Workplace Warzone

My work is like a war zone. Broken remnants of noodle swords and kick board shields litter the waters of our local pool. Warrior lifeguards fight for supremacy among the waves. Some are locked in heated combat, a challenge of brute strength, trying to force the other under the chlorinated waves while the rest of us watch anxiously on. Cunning loners sneak behind the unprepared viewers, pulling them under. Squeals fill the air as they catch girls, pushing them into turbulent  waters.  Two warriors catch me as I drift among the once calm waters, pinning my arms and legs so I can't escape. I try to scream for help, but the sound dissipates under the water, forming soundless bubbles. Wide, suntanned hands reach for me, but I can't move. Black spots float in front of my eyes, and my captors are pulled away from me. The same hands that reached for me before pull me from what I thought to be my watery grave. I splutter, water escaping from my lungs as I hit the concrete deck. Stale chlorinated air fills my body and a firm slap in my back expels the last of the liquid.  I huddle against my rescuer, too afraid to move, and try not to cry. I must not cry. Everybody has stopped in the midst of their battles to watch, I must not cry. My hands tremor and I fold them against my chest. I must be strong, I must not cry. I hear splashing as the contests resume. Warm arms envelop  me and I know I'm safe, but I still refuse to look at my rescuer. A brisk breeze picks up around us and my water logged body shakes with the cold. A deep voice soothes me while  warm arms rub the goose flesh from my arms, and a dry beach towel is wrapped around my shoulders. The presence of my rescuer leaves for the slightest moment and my breath catches fearfully in my throat. I don't want to be left alone and my body begins to shake  before the presence returns, warm and safe. I must be strong, I must not cry. I turn my head ever so slightly and chance a glance at my rescuer. Bright blue eyes gaze back at me, they are filled with concern and care. His blonde hair is plastered to an open face, and for a moment nothing is disguised. No worry of judgement bars his emotions from me and for the first time, I see the real him. This was not who I expected to pull me from the grasp of the other. This soldier who usually spends his time attacking others, not rescuing people from the grasp of others, I must be brave in front of him, I must not cry. A hint of a smile twitches at the edge of his mouth when he catches me studying his face. Embarrassed I quickly look away, tempted to leave the safety of his arms, but surprisingly they wrap about me tighter. I lean my had against his chest, his shirt soaking up the water that drips from my hair. I sit in the comfort of his arms while the workplace war rages around us.