by J. M. Snyder
He can feel the coolness of the dry tile through the lightweight water shoes he wears. He leaves a towel folded at the base of the starting block, and kicks off his shoes before stepping up onto the block. There he perches above the pool as he takes a moment to pull on his goggles and cap. Since they’re required for competition, he uses them during practice, too. Every time he’s in the water, he swims for gold. Every single time.
If he practiced with a buddy, he could get an accurate time for his swim, but his prowess and position distances him from the rest of the team. The other swimmers all look up to him with something akin to awe. He outpaces all of them, each one, and he’s sure they’re all a little tired of seeing his name first in the rankings after every swim meet. But he isn’t going to slow down just to make his teammates like him. If they can’t handle his speed, then that’s their problem, not his.
If he didn’t train so early, he might have asked his roommate to time him, but his roommate is more into parties than sports, and usually doesn’t roll out of bed before noon, not even for morning classes.
Speaking of, Rory doesn’t really talk to anyone in his classes, either. All he thinks about is swimming, day in and day out, and he doesn’t think he has anything in common with anyone else on campus. No one on the team is as dedicated as he is, and no one not on the team would even begin to understand.
He knows no one feels the same way he does about swimming because he’s the only one bothering to practice at this ungodly hour, isn’t he?
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he releases it as his body slowly settles into starting position. He glances up at the clock on the opposite wall and holds still as he waits for the second hand to sweep around again. As soon as it lands on the twelve, he dives.
He slices through the water almost soundlessly. He’s never understood the desire to make a big splash when it takes so much more effort and grace to control the way he enters the pool. A cold wave washes over him, invigorating, making all the hairs on his body stand on end and all his nerves tingle to life. His momentum takes him a far ways down the lane, and he’s still moving forward underwater when his legs start paddling, increasing his speed. But it’s only when he hears his heart begin to pound in his ears and his lungs threaten to burst that he pushes himself up towards the surface.
When he breaks the water, he gulps in a quick, sweet breath, then begins to pull himself through the water with a forward crawl. His long, gangly limbs move effortlessly in the pool, giving him a fast stroke few can match. He reaches the far end of the pool in mere seconds, not even winded yet, and does a tumble turn against the cool tiles to propel himself back towards the starting block.
To change things up, he swims a different stroke with each lap. On the return, it’s the butterfly, which expends a bit more energy and elevates his heart beat. Now he starts to feel the burn in the muscles in his legs and arms. Another turn, back down the lane, and it’s the sidestroke this time. Right side only, and with each stretch, his arms feel as if they’re reaching through the water all the way to the other end of the pool. Turn around, left side this time, fourth lap. His time is good, he knows it. If it’s been a full minute, he’d be surprised. He really should ask the coach about having someone assigned to time him.
He pushes off the wall beneath the starting block and lets his momentum carry him a few meters down the lane until he surfaces. As soon as his head clears the water, though, he hears an unexpected splash behind him that almost makes him pull up in mid-stroke. Only his years of training keep him focused on the goal ahead, but he pulls into a forward crawl and tries to peek behind him with every other stroke to see what made that sound.
All he can see is churning whitewater. He pulls towards the far end of the pool, where he’ll pause long enough to see what joined him in the water.
Before he reaches the wall, though, he realizes someone’s in the lane beside him. Another swimmer.
And whoever it is somehow manages to speed past him even after getting a late start.
Dull anger rises in Rory. This is his time. Who the fuck has the nerve to interrupt his training and spoil his concentration? To splash around noisily like this was the kiddie pool down the hall?
To have the audacity to beat him, even if it’s only at practice?
Who the fuck indeed?
* * * *
By the time Rory reaches the far end, the other swimmer is already pulling himself up onto the side of the pool. He turns and sits, his legs dangling into the water, and grins as he watches Rory surface. At first, Rory can’t really see the guy—the goggles obscure most of his vision, and the water streaming down his face smears the rest. But he pushes the goggles up onto the top of his head and wipes a hand across his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, then blows water and air into his palm to clear his senses.
