by J. M. Snyder
Nothing, that’s what. Not a damn thing.
He leaves the locker room quickly, as if trying to prove it to himself.
* * * *
Rory’s resolve not to practice on his own almost crumbles less than twenty-four hours later when he wakes up before his alarm even goes off. He’s still half-asleep and almost dressed before he remembers he isn’t going to the pool this early. Groggily he strips off his sweats and crawls back under the covers on his bed, and forces his eyes shut until they obey on their own. After what seems like an eternity, he finally manages to drift off to sleep again.
Less than ten minutes later, though, his alarm does sound. So much for sleeping in.
At team practice that afternoon, it’s humiliating to have to take the second starting block and see Chase preening beside him, on the block where by all rights he should be. He knows statistically there is no difference in any of the lanes—conditions are the same at either end of the pool, and a good swimmer placed anywhere along its length can still come in first. But mentally, not being in the lead position puts him off again. Rory is too busy glaring at Chase, who studiously ignores him, to anticipate the starting signal. For the second day in a row, he finishes mere seconds behind Chase in the heat.
Seconds that continue to add to the time behind his name on the scoreboard, widening the distance between the two teammates.
Rivals, Rory thinks. At least today Chase seems to have gotten the memo, and he doesn’t flash that annoying grin Rory’s way. There is no more attempt to buddy-up, either, though now and then Rory catches Chase looking his way. Even without that grin in place, Rory thinks Chase looks smug. Gloating. God, and Sweeney has the gall to say he’s the one with the ego?
When Saturday finally rolls around, Rory has to be at the fitness center by six in the morning. The competition is being held at the opposing school, which means a forty-five minute ride with a bus full of high-strung swimmers jumpy from their morning coffee. The campus cafeteria is already in full-swing when Rory stops by to grab a biscuit and his own cup of joe. He sees Chase in line but keeps his head down. Doesn’t make eye contact, doesn’t nod, doesn’t say hi. With any luck, he’ll manage to get back into the swing of things and his time during the meet will get him back on top, but until then, he just wants to get this damn day over with already.
He waits until Chase sits down before choosing a spot as far away from his teammate as possible. When Chase leaves the cafe, Rory’s right behind him, if only to keep him in sight. He doesn’t want Chase circling around and sneaking up on him, not ever again. He keeps back, away from his teammates, and lets them all board the bus first before he climbs up and takes a seat. There’s a heart-stopping moment when he’s standing in the aisle looking for a spot when Chase glances up and their eyes meet, but Rory deliberately turns away and plops into a seat near the front, right behind the driver.
Seconds later, Coach Sweeney falls in beside him. “Ready for today?” she asks.
Rory grunts. “Hope everyone else is. I can still start if you want me to…”
“Keep asking and you’ll go up last,” she snaps. “Give someone else a chance, will you?”
Sullen, Rory slouches in his seat and turns towards the window, pouting past his reflection at the parking lot beyond the glass. Hope you savor it, he thinks, talking to Chase in his head. Hope you choke on it, really, because after today, I’m taking back the lead, and this will be the only meet you start at, ever.
* * * *
Today’s competition is what’s known as a “dual meet.” State U will face off against an opposing team in individual and relay events. Typically such meets last most of the day; by the time they return to campus, it will be dark and the cafe probably closed. Depending on how well they swim, they may stop for dinner to celebrate on the ride home, or slink back to their dorm rooms to order in pizza and Chinese takeout to eat alone instead.
Individual races will start the day. Rory’s favorite is the medley, which is a combination of four laps in four different swim strokes. He’s faster than anyone else, no matter what Chase might have to say otherwise, and the medley lets him show off all his best moves in one fast-paced race. Butterfly, backstroke, breaststroke, crawl…it’s what he practices every morning to make sure his tumbles are smooth and his transitions flawless.
