Hotel Hollywood: A Lesbian Romance

by Nicolette Dane

  I had qualified for this meet at Nationals, along with plenty of other swimmers all vying for those coveted few spots on the Olympic team. The Olympic Trials were nerve wracking, of course, but I had been here before. It was 4 years ago that I had been in this same position, swimming my tail off, pushing myself to the limit, trying to make the USA Olympic swim team. And in fact, I did make that team. I should have competed in the 2012 Summer Olympics. You should have seen me there on television, competing with the best from all around the world. But the uncertainty of life doesn’t always comply with your dreams.

  Soon after I won my spot on the team, my parents both died in a car accident. It would be an understatement to say that it was terrible. When your parents both die and you’re still in college, only 21 years old, life just feels so weird. I’m an only child, so as next of kin I had a lot of responsibility to manage their estate. I had to give up my spot on the team and, honestly, I just didn’t feel like swimming. My heart was broken. My life felt like it was in disarray. I needed to figure some stuff out.

  I had grown up in Ann Arbor, Michigan and went to school at the University of Michigan so I wasn’t far from home when it all happened. It was gut wrenching to be in that big house all alone, so I sold my parents’ home and moved into an on-campus dorm my senior year. I basically purged everything. I couldn’t stand to look at any of the items in that house that reminded me of my childhood and my parents. I let my family and friends come through and take what they wanted. Everything else, I just donated or tossed. Before I knew it, I had removed most physical items from my life, so much so that I could live out of a single backpack if I wanted.

  And I did. After graduating from school, I headed to South East Asia for a while and bummed around, trying to make sense of everything that had happened to me. It felt like I was living someone else’s life. There I was, my parents dead, my Olympic dreams smashed, feeling more alone than I’d ever felt before. But that around the world trip taught me something hugely important. It taught me how to rely on myself. It taught me to trust in the unknown, to keep moving, to keep swimming even if the current is against me.

  Upon my return to the States, I headed to Chicago, got my own place, joined up with the Lakeshore Aquatics Club, and tried to get my life back on track. I knew that I could qualify for the Olympic Trials again if I pushed myself, if I trained harder than I’d ever trained before, and if I trusted in the unknown mysteries of this weird world. And I was right.

  Another flip-turn, feet against the wall, and then the sound of a bell. I was on the bell lap, meaning I only had two lengths to go and I was still in the lead. It was invigorating and it made me swim even harder. Turning my head to take a breath, I saw Amber there alongside me, keeping pace. I don’t know when it happened exactly but the two of us had become rivals somewhere along the way. We had trained together at U of M, once friends but now enemies. I hated it. I didn’t want any more negativity in my life. But I couldn’t control Amber or her attitude toward me. Although she had actually gone to the Olympics 4 years ago, and won the Bronze in the 400 meter free, she still harbored some weird jealousy toward me. I think, despite her wins, she knew I was better than her. She was desperate to prove otherwise.

  Yet another flip and we were on the final 50 meter length. The entire field of swimmers in our heat came together for one last push, each one of us determined to make the cut and head down to South America. I don’t think I’d ever pushed so hard for anything in my life. Arm over arm, breathing to the left and breathing to the right, I felt as though nothing could stop me. My heart was throbbing, it all came down to this final lap and this final length. As I sped through the water, I could see the white tile wall nearing and once I was within striking distance I reached out, stretching my body as far as I could, my fingertips touching the wall to stop my time.

  I bobbed out of the water, quickly looking left and right to see the other swimmers pop up as well, just as I had, trying to figure out where I had landed. Pushing my goggles up onto my swim cap, I gazed up at the results board, opening my mouth and trying to exercise a kink out of my jaw. My eyes went wide as the reality hit me. I smacked the water hard and began laughing.

  “Yeah!” I shouted out, smacking the water once more, my legs kicking underwater to keep me afloat.