A moment later, he pushes himself up onto the side of the pool, too, and flings his goggles and swim cap to the concrete. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?” he growls.
The guy’s grin never falters. “If I’m not mistaken, I think I’m beating you.”
Rory’s blood surges at the challenge in the other swimmer’s voice. “We weren’t racing,” he snaps. “In case you didn’t notice, the pool’s closed.”
“You’re here,” the guy points out.
“I’m supposed to be,” Rory tells him. “I’m on the swim team.”
That damn grin burns brighter, if possible. “Me, too. I’m Chase.”
“I don’t care who you are. This is my time.” Rory scrambles to his feet, water splashing as he stands, and stomps down around the length of the pool to put some distance between them. To cool off. Another minute listening to this idiot and he’s going to hurt somebody.
Rory doesn’t know if the guy’s lying about being on the team or not, and he has no way of finding out until the next practice. Just because Rory doesn’t recognize him doesn’t mean he isn’t telling the truth. It’s early in the spring semester, and the coach was going to hold tryouts over the winter break for fresh blood, as he liked to call it. A few of their older teammates graduated in the fall, and a few spots on their roster opened up.
But no one coming in now would even make a dent in the rankings, which means Rory’s position at the top of the team isn’t in jeopardy, so he didn’t bother attending the tryouts. Why waste his time? He never races against his own teammates, and the only time their speed impacts his time is in the relay. So why spend a Saturday watching a bunch of would-be hopefuls splash each other and dog paddle around the pool all day? If anyone new even approached his speed, he was sure he’d hear about it soon enough.
So why hasn’t he heard about this Chase kid yet? He has half a mind to call the coach right this second and find out.
When he’s halfway down the length of the pool, he hears a splash behind him and knows Chase dived into the water again. The guy may be fast, but he’s noisy as hell. Rory stops and turns, arms folded across his chest, a sour frown on his face as he watches the water churn with Chase’s passing. Automatically he counts down the seconds, timing the other swimmer. It takes Chase less time to cross the pool’s length than it does Rory, and that only makes him frown harder.
Something twists inside Rory as Chase emerges between the starting blocks. Water beads and drips from that lean body. Muscles flex in Chase’s arms and thighs and ass. His narrow waist disappears into a bright blue Speedo that hugs every line and plane and curve. Every clenched sinew is on display, flexed and tightened, and time seems to slow to a crawl as he exits the pool. Rory knows he’s staring, and he hates himself for it, hates even more the way his body reacts to Chase’s sexy, seductive backside.
Then he sees a hint of smile on Chase’s face and realizes the other swimmer is drawing out the moment. Rory fists his hands against his sides, biting back the jealous anger simmering within him. This is his time, damn it! He doesn’t share it with any of the other members on his team, and he isn’t going to start sharing it n
ow.
Unfortunately, the day is spoiled for him. He wishes Chase had never even shown up at the gym; even if he can get in another five or ten or two dozen laps, Rory’s game will be off. His blood is boiling, his nerves are on edge, his whole body shakes. But whether it’s only anger or something more, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know. As he stalks towards the starting blocks where he left his towel, he tries his hardest to ignore the sudden throbbing in his crotch and the start of an erection that rubs painfully against his legs with each step he takes.
When he reaches the starting blocks, Chase is already toweling off. He stands between the first two blocks, that easy grin sliding into place as Rory approaches. “So, hey,” he says, rubbing his hair dry. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“You know damn well who I am.” Rory’s not only the best swimmer on the team, he’s the best the college has had in years, and everyone who follows their meets knows his name. Everyone.
Chase’s grin widens. Jesus, does he ever turn it off? “You know I beat you, right?”
Rory gives him a narrowed-eye glare. “We weren’t racing so you know it doesn’t count, right?”
“We can go again,” Chase offers, spreading his arms wide to give Rory a good look at the front of all those rippling, wet muscles. “I’m up for whatever you have in mind.”
