking at the paint on the walls - looking at anything rather than risking having to admit to herself that she likes looking at girls; that the wetness going on wasn't just from the pool and the shower.
You feel the pressure on the top off your head ease off, and you know it's time to act. In one swift motion, you deftly grab her by the elbow and catapult her into the pool. Paige is strong. Very strong. Spencer has told you of her legendary battles on the field hockey team. You've seen the way she powers through the pool, her muscled arms beating the water into submission. You've seen the flexing of her shoulder, back, and thigh muscles as she stretches out after a long session in the pool. There's no question that the girl is strong, but you're stronger – physically and emotionally – than people give you credit for. Use it to your advantage, Emmy.
And, right now, you've got surprise, momentum, and the weight of her now-soaked warm up suit in your favor as you use your body to force hers down under the water.
In a sense, you know what she's going through. You can remember life in the closet. You remember trying to come to terms with who you are; you remember the denial, the inner turmoil, the tears. It's no way to live, and you know she can't stay in there forever. Maybe you can hurry the process along with a little shock therapy. Time to take one for the team, Emily!
When you come back up to the surface, you're grabbing her collar in your fists as you kiss her hard. Her eyes are wide open in shock - shock that you're kissing her; shock that she's enjoying it so much. As you release from the kiss, you see her hands frozen in front of her, fingers spread wide in shock, as though she doesn't know what to do with her hands and is terrified to think what she might. You use your grip on her collar to pull her with you as you back up to where the water's shallow enough for both of you to stand with your feet touching the bottom of the pool. You reconnect with her lips, snaking your right hand into her hair and letting your left move lower, stroking up and down her back, showing her what her hands could be doing. She catches on quickly, moving both hands to the bottom of your blue and black Speedo, caressing and kneading with lust and abandon. This is bigger than any of her fears. This is her once in a lifetime.
The kiss goes on impossibly long (You're both swimmers; you know a thing or two about breath control.), and, when it finally ends, you lean back with your elbows on the ridge of the pool, opening your eyes to see hers still closed, her lips and hands still moving as if trying to figure out where yours went.
When she opens her eyes, you greet her with a knowing smirk: Your move, McCullers! She's petrified, the way it feels in those dreams where you find yourself standing in front of the classroom stark naked, vulnerable, and exposed. Her mouth is wide open, but she can't speak. No need. You can read her every thought as it crosses her face, her brain starting to process what the hell just happened:
Oh God! How did she know?
Oh God! How long has she known?
Oh God! What if she starts telling people? She owns me now!
For a moment, Paige is frozen in place. She knows what this feeling is: Fight or Flight. Whichever she chooses, her world is about to change. Hell – her world has already changed. Images bombard her mind: You and Maya, hand in hand, walking the halls of Rosewood High in slow motion. The life she'd like to dream that she could have. Her father, the deacon, wagging his finger at a Fox News story about those people. The life she knows she's stuck in. It's not a question of right or wrong, of her wants or fears. She knows the deal. She has no choice.
She begins backing away from you, mouth still wide open; eyes unflinchingly staring, as if to take in and commit to memory every pixel of this tableau. She slowly treads water until she gets about halfway across the pool, then turns, launching into a freestyle sprint at world-record pace. She scampers out of the water, tossing her head back in your direction just long enough to make one final plea before she dashes for the door: "Don't tell!"
You shake your head and chuckle once. You never will.