  Turning my gaze, I saw Amber celebrating as well. She was hooting and thrusting her fist into the air, her goggles gripped tightly in her hand. After a moment of rejoicing, Amber turned to me and gave me a snide grin. She fluttered over to the buoys that separated our lanes and reached her hand over to shake.

  “Good job, teammate,” said Amber. I reluctantly took her hand and shook.

  “Likewise Amber,” I said. “Congrats.”

  “That’s how it’s going to go in Rio as well,” she said, motioning up to the results board. “Me first, you second.”

  “If you say so,” I said, pulling my hand back. As Amber had said, she finished first in our race and I was a close second. But I didn’t care about the order. That fact was that I had made it. I had qualified. Nothing Amber would say could spoil it for me. I was heading to the Olympics. And for real this time.

  “Welcome to the Canham Natatorium,” said Mitch Wagner. Mitch was our head coach for Team USA, an older man in his 60s, his body wiry and tight for a man his age, with thinning white hair and wire-framed glasses hanging down his nose. He was a bit of a legend in the swimming world. Mitch had won multiple Golds for Team USA when he was a young swimmer and since then he had been a revered coach responsible for even more Olympic medals and national championships for the swimmers he trained.

  I was already quite familiar with Canham. This was our main facility when I went to U of M, a pool I had swam in uncountable times, and it would be Team USA’s transient training home as we awaited the Summer Games. I took a deep breath and smiled. I felt like I was back home.

  “I know we’ve got a handful of Wolverines here with us,” said Mitch. “And we want to thank the University of Michigan for graciously lending us Canham as we prepare for Rio.”

  “Go Blue!” a number of swimmers chanted, myself included, proud of our University lineage. We all sat in the bleachers, both the men and the women together, while the coaches, about a dozen or so of them, stood down on the deck of the pool with Mitch leading the presentation.

  “Of course,” said Mitch with a grin. “We’ll be in Ann Arbor about a month until we all fly down to Rio. I know a number of you have done this before but for the neophytes, let me just say that we expect you to follow everything your coaches say. Your charge for the next few weeks is to train. You’re all in impeccable shape but we’re going to take even that up a notch, so be prepared to work. We’ll have a taper in the week before the Games, but until then you’re going to work your asses off.”

  Mitch looked down to his clipboard and adjusted his glasses.

  “Let me introduce our coaches,” he said. “I’ll start with the men.”

  Mitch began to introduce the men’s coaching staff and I let my eyes go down the line standing there before me. I recognized most of them, knowing them by name as I had often competed against clubs they coached. The people together in this natatorium were the best swimmers and coaches in the country. It was an honor for each and every one of us to be included on the 2016 team and nobody took it lightly. As my eyes assayed each coach, I was suddenly hit with a surprise. Standing amongst the women’s coaches was a young woman, probably no older than her early 30s, dark hair back in a ponytail, a very Eastern European looking face, Russian maybe, standing at attention with straight shoulders, holding a clipboard of her own. I had seen her before but I didn’t know her name. She was striking, her burnt sienna hair, certainly dyed, contrasted against her pale skin. She wore a tight Team USA polo shirt and black spandex shorts revealing her long white muscular legs.

  I felt instantly smitten. I was confused by the feelings, this weird attraction something that I couldn’t quite describe. It smacked me across the face
, knocking me unaware, inspiring a strange longing in my heart to figure out who this coach was even before Mitch announced her.

  “Now the women,” said Mitch, again referencing his clipboard. “First up, please let me introduce Dasha Belenko,” he said, motioning his hand toward the very same beautiful coach I had my eyes on. “Dasha Belenko,” I thought to myself. I did know her. I just didn’t recognize her. “You’ll probably know Dasha from her Olympic appearance in 2004 in which she brought the Silver home for the USA in the 200 meter butterfly. Dasha comes from a long line of swimmers, her father having competed for the Soviets in the 70s and 80s. But we won’t hold that against her,” said Mitch with a wry grin, inspiring a swift laugh out of the swimmers. Dasha herself smiled and looked down.