Though he doesn’t want to, Rory can’t help it; his gaze drops to Chase’s crotch when the other swimmer emphasizes the word up, and sure enough, a thick hardness curls in the front of those neon Speedos like a promise. Rory’s own dick twitches in unison, and he hates that he can’t control it. He can’t stand this guy—Chase is cocky and annoying, and Rory doesn’t know if the whole “I beat you” routine is sheer stupidity or a bid for attention, but whatever it is, it’s annoying as hell. In a real race, Rory would swim circles around this jerk, and the last thing he wants is for anyone to think he might somehow be attracted to Chase.
Because he isn’t. No way. No how. The message just hasn’t gotten from his brain to his dick yet, but it will.
Grabbing his towel, Rory turns away from Chase with what he hopes is a nonchalant, dismissive air. “Not interested.”
“Hey, no, wait. I’m serious.” Chase reaches out and touches Rory’s shoulder.
Rory whirls and shoves Chase back. He stumbles, then steps off the edge into the pool. For one comical moment, his mouth forms a perfect O of surprise, his eyes wide with disbelief. Then he falls back into the water with a gigantic splash, showering Rory’s legs and feet with cool spray.
As Chase sputters to the surface, Rory heads for the locker room. He’s going to have to talk to the coach about keeping the pool closed while he practices from now on.
* * * *
Rory usually showers after his swim, but he doesn’t trust Chase not to follow him into the locker room. The guy seems persistent, like an annoying little puppy, eager to hound him to death. So he towels off and pulls back on his sweats, then leaves before Chase makes a second appearance. He can’t seem to shake the image of the other swimmer exiting the pool, though—whenever he closes his eyes, he sees Chase emerging from the water, sexy and wet, and his cock throbs with each step he takes.
He can’t stand that guy, he tells himself. He can’t.
Which is why he won’t admit he thinks of Chase when he finally does hit the shower, locking the door behind him so his roommates don’t bust up in the small bathroom they share while he’s jerking off under the hot spray. He hates the part of him that calls up those dancing eyes—were they blue or brown? He isn’t sure, he’ll have to look closer next time. No, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t. Blue, he thinks. He’d almost swear on it. Definitely blue—and the dark hair, curling against his brow and tamped down around the rest of his scalp. Probably lighter than it looked, the water makes it look so dark. But given the tan of his skin and the heavy brows, the thick hair on his arms and legs, the treasure trail leading down into those blue Speedos, Chase is definitely a brunette.
Yes, his eyes must be blue, Rory decides, because the light reflecting from the pool and the tiles and those tight-ass briefs made them look an impossible shade. He remembers now. He couldn’t look at them directly even if he wanted to.
Which he doesn’t. Because nothing about Chase appeals to him, remember?
His hand fists his dick harder, squeezing, kneading, pulling. He thrusts into his palm, his other hand flat against the wall of the shower, his forehead resting on his wrist as he gasps beneath the hot water. His voice is guttural beneath the flow. “Yes, uh-uh-uh, yes, yes, God, yes.”
He isn’t thinking of Chase, he won’t let himself, so he pretends it isn’t those blue eyes he sees behind his when he comes in a quick rush, his seed mingling with the sudsy water to swirl away down the drain. If he never sees the guy again, it’ll be too soon.
Still, his knees are weak and his breath shallow as he soaps up a washcloth to rinse the chlorine and sweat and semen off his body.
* * * *
Practice is at quarter to four. Rory sits through a boring, three-hour bio lecture, then grabs a bite to eat in the student union before his lab. After that, he dozes through an English lit class, counting down the minutes until he can hit the pool again. If he could take only twelve credits of swimming every semester, he’d ace his degree. He’ll be hating himself later, he knows, when he’s struggling to cobble together a paper on Wuthering Heights using Wikipedia, Cliff Notes, and the movie he’ll stream online, but for now every fiber of his being only wants back in the water. He feels like a merman stranded on land, or a fish flopping around outside its bowl, drowning in the air that gives everyone else life. He needs to swim. It’s who he is.
