Hot Jocks

by J. M. Snyder

  Then Chad broke away, leaving Josh breathless. “Hey, sexy. Sorry I took so long. You ready to run?”

  Josh didn’t bother looking at Robbie. After a kiss like that, no one else existed for him but Chad. The race ahead was nothing; the 10K, nothing. He already felt like a winner. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

  THE END

  Getting Wet

  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 and shoulders in height.

  Growing up, Rory spent his summers in the large, Olympic-sized swimming pool in their neighborhood. He remembers long, hot days splashing through chlorinated water, diving into the deep end, swimming down to the bottom to stand with his feet flat on the cool tiles until his lungs were bursting for air, then pushing off until he breached the surface, sputtering and gasping with delight. From the time the pool opened at eight in the morning until the lifeguard chased everyone out twelve hours later, Rory was there, seven days a week. When his friends came, he’d rough-house in the water, slapping up sheets that shattered into cool drops to splatter the girls in bikinis sunning on the sidelines.

  But even if no one else his own age was around, he found things to do. He’d swim the length of the pool, starting at one end and pulling himself through the water to the other side, then turning against the wall and pushing off, aimed for the spot where he began. Or he’d circle the pool’s perimeter, timing his laps and pretending he was competing against everyone else in the pool. Naturally, by his own estimation, he always won.

  As he grew older, the neighborhood pool was still a place where he and his friends hung out, but for the others, their focus seemed to shift. Rory continued to swim laps, building his endurance, because he loved the way he felt when he was in the water. He loved the rush of coolness around his face and arms and chest; he loved the sting of chlorine when he opened his eyes underwater. He loved diving, and the sudden impact his body made on the flat surface below. But his friends kept coming for a different reason that had everything to do with the girls in bikinis and nothing at all with swimming.

  Personally, Rory didn’t see what the fuss was all about. Sure, bikinis looked like underwear, and he found it hard to look at a girl’s face when she was talking to him and her brightly-colored boobs were right there looking back at him. But his friends started acting stupid around girls they hadn’t even noticed during the school year. In the halls of the junior high, the same boys had teased these girls until they cried, and now suddenly there were sniggers and giggles and batting eyelashes…Rory just didn’t get it.

  * * * *

  One morning the year he turned thirteen, Rory got to the pool super early. None of his friends would be there, he knew—Bobby and Tommy were on a Boy Scout camping trip, Matt had vacation Bible school, and Joel was preparing for his bar mitzvah. Rory didn’t care; his goal for the day would be bettering his speed by sprinting the length of the pool. For his birthday, his parents had given him a very expensive diving watch with a stop watch feature he planned to use to improve his time. Without the distractions of his friends, he hoped to maybe even beat the world record. It was a long shot, he knew, but at least he could give it a go.

  Usually when he arrived at the pool, he was so early, he had to wait for the lifeguard on duty to open up. But this day, though, the gate already stood open, and he could hear men’s laughter beyond. As Rory reached the gate, a shrill whistle sounded, startling him. Suddenly the air was filled with splashing, and a chorus of enthusiastic calls echoed off the concrete walls of the buildings surrounding the pool, hiding it from view.

  Cautiously Rory stepped inside the gate and peered around the side of the women’s locker room.

  The water in the pool roiled from a half-dozen swimmers whose long, bare arms arched above the surface with a dolphin’s grace. Heads encased in caps bobbed up for air, then disappeared into the water, over and over again. Mesmerized, Rory ventured farther in, his gaze locked on the swimmers. He felt as if he’d fallen asleep in his average, everyday life and woke up at the Olympics. That’s going to be me someday, he thought.

  It would be, he knew it.

  He drifted closer to the pool, close enough to get splashed when the swimmer in the lane nearest to him turned against the wall and headed back to the shallow end.

  “Hey, kid!” a man yelled, angry. “Get away from there!”

  Rory glanced down at the other end of the pool and saw more swimmers milling around. All young men, maybe high schoolers, maybe college kids. Older than he was, at any rate. Their chests were bare and tanned and muscled, beaded with drying water. But instead of the loose swim trunks Rory and his friends all wore, these guys had on skin-tight Speedos, dark against pale skin. Form
-fitting Spandex hugged every ass, outlined every cock and balls. Rory stared, feeling his face flush with color as his own baggy trunks suddenly seemed two sizes too tight.