  “My heart beats red, white, and blue,” said Dasha. “Though you might also catch me rooting for my countrymen of Ukraine, as long as no Americans are racing in the heat.” Dasha had no accent at all and it was obvious she was raised in the States.

  “Dasha will be coaching butterfly and free,” said Mitch. “She’s stern but fair. We’re very happy to have her here.” After a short round of applause for Dasha, Mitch continued on to the other coaches. But I couldn’t take my eyes off of Dasha. I found her intensely gorgeous. There was something severe about her bone structure, beautiful and sculpted, and she had the firm body of a swimmer, tight and muscled and top heavy. I was so mad at myself for looking on to my coach like she were just some pretty girl I saw on the street, thinking those saucy thoughts about her, imagining what she might look like in the showers, but I really couldn’t help myself. Dasha was pretty and I was attracted to her.

  I had really only had one serious girlfriend since moving to Chicago and that relationship didn’t last more than a year. With my focus on swimming and my minor obsession with self-sufficiency, it was kind of difficult to hold down a relationship. I figured that there was no need searching for anything and I should instead just let it happen. Well, apart from that one relationship, it wasn’t just happening. And I had to admit that my life did feel a bit lonely. Still, I knew that you couldn’t really and fully give your love to another if you didn’t first really and fully love yourself and, well, I still had some emotional stuff to work through that made it difficult at times to see past myself.

  Once Mitch had finished introducing the coaches and giving us the rundown on how training would go, we broke off into our respective groups to meet with our individual coaches. As I was to be competing in the 400 meter freestyle, I would be working closely with Dasha which made me quite happy. Unfortunately, I would also be working closely with Amber. I didn’t let that bother me, though, as there was nothing I could do. Amber had it out for me but I knew that, when we were together in the water, there was nothing either of us could do but swim our best and try to race faster than the other.

  “Ladies,” said Dasha, addressing our small group. Standing next to Dasha was another one of our coaches, Jenny, while us swimmers huddled around in a circle to listen. “First, I want to congratulate you all on your immense accomplishment. Very few swimmers make it this far and you should all be very proud of yourselves.”

  “This is quite the accomplished class,” said Jenny, nodding along with Dasha.

  “Very true,” said Dasha. “I believe we can take Gold in many of the events in Rio so I want us all to take this training very seriously. It’s my hope that we can also take Gold in the medley relay, so I’ll be working closely with both Amber and Marie.”

  While Amber kept an even face, I let myself crack a smile at Dasha. I couldn’t help it. She was giving me a light tickle in my stomach.

  “Marie,” said Dasha. “As we have you scheduled as anchor for the medley, you and I will be training together to quicken up your stroke post-turn which will also help you on your individual events.”

  “Yes, Coach,” I said, smiling, looking down.

  “I want you to all know that I’m one of you,” said Dasha firmly. “I’ve been in your shoes, standing right where you are.” With that, Dasha turned her body around and reached down to her black spandex shorts. Folding the waist down, she revealed the pale flesh of her upper rear, showing to us all her small Olympic tattoo, those five colorful rings threaded together there on her butt. Dasha then let her shorts snap back. “I’ve been there, I’ve Medaled, and I can make it happen for you, too.”

  I couldn’t get the sight of Dasha’s pallid behind out of my head, punctuated by that traditional Olympic tattoo. I knew a few of the other girls I stood around with, including Amber, also had that tattoo and considered that I should get one myself. Having qualified for the Games last time around, I knew that I could have gotten my tattoo then but it just didn’t feel right after I had dropped out.

  “We’re scheduled to have the pool first,” said Dasha, double-checking this statement on her clipboard. “Let’s focus on freestyle first and see what you ladies can do. I’ve watched footage, of course, but I’d like to see you all with my own eyes. So let’s drop these tracksuits and get into the pool, yeah?”