When his lit class is finally over, he stops by his apartment to drop off his books and retrieve his duffel bag. The briefs he wore earlier in the morning are still hanging on the bar in the shower stall to dry, but he has a half-dozen pairs folded into a drawer in his room. He picks a bold red pair—no pattern, so the coach won’t complain they aren’t regulation, but bright enough so everyone will see him in the water. Folding the briefs into his towel and tucking them into his bag, he remembers that asshole who interrupted his swim this morning.
Rather, he remembers Chase’s ass, and hates the way his cock stiffens all over again. He’ll say something to the coach about it. What, exactly, he doesn’t know yet, but he needs to think of a way to mention he needs the pool to himself in the mornings without coming off like a jerk. It improves his speed, maybe, and what makes him faster only helps the team…
By the time Rory arrives at the fitness center, many of his teammates are already there. He changes quickly in the locker room and trails down the hallway towards the pool, tucking his hair under his swim cap as he goes. In the pool three swimmers race down the center lanes, the one on the far right a full head and shoulders ahead of his teammates. Scantily-clad lower classmen mill around by the starting blocks, dressed in nothing more than swim briefs and panties as slick and tight as a second skin. Swim caps cover dry hair, with goggles perched on top. Some of the swimmers have tattoos on their biceps or ankles or shoulders, but most are unadorned, any piercings or jewelry left behind in the locker room per the coach’s orders.
Speaking of the coach, Ms. Sweeney stands by the hallway that leads to the locker room, clipboard in hand as she checks each swimmer off her roster when he exits. Without looking up, she nods at Rory and puts a little mark beside his name. He swings around behind her and hovers nearby, waiting for her to notice him.
It doesn’t take long. “What’s up, Holt?” Sweeney’s an older woman, his mother’s age, with long blonde hair pulled into a ponytail so severe, her whole face lifts up and back. The only makeup she wears is a dark red that stains into the creases around her lips. She reminds Rory of that coach on Glee, only not quite as nice. “I needed you in the water warming up five minutes ago. We have a competition coming up.”
Propping his hands on his hips, Rory tells her, “That’s sort of what I w
anted to talk to you about.”
She gives him a stern glance over her shoulder, a warning look that says, Don’t you dare back out on me now.
Quickly he shakes his head. “No, not exactly. It’s more about practice. Or rather, you know, getting time to myself in the pool so I can improve—”
“You swim every morning,” Sweeney says. “I’ve seen the logs.”
“That’s just it,” Rory starts. “You see, today—”
Suddenly, a familiar voice interrupts him. “Hey, coach.”
Sweeney looks up, which is a first, and Rory actually sees the hint of a smile on her face. That annoys him almost as much as Chase’s shit-eating grin leering at him from across her clipboard. “Hey, champ.”
Rory narrows his eyes and glares at the other swimmer but stays silent. Let the coach tell him off for interrupting them.
Surprisingly, though, she doesn’t. Instead, she turns to Rory and takes his arm in an almost companionable gesture. “Rory, hey, I want you to meet our up-and-coming superstar, Chase Cohen. Found him in the tryouts, if you’ll believe it. A transfer from where, J. Sarge?”
Chase nods. “We met this morning.”
He holds out a hand, which Rory doesn’t take. Undeterred, Chase grabs Rory’s hand off his hip and gives it a warm squeeze that sends all sorts of electric tingles up and down Rory’s arm. And chest, and spine, and legs, and dick. Damn.
If Sweeney notices any discomfort or animosity between them, she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she tells Rory, “Chase here has the potential to be as good as you. Better, maybe, I don’t know. We’ll see. I want you to show him the ropes, if you will. Take him under your wing.”
“Do what?” Rory asks.
“If anyone can get him up to speed in a hurry, it’s you.” With that, Sweeney ducks around behind Chase, who hasn’t released Rory’s hand yet—their palms are growing damp, clasped together so tight, and when Rory tries to shake free, Chase doesn’t let go. Over her shoulder, Sweeney tells them, “I want him in the relay at next Saturday’s match against Fillmore. With both of you anchoring the team, there’s no way we can lose.”
