Hot Shots
Page 4
I had obviously alienated Marcel, and I didn’t really have any place else to go in Luxembourg, but he’d been right: I did want to go to the Olympics. I burned for the opportunity, and if I had to work for it, and practice and go to Munich and pay my dues like everybody else does, well then, I’d just have to find a way to make that happen. Surely Marcel didn’t have the only rifles in Luxembourg; I’d go online, find a club, work my ass off, and surprise him in Munich—just the look on his face would be worth it. Sparing another glance at the wild blue yonder, I turned to go.
“I thought you’d never turn around,” Marcel said with half a smile. He was leaning against the door that led back into the terminal in my favoritest charcoal jeans and a hoodie, half-zipped to reveal my favorite chest—and the fact that for the first time in his life he hadn’t layered. The overall effect was of someone who had left the house in a hurry, I noted with satisfaction.
“God, I’m glad you didn’t get on that airplane,” he said.
“And what if I had?” I challenged him. And when he held up a boarding pass of his very own for the next flight to Amsterdam, I melted and ran to him. The kiss he had waiting for me knocked my feet out from under me, but he was prepared, and leaned me against the door jamb, and then himself against me.
“Marcel,” I said after I eventually came up for air. “I’m so sorry. I never should have said that. About being sorry I came. You know I could never mean that, don’t you?” He nodded. “I am sorry if I’ve wasted your time or frustrated you, but I could never be sorry to be in your life.”
“I know,” he said, kissing me anew. Then, “I’m sorry, too.”
“For what?” I asked. “For calling me out? You were right. I do need to practice. I have a ton of work to do, especially before Munich.”
He smiled out one side of his mouth. “So you’re going to work harder? It doesn’t mean we can’t also play hard…”
“I know,” I said. “I promise to work hard. We can shoot all night, we can shoot all day, whatever you want—I want this so bad, and you’re right, I don’t want to embarrass myself in London. Not in front of the boys.”
He pulled back from me. With his hands on my shoulders he turned his head and narrowed his eyes. “Really? You’re still talking about those boys?”
But I pulled him back to me, laughing. “Of course I am,” I said. “Some of the hottest guys in the world, all of ‘em clamoring for medals like it’s the Ultimate Achievement.” He looked away, but I took his chin and turned his face to mine. Nose to nose I told him, “I can’t wait to walk through the Olympic Village holding hands with you. Show those chumps what a real prize looks like.”
Now that’s what I call a kiss.
* * * *
Two years later, we are a tiny contingent, Luxembourg—only thirteen athletes here to compete in six sports. Newly twenty-four, I’m the youngest; Marcel, carrying our flag, is the grandpa of the team at thirty-seven. Together we two are the largest shooting team that Luxembourg has ever fielded, and our chances of bringing home anything more valuable than maybe a slew of London 2012 souvenir items are, like most of us, long and lean. But we’ve all worked hard to get here, and tonight the Opening Ceremonies are all about possibilities. We are all of us champions, at least potentially, and there’s nothing to do but wave our shoulders stiff at every Luxembourg flag in the stadium—I think I counted three—and bask in the ecstatic glow of opportunity. I made it this far, after all; anything is possible.
THE END
ABOUT MICHAEL P. THOMAS
Michael P. Thomas is a flight attendant whose passions include the coffee in France, the hundred-yen stores in Japan, and the men in Argentina. His writing is continually inspired by his work with the flying public, who flatly refuse to be boring. He writes gay fiction because when he was coming out, he sure was glad to have it to read.
After misspending his youth in San Francisco, he now lives in his native Colorado with his husband. He blogs at misterstewardess.com, and you can follow him on Twitter @MrStewardess.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
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