Now, though, he won’t be in the pool for the first race. It’ll be Chase where he should be, and he’ll have to wait for a later heat to even get his feet wet. He has half a mind to skip the medley altogether—that’ll show Sweeney for bumping him, even if it’s his time that’s put him out of the running—and just concentrate on the freestyle events. But he doesn’t like the short, one- and two-lap races, and if he holds out for the longer four-lap ones, he probably won’t get into the pool before noon.
Relays are a whole different ballpark entirely. They’re hectic and crazy, four teams of four swimmers, who must each swim two laps before switching off with the next teammate waiting at the block. Rory loves them, but he knows the coach will be hesitant to put him in if he doesn’t get some time in the water earlier in the day. So he has to swim the medley, no matter how much it galls him to go in after Chase.
God, he wishes that guy had never even tried out for the team.
There are four heats for each event, followed by the race itself to determine the winner. Each heat has five swimmers; only the top two advance to the final race. Coach Sweeney never runs all her best swimmers in the same heat; that way the team’s front runners aren’t facing off against each other, and the chances are higher that more of them will make it to the final. So Rory won’t race against Chase in the heats—they’ll only be in the pool at the same time if they both make it into the finals.
Well, Rory knows he’ll make it. If only he could swim in the first heat and land his position early, get it over with already.
Instead, he paces on the side of the pool in regulation Speedos that expose his long, angular muscles, swim cap already pulled down tight over his unruly hair, goggles snapped into place on top of his head. Five swimmers are on the starting blocks, and a small smattering of fans fill the bleachers—family of members from the opposing team mostly, from the looks of it, and quite a few swimming fan girls. Rory recognizes the type. They’re wearing bulky sweatshirts bearing collegiate logos and skin-tight pants, hair pulled back from fresh faces; they sit in clusters of three or four, and giggle over the guys in their barely-there swimsuits. When a swimmer starts to flex his muscles, warming up, they point and titter, trying to catch his attention. During breaks, they might even come down poolside and flirt with the guys. Rory’s had his fair share fawning over him at meets, and he’s found ignoring them only seems to make them try harder. Even when he scowls their way, one nervy blonde smiles and gives him a wave.
Chase is on the first starting block. Beside him is a swimmer from the opposing team, someone Rory doesn’t know. The other three blocks are staggered, two more from his team, the last one from the other. He’s still scowling as he watches Chase stretch out those long arms. First Chase reaches out in front of him, then hooks an arm behind one elbow and pulls to the side, slowly, obviously feeling the burn. When he does the same in the opposite direction, his gaze follows the flow of his body and he sees Rory staring.
For a moment, a hint of his former grin flickers across his face. Then he remembers Rory’s mad at him, and the smile disappears. He turns away with a frown.
Rory’s still glaring at him when the official calls the swimmers to take their marks. Chase is slow in positioning—he takes a moment to stretch out his hamstrings, placing his hands flat on the board beside his feet and keeping his head down as if he doesn’t want to chance seeing Rory again. Then he hunkers down, one foot leading off, ready to dive. From the corner of his eye, he looks over at Rory, then at the empty lane in front of him, then over at Rory again.
Damn you, concentrate! Rory wants to shout at him. The same stupid shit that distracted him at practice now seems to be
distracting Chase, as well. Rory has half a mind to go over there and shove his teammate headlong into the pool. As angry as he is at not starting out in the first race, he was wrong about not caring whether they win or lose. He does care, and he’ll be even madder if Chase caves under the pressure of competition. Even if it shows Sweeney how much Rory deserves to be the one up on that starting block, that still doesn’t mean he’s ready to accept defeat.
The air hums with anticipation. The crowd feels it, the swimmers feel it—hell, Rory feels it, and he’s on the sidelines, though every fiber of his being wants to vault into the pool when the beeper goes off. He feels himself leaning forward as if it’s him up on the blocks, waiting, waiting. You got this, he thinks, projecting the message to Chase in the hope of steadying his teammate’s nerves. You beat me, so I know you can beat every single one of those guys up there. This is your race to lose and you know it.
