The second the final whistle blew, the entire men’s swim team turned to me.
I’d lost the bet.
Badly.
Eight, nights.
Eight starting swimmers.
I belonged to them after every single practice until the conference meet ended.
Coach had already left. The natatorium lights were half-off, the pool still rippling under the high windows. Chlorine hung thick in the air, mixed with the raw smell of male sweat and victory..
They circled me like sharks.
Captain Jace, six-four, shoulders carved from years of butterfly, stepped forward first..
“Strip, Manager.”
My hands shook, but I peeled the team polo over my head. Sports bra next. Then the shorts and panties. Eight pairs of eyes devoured every inch of skin I exposed.
I stood naked in the middle of the tiled locker-room floor, n*****s already
