Playing the Field: Getting Wet

By J.M. Snyder

Rory Holt is the best swimmer on the team at State U. and he knows it. Swimming is his life, and if Rory hopes to attain his dreams of Olympic gold one day, he can’t let anything distract him. Every morning finds him practicing at the campus fitness center, and every afternoon he blows his teammates away with his speed and finesse in the water.

The new semester brings with it new tryouts, including the bright, up-and-coming Chase Cohen. Chase is sexy and sure of himself, both in and out of the pool, and seems determined to catch Rory’s eye.

Rory doesn’t want to share the podium with anyone else, and he doesn’t like hearing his coach say Chase might even be better than he is when he already knows he’s the best. Chase’s attentions are annoying at first, but the more he persists, the harder Rory finds it to ignore him. Soon Rory can’t deny the growing attraction he feels towards his new teammate.

But when that attraction costs him his top spot on the leaderboard, Rory is pissed. Is Chase after Rory’s position on the team, or Rory himself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: JMS Books LLC
• Release date: Jul 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611526370

J.M. Snyder

An author of gay erotic romance, J.M. Snyder began self-publishing gay erotic fiction in 2002. Since then, Snyder has worked with several e-publishers, most notably Amber Allure Press and eXcessica Publishing.Snyder’s short fiction has appeared online at Ruthie’s Club, Tit-Elation, Eros Monthly, and Amazon Shorts, as well as in anthologies released by Alyson Books, Cleis Press, and others.For more book excerpts, free fiction, and purchasing information, please visit http://jmsnyder.net.

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Playing the Field: Getting Wet

By J.M. Snyder

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2014 J.M. Snyder

ISBN 9781611526370

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

All rights reserved.

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Playing the Field: Getting Wet

By J.M. Snyder

Every morning, Rory Holt is the only person in his student apartment to get up with the sun.

He sleeps in a faded collegiate T-shirt and a pair of thin boxers. The room is dark when he wakes, the first rays of sun beginning to peek through the curtains pulled shut above his roommate’s bed. Quietly Rory slips out of bed, then out into the hall, heading for the bathroom. He leaves the light off as he relieves himself. There’s a toiletry bag resting on the back of the toilet; Rory takes it with him back into his bedroom, where he pulls on a pair of sweatpants before tucking the toiletries into his duffel bag. Stepping into his sneakers, he shoulders the duffel and heads back out again, this time taking a left instead of a right, towards the living area.

In the apartment’s small kitchen, he pours himself a glass of milk and downs it in one long swallow. His keys hang on a hook by the door, so he adds them to the contents of his duffel and snags a zip-up hoodie off the back of the sofa. Soft morning blue light illuminates the large window beside the door, sunlight trying to peer in around the blinds to see the mess strewn across the sofa and coffee table. The place smells of stale beer in overturned cans and spoiled Chinese food left about in open take-out containers. A college smell, a bachelor smell, which would trigger memories in most men in their early twenties of frat parties and late night study sessions.

Rory isn’t one of those types of students who party hardy or pull all-nighters. He’s here on a sports scholarship, and takes his training very seriously. Classes will always be waiting for him—he can study and learn no matter how old he gets. But his chances of making the U.S. Olympic swim team grow slimmer with each passing year. So he has to rise early and exercise, and spend as many hours in the pool as he can, honing his body, perfecting his craft.

It’s a little before five in the morning when Rory leaves the apartment. He lives on the third floor, and he takes a moment to stretch in the cool air, left leg up on the railing, then the right, body laid down flat over each as he feels the muscles along his back and thighs and arms burn into being. By the time he’s warmed up, the sun has just appeared over the tops of the trees at the far side of campus.

Rory’s iPhone is inside the duffel bag. He pulls the earbuds out and pops them into his ears, sets the playlist on shuffle, and rezips the bag. Then he threads an arm through one of the handles on his duffel and puts the other arm through the second handle so it hangs from his back like a book bag. Shrugging to settle it into place, he takes a deep breath to clear his mind.

Then he launches himself down the steps double-time, his sneakers pounding on the concrete, the duffel’s zipper jingling in his ear. It’ll be twice around the sidewalk that encircles the campus, a distance of just over three miles. In less than twenty minutes, he’ll be jogging into the school’s fitness center, ready to hit the water.

* * * *

At twenty-two, Rory has been swimming all his life. Literally. His mother likes to say he was born swimming—the hospital had had an experimental water birthing facility, and Rory’s mother will relate his entrance into the world in excruciating detail to anyone willing to listen. It’s embarrassing. He even overheard her talking about it to the college coach when they came up to tour the campus. My little merman, his mother will say, squeezing his cheek hard enough to pink the skin. As if his lanky, 6’ 3" frame doesn’t tower over her by a good head