When the beeper sounds, the swimmers arc gracefully into the pool in a cascading wave. But Chase isn’t the first one in—no, he hesitates a full half-second, maybe more, before pushing off to soar into the water. He’s the last in his lane, fuck. As Chase struggles to catch up with the others, Rory stomps his foot in frustration. “Damn it the hell!” he swears out loud.
Sweeney appears beside him. “He choked at the last minute just like you did in practice,” she remarks dryly. “Hope he can make that up.”
“I didn’t choke,” Rory mutters. Already the first swimmer has touched the far end of the pool and tumbled around to return to the blocks. Chase is still half a lane back. There’s no way he’ll make up the time and Rory knows it.
Sweeney gives him an appraising look. “What do you call it, then?”
Rory ignores her, instead watching as Chase swims past. Seconds tick by and the pool is awash with activity, but each moment that passes drops Chase farther behind. One of the guys from the opposing team makes his second turn and starts back across the pool again, already yards ahead of Chase. If he’s lucky, he might be able to squeak by in second place, maybe. But Rory has his doubts.
Though the heat seems to last forever, it’s over in less than five minutes. None of the swimmers go all out—their only concern at this point is to outrace the other guys in the pool. The best time comes in at just over four and a half minutes. When it flashes up on the scoreboard, Rory scoffs. “Amateur,” he mutters. His best? Four-oh-four. If he were in this race, he’d already be out of the pool.
Chase isn’t, though. He comes in at four minutes and forty-five seconds. Not a bad showing by any means, but in this heat, that time places him in third. Which means he won’t be in the final run.
Which means Rory doesn’t have to worry about being shown up by him a second time.
Thank God, he thinks, and right on the heels of that thought, shit. Personally, he’s glad he doesn’t have to face off against his teammate again. He doesn’t like to admit he was beat once, and the thought of taking a second pounding is embarrassing, especially in front of a crowd in a scored competition. But he can’t deny the fact that Chase is a good swimmer, a damn good one, and despite his anger at his teammate, he still sort of looked forward to sweeping the podium at their first meet. It would’ve given the other school teams something to think about.
When Chase climbs out of the pool, Sweeney calls his name but he doesn’t respond. He glances at the scoreboard and his shoulders slump—Rory sees him grimace, and when he pulls off his goggles, his eyes are scrunched up in frustrated disappointment. Tugging off his cap, he shoves away the towel Sweeney offers and storms away towards the locker rooms.
Rory stands on the sidelines, hands on his hips, and hates the way his heart twists in his chest at the sight. He doesn’t want to feel sorry for Chase, he doesn’t. He shouldn’t—really, losing serves the jerk right. But damn it, he now knows all too well how badly it feels to lose.
Sweeney turns and smacks the towel against Rory’s stomach. “Take this to him, will you?”
“There are towels back there he can use,” Rory starts.
“Go after him,” she says.
Taking the towel from her, Rory balks. “Me? Why? I’m up next.”
Sweeney shakes her head. “I’ll move you to the last heat. Go make sure he’s okay. Can you do that?”
Rory doesn’t know. But she turns away and walks off, giving him no choice. With a last glance at the scoreboard, where C. Cohen lights up the third spot, he heads for the locker rooms to see if there’s anything he might be able to say to soften the blow.
* * * *
Rory finds Chase in the showers, still wearing his swim briefs as he stands under a pounding spray so hot, steam fogs the air around him. The sound of rushing water is deafening. For a long moment Rory lingers in the open doorway that leads into the shower room. He watches Chase’s back, motionless, head down as if beaten. He waits, hoping Chase will sense him somehow and turn around, or cut off the shower and turn, and then Rory can say something inane like, “Hey man, you all right?”
It’s obvious the answer to that is no, he isn’t, but maybe he’ll shrug and wipe his nose and say, “Yeah, sure. Right as rain.” And Rory can head back to the pool, duty done.
Only Chase doesn’t turn around, doesn’t see him, doesn’t acknowledge his presence in any way, and eventually Rory takes a few steps into the steamy shower. It feels like a sauna, and sweat instantly breaks out on the back of his neck. His water shoes make no sound over the damp tiles. Chase keeps his head down, shoulders hunched, as the water strikes his head and back. Steam roils between them, ghostlike, adding an eeriness to the moment Rory could do without.
