Swim Team Fucks Coach Pt 1

He finished with a grunt. Pulled back and zipped up like I was a dirty rag. I felt filthy, coated inside and out with another stain I’d never erase. “Quit your crying,” he said curtly, wiping his hands on a towel. “Don’t forget our arrangement.”
*****
The front doors of the college pool creaked open right on schedule, followed by the familiar slap of bare feet and the rustle of swim bags being dragged across tile. I didn’t need to look up. I knew that walk–knew the rhythm of those footsteps like the ticking of my own pulse.
“Dieeegooo,” Mason’s voice echoed through the space, dragging out the vowels like he was singing a lullaby. Then–whuff–a large, damp body dropped behind me. Two muscular arms wrapped around my shoulders, with the unthinking certainty of someone who never asked if he was welcome. He just was.
I let out a small oof as I was pulled back, my clipboard jostled against my chest. My head landed squarely against a warm, solid sternum. Mason buried his nose in my hair and inhaled like he meant it.
“Mmm. chlorine and coffee. My favorite.”
“Güey. You’re dripping on me,” I murmured, without real protest, patting his forearm where it crossed my chest. His skin was cool and wet, his biceps like coiled ropes under my palm.
“That’s not a complaint,” he said, smug. I could hear the grin in his voice. “You smell like home.”
I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my mouth tugged upward. Mason always said things like that–offhandedly, like they didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t know how those words stuck in my ribs for hours afterward.
Mason’s hair was still wet from the shower, curls tousled and golden, like someone had wrung out a sunbeam. He rubbed his cheek against my temple, then ruffled my hair–hard–like I was...