  Who needed girls in bikinis? Where had these guys been his whole life?

  He heard footsteps and looked up as an older man approached. This guy wore long khakis and a polo shirt, and the whistle dangling around his neck made him look like a lifeguard, though Rory doubted he’d be jumping into the pool since he wore so many clothes. “Go on, get out,” the man hollered, his voice booming louder as he came closer to Rory. “Pool’s closed!”

  Confused, Rory frowned up at the man. “Why?”

  “Swim practice,” the man snapped. “Now get.”

  “But I want to swim, too,” Rory told him. “I come here every day—”

  “Well, come back at noon.” The man stopped an intimidating few inches from Rory, forcing him to take an involuntary step back. With his hands on his hips, he towered over the gangly teen. “You can swim then. Right now the pool’s closed to the public.”

  Rory could feel his eyes tear up, and he blinked rapidly. He didn’t want to leave! “But…”

  Water splashed Rory’s legs; the swimmer was back, and this time, instead of turning, he pulled himself up onto the side of the pool and pinched his nose to blow out the water in it. He had a tiny pair of goggles over his eyes, so Rory didn’t know quite who he was looking at, but his head was upturned in their direction. “Hey, coach, don’t be so hard on the kid,” the swimmer said with a smile, water dripping from his cheeks and neck. “He might be on your team one day. You any good?”

  This last was directed at Rory, who shuffled his feet with embarrassment. “I’m not too bad,” he mumbled.

  “What’s that mean?” the coach snapped. “Ever time yourself?”

  Rory held up his wrist to show off his new watch. “That’s what I wanted to do today. I—”

  “How long’s it take you to do one lap?” the coach asked.

  “From one end to the other?” Rory asked.

  The coach shook his head. “One end to the other and back.”

  There was a large clock on the wall above the lifeguard station. A few times Rory had tried to time himself using it, but he didn’t think that was very accurate, which was why he wanted the watch. The coach saw him glance at the clock, though, so Rory couldn’t back down now. “If I jump in when the little hand’s on the twelve,” Rory said, “it’s on the two when I climb back out.”

  “The second hand?” the coach asked, squinting at him. “Ten seconds?”

  From the pool, the swimmer laughed. “That’s damn good time.”

  The coach gave a grudging grunt. “He’ll probably grow out of it.”

  “He might not,” the swimmer shot back. “I didn’t. You like to swim, kid?”

  “I love it,” Rory cried, eager to prove himself. Was ten seconds really that good? He knew Olympic records but this was just a public pool. He didn’t know how to do the math to figure out how his time might stack up against the greats.

  The swimmer grinned. “Then jump on in. I’ll race you to the other—”

  Without further prompting, Rory dove into the pool, already swimming as fast as he could when he hit the water. He got a full body length ahead before the older boy overtook him. When he reached the shallow end, the rest of the swim team cheered as he breeched the surface. “You’re fast, all right,” the swimmer he’d raced told him. “Keep it up and Coach Banks won’t want to keep you out of the pool.”

  * * * *

  In less than a year, Rory was on the team, the youngest ever, competing against boys three to five years older than he was at the time. His high school years were a blur of hallways and homework and pool lanes—he didn’t waste time partying like other students, didn’t go to football games or dances. Didn’t even date. The first—and only—guy he kissed was another swimmer from a rival team. They met through church, of all places, and bonded instantly over their love of the water. They had one date, dinner at the mall then a movie, where they groped each other blindly in the darkened theater while pretending to watch the film. To this day, Rory can’t remember what it was they went to see. Afterwards, the guy took him home and they sat in Rory’s driveway, sharing tender kisses until Rory’s mother flicked the porch light to tell him to come inside.

  There was no mention of teams or clubs or competitive swimming, so Rory was surprised to find himself facing off against the guy at his swim meet the next day. Rory won, of course, which wasn’t unusual—he was fast in the water, and could outswim anyone on his own team in the short races. But his win also lost him any chance of a second date.