Just outside Chase’s stall, Rory stops. Waits.
Nothing.
Finally, he ventures, “Hey.”
If Chase is surprised by Rory’s presence, he doesn’t show it. All he does is sniffle and mutter, “What the hell do you want?”
Rory shrugs, but Chase doesn’t turn around to see the motion. “Just to…I don’t know. See if you’re okay.”
Chase lets out a choked laugh. “I managed not to place in the first race of my first competition on the team. Do you think I’m okay?”
Another shrug, which also goes unnoticed. Rory doesn’t know what to say.
Running a hand through his hair, Chase flings a palmful of water onto the floor where it slaps against the tiles. “Just go, will you? I don’t want to hear you gloat about my poor performance right now, if it’s all the same to you.”
“I didn’t come to gloat.” But what else can Rory say? He doesn’t know. If their roles were reversed, he knows he wouldn’t want to hear any platitudes either. Chase didn’t win, simple as that. There is nothing Rory can say to change that.
Still…“What happened out there?”
One of Chase’s shoulders goes up in a half-hearted shrug. “Same thing that happened to you in practice, I guess. My mind wasn’t on the race.”
“Where was it?” Rory asks.
Chase turns slightly and gives him a long look that says, Like you don’t know. But he doesn’t say the words out loud, and doesn’t answer Rory’s question.
A thrill flutters through Rory’s stomach. No matter how mad Chase made him earlier, he can’t deny the attraction he feels for his sexy teammate. But this is all new territory for him—he’s never made a move on anyone in his life. Anything that wasn’t swimming never held his interest, and he’s in over his head here, out of his depth. Should he move closer? Reach out and touch Chase? Say something?
But what?
His anger flares to life brightly again, but this time it’s directed at himself. He’s a fish out of water here, awkward and nervous, and he hates feeling like this. He’s used to being the center of attention, confident and sure, the top contender. His emotions wash over him and he balls one hand into a fist, slams it into the side of the shower hard enough to get Chase’s attention. When his teammate turns around, Rory snaps, “Damn it the hell! You were the best swimmer in that heat and we both know it! I can
outrace any one of those guys blindfolded and you beat me, so I know you could’ve beaten them.”
Taken aback, Chase stammers, “I…I didn’t—”
“You beat me,” Rory reiterates. “No one else out there can say that. So if you weren’t focused on the race when you were on the starting block like you should’ve been, then just what the fuck were you thinking about?”
For a long moment, Chase stares at him. Rory glares back, daring him to answer, daring him to mention what happened in the pool during their morning practice. Maybe once the words are spoken, they can move past them somehow, move beyond the physical to see if anything else might happen between them. If either even wants anything else. Rory doesn’t know what he wants yet, but he’d like to put an end to the way he’s feeling now, all torn up and scattered around inside, and if moving forward in any direction with Chase will help settle that down, he’s willing to give it a try.
When Chase finally speaks, his voice is so low, Rory barely hears it over the roar of the shower. “You, okay? I was thinking about you.”
Something loosens in Rory’s chest, a knot he didn’t even know was wound up tight until he feels it unravel and he lets out a sigh of relief. Yes.
Chase slaps at the shower spray, deflecting it from his face onto the nearest wall, then wipes water from his eyes and nose. He’s no longer looking at Rory. “I transferred last semester but thought I’d settle in before trying out for the team. The first meet I went to, I saw you and thought, damn. I mean, I know I’m good, but you were just…I don’t know. Something else. And I don’t just mean in the water. You have it all, Rory. You’re the whole package. Looks, talent, confidence. I hear you’re on scholarship, so you’ve got brains, too. You’re everything I always wanted to be. To have.”
Rory takes a step closer, and feels the faint mist from Chase’s shower on his arms and chest. “So that’s why you wanted to take me down?”