  While we all began to slip out of our matching Team USA tracksuits, I couldn’t help but keep my eyes trained on Dasha. She and Jenny quietly discussed their game plan together and she didn’t notice me watching. I knew my thoughts were improper, probably against the Code of Conduct, but I had it bad. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You feel feelings inside of you that you’re not supposed to have, yet you continue to have them anyway because it would be even harder to suppress them. I needed to find out more about Dasha. I was eager to get closer.

  “Marie,” said Dasha, looking up and meeting eyes with me. “In the pool, please.”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  See Freestyle Flirting On Amazon

  An Excerpt From: Chef Cutegirl

  A Lesbian Romance

  I really couldn’t believe it. After going through the rigorous audition process, which included multiple interviews, references from people I had worked with, and a number of kitchen demos, I had actually made the cut. I was offered a spot on Hot Chef, the most well-known cooking competition show in all of reality television. I mean, this was the big time. Chefs who won the title of Hot Chef went on to open their own restaurants and build their own empires. Even chefs who didn’t win often hit the big time, getting their own television shows and cookbooks. Hot Chef was a career-maker and I was going to be on it. Mind… blown.

  And the best part? This season was going to be filmed in my hometown of Chicago. I didn’t even have to travel. I had home field advantage. I knew the culinary world in my city. The scales were tipped in my favor. This was going to be Emily Gold’s time to shine. I was determined to win.

  You might have heard the name Emily Gold and thought, oh yeah, she’s head chef at Maison du Faisan in Chicago. She’s been featured in the Sun-Times as a young chef to watch, the 30 best chefs under 30. She was number 17. And, yeah, Maison won a James Beard award with Emily at the helm.

  No biggie, right? Actually, it was a biggie. It was exciting and thrilling and it made me so happy that my culinary career was really taking off. I had worked so hard for this, starting as a dishwasher when I was only 13 years old. And now, at 30, I was going to be on television, competing on Hot Chef, trying to make my face, my name, and my food known throughout the country.

  It was a dream come true. I had cooked my ass off, given up so much. The hardest thing to give up in my mad career chase was my love life. As a chef, you work tirelessly. We’re talking a lot of 18 hours days. And as the head chef of a popular restaurant, it’s even more difficult to maintain any semblance of a social or romantic life. Your world revolves around the restaurant. Most of the time, people in the restaurant world, chefs and front of the house alike, get involved with one another. Hey, you’re at work so much and you really only interact with this small group of other people. It can get incestuous. You start to factor people out of being a potential partner because they dated someone you dated last year. It’s a sm
all world when it comes down to it, and it’s just a bit smaller when you’re a lesbian like me.

  The cooking world is very male dominated. Lots of bravado and all that. Lots of sexism. Lots of male chefs think they’re hot shit and that you, as a woman, will just drop your panties at even the hint that they might want to screw you. No, sorry boys, I don’t play for your team. My type is the cute and innocent waif. The Audrey Hepburn type. Not some hairy-chested, burly idiot. And there are a lot of hairy, burly idiots in restaurant life. Ugh. Avoid.

  But, on the same token, I don’t mind working with guys like this because they’ve got a lot to prove and they work hard because of it. It’s a cutthroat vocation. You don’t get promoted to a head chef position by navel gazing. And, as a woman, if you want to make it to head chef you have to work even harder. We have to prove ourselves double what the guys have to do, we have to withstand all the sexism, slimy owners, lack of respect from the male chefs. It’s messed up. But if you love doing this, if you love cooking and creating and making people happy, you’ll do anything to make the job work for you.

  I knew that being on Hot Chef was going to propel me into something even greater than I had ever imagined. As long as I, you know, didn’t get eliminated early. You never remember those chefs. It’s a field of 17 chefs and you know from watching, just as well as I do, that you don’t really start rooting for someone until it’s down to 8 or so. That’s when the world starts paying attention. That’s where careers start being made.