  It didn’t matter. Rory didn’t need any distractions anyway. He wanted to race competitively on a worldwide level. In championships, in the Olympics. There would be time enough for fooling around once he had that gold medal hanging around his neck.

  * * * *

  State University was the only school he considered attending because of the Olympic-sized pool in the campus fitness center. In the pre-dawn silence, he jogs around College Circle, starting at his student apartment, passing the lowerclassmen dorms, passing the student union buildings and empty parking lots and lecture halls. He passes the fitness center, its lights blazing because the gyms are open around the clock, but no one is out and about this early. Once the center’s behind him, he picks up the pace, spurring himself on, alternately jogging and sprinting to get his heart rate up. By the time he approaches the fitness center again, a thin sheen of sweat coats his back beneath his T-shirt, and the muscles in his legs are beginning to tremble.

  Outside the fitness center, Rory stops at the bike rack to stretch out his muscles. He cuts off his iPhone, tucks it back into his duffel bag, and takes the steps double-time up to the glass doors. At this early hour, there is no one behind the reception desk, but his student ID gets him into the stairwell and he jogs up two flights of stairs to the pool level. There are two pools, really—one Olympic-sized for competitions, the sole dominion of the college’s swim team, and a small, public pool used by students and faculty for aerobics, water polo, and just goofing off.

  Rory’s been swimming for so long now, anything that isn’t timed to him is goofing off. If he isn’t going to race, even if it’s only against himself, then why bother?

  His ID gets him into the locker area, where he and the other members of his team have a dedicated room for themselves. Two rows of lockers line the room, and his is the farthest one from the showers. Already the ever-present smell of chlorine tinges the air, a familiar scent that wafts over Rory like the sweetest perfume. It fills his lungs and stirs his loins. He can almost feel the water calling him in his veins.

  Quickly he strips out of his sweats and T-shirt. In the duffel bag is a skin-tight pair of square leg swim shorts. They’re a bit longer than the briefs he wears for competitions, and his coach would have a shit fit if he ever wore them to a race—they’re bright blue and shiny, covered with a disco ball pattern that catches the light every time he moves. They’re sexy as hell, and he knows they show off all his best assets. He might not be interested in hooking up with anyone at the moment, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like others watching him swim. Sometimes there are young college co-eds in the stands, cheering him on. Sometimes it’s just the other guys on his team, hooting from the sidelines when he swims his best.

  The shorts keep everyone’s eyes right where they belong. On him.

  Rory leaves his sweaty clothes on the bench and tucks his duffel bag into his locker. He pulls on a pair of swim shoes so he won’t be traipsing around the dingy floor barefoot. Taking a moment to stretch out the muscles in his back and shoulders, he closes his eyes and breathes in deep. This isn’t a competition—far from it; he’s the only one here at the moment, so no one is going to watch him practice. But every time he gets in that pool, he wants to be the best. He has to be.

  He will be.

  Under his breath, he mutters, “Let
’s do this.”

  * * * *

  At this hour, he has the pool all to himself. Posted signs on the tiled walls prohibit swimming without a lifeguard on duty, but that’s a laugh—Rory swims better than any of the students hired by the fitness center to patrol the pools. His freshman year, he even earned a few extra bucks doing the job himself, though he’d much rather be in the water than perched high above it, watching others. After one semester as a lifeguard, Rory had enough, and stuck to the Olympic-sized pool and the swim team, and serious swimming. The public pool is much too juvenile for him.

  The smell of chlorine is sharper as Rory exits the locker room down a tiled hall that ends at the head of the pool. Unlike the public pool, the Olympic-sized pool only has one depth, so there is no “shallow end.” The entire fifty meter length is three meters deep, but the water is so clear, Rory can usually see the individual blue tiles on the bottom of the pool. At the moment, though, the entire thing is draped in shadow; the only light comes from orange emergency lighting spaced sporadically around the room. A glass-fronted office beside the locker room houses the panel box, and Rory’s ID lets him in to turn on the lights.

  Suddenly banks of bright whiteness flare to life above him, throwing back the darkness and laying bare the pool. The cerulean water is inviting, and Rory has his pick of starting blocks. In competition, his excellent time always places him in the first lane, and without thinking about it, that’s where his feet take him.