by David Connor
Coach offered another signal—twirling fingers—like “wrap it up.”
“I’m gay.”
The cameras clicked furiously. Reporters started writing. Coach Keller cringed. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would care who Mathias fucked, but it seemed to be big news in the swimming world all of a sudden, as dozens of reporters were all talking to him at once, most of their questions impossible to decipher.
“Are you coming out?” one asked him.
“Why did you choose this moment to make the announcement?”
Those two I did hear, among the chatter and clamoring.
“Please….” With one syllable, Mathias silenced it totally. Now one could have heard a pin drop. I heard Mathias breathing. “I didn’t plan on it,” he said.
“Was it a way to take the spotlight off Reed Watson, to garner more attention for yourself?”
Well, that was harsh. It was also a damned good question. The reporter didn’t know about fourth grade and Mrs. Smeckler, of course. Stealing the spotlight actually seemed altruistic to me—like a thank-you—at least at first.
“Reed, how do you feel about Mathias coming out?”
“Oh. Um… I don’t know.”
“Do you think it’s inappropriate?”
“No. Of course not. Shit.” I cringed too. “Sorry. Look, I don’t have to tell you people I suck at this. Maybe if we do it in the water next time, I’ll do better.” I jumped when they laughed, and then I looked back to Mathias, who smiled at me. “I… I don’t think it should be a big deal who’s gay and who’s not.”
I was asked a couple of questions about my own sexuality, and though I stammered noncommittally with my weak voice while squinting my allegedly pretty eyes as a distraction, since we were in Russia, I did add this: “No one who is gay should feel bad about it.” It wasn’t the big speech I had dreamed of making, one that could change the world, but it was something, and deep down I hoped someone who felt uncertain would hear it. Mathias, though, got the brunt of the attention, some about his sexual orientation, and even more about how it felt to constantly be the runner-up.
“You were sick last year. Are you healthy? And if so, what happened today?”
“One hundred percent,” he answered. “And I came in second.” He smiled. He was coming in first now. “Better luck next time.”
“As Reed just alluded to, you two used to train together,” another said. “Then you moved to Arizona. Are you disappointed the change in coaches didn’t improve your performance?”
“I definitely feel like I’m where I need to be, with my not-so-new coach and placements today. It’s easier to come from behind than it is to stay at the top. In my opinion, it’s better not to peak too soon.” Wow. I guess he told me.
COACH KELLER wasn’t pissed, but he wasn’t himself. I apologized, but then, bolstered by the way I had sort of captured the press in the end, I took it back. “I think it went okay… don’t you? He didn’t bring my name into it. The reporters did.”
All I got back was “For now.”
My new media specialist wasn’t thrilled. Quit waving the rainbow flag, she’d texted. I hadn’t even met the woman face-to-face and already she was a pain in my ass. I decided not to worry about her, Coach, or the gang of reporters. There was still a possibility I’d be hitting the expensive hotel sheets with Mathias.
I was pretty sure it was going to happen. I was maybe thinking about perhaps, probably doing it. The longer I waited for him alone in my room, though, the more likely it seemed he had changed his mind. When he still hadn’t arrived two frigging hours later, I figured the whole thing was off. I wondered if he’d gotten a better offer after coming out publicly. Asshole. Then I worried he may have been forced into hiding because of it. The most likely scenario, I decided, was that Mathias was simply being his normal, inconsiderate self, like back in college when he was always late for Calculus. Flip-flopping like a fish out of water or a politician already whoring for presidential election votes in 2016. Within another second, I pictured him in a Russian prison. Our US delegation surely wouldn’t allow that to happen, would they—because of those antipropaganda laws?
As I began to pace, the phone in my room rang. I thought it might have been him, but it wasn’t.
“You want to fly home tonight?”
“Oh. I was supposed to….” I cut myself off. Obviously, the plan had fallen through. “Did you hear anything about Mathias?”
“Why would I?” Coach Keller asked shortly.
“I don’t know.”
“After what he pulled, let him suffer any consequences.”
“What consequences? Is he in trouble—like, legal trouble?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Would you? If something bad happened?”
“Nothing bad happened. Yes. I’d know.”
“Will you check?”
“Reed….”
“Will you?”
“I’ll text his coach.”
“Thanks. Get back to me if—”
“Why do you care? Come on. You heard that reporter. Webber wanted to steal your thunder.”
“There are less detrimental ways of doing it, don’t you think? We don’t live in a world where athletes coming out boosts their careers. Look at Michael Sam.”
“It all depends on what Webber wants now, doesn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does he want to swim, or does he want to go on Dancing with the Fucking Stars? Or maybe he just wants to beat you. I wasn’t the first one to pit you two against each other. It was already done when I threw you both in the pool. You were rivals long before you were… you know. Maybe the whole wanting to fuck each other is part of the rivalry too. Maybe your whole relationship is one big contest.”
So, Coach had noticed that too.
“He’s fine, by the way. No Russian authorities have even been in contact. He’s safe in his room.”
“You’re sure?”
“That’s what I’m being told, from someone right in the hotel with him, where he’s doing a bunch of interviews.”
“Hmm.”
“He’s an overindulged prick, Reed.” Yikes. Coach held a huge grudge. “Think about his track record. You told me he switched schools after peeing his pants, rather than face the embarrassment the next day. Look how he bolted when I had the nerve to discipline him. I don’t know how this one fits yet, but mark my words, it was somehow self-serving, or maybe a way to get under your skin. Either way, I say stay away from him.” He took a calming breath. “So you want to take the earlier flight or no?”
Coach Keller had never led me wrong. Maybe Mathias would rather mind-fuck than fuck for real. Instead of that thought breaking my heart, it gave me a jolt. “Yeah,” I said. “When?”
“Plane leaves in ninety minutes.”
“I’ll be right down.”
I’d unpacked only what was needed, so getting my crap together went quickly. Lugging the huge suitcase, I rushed for the elevator. I pushed the button. The door parted.
“Reed. I’m sorry I’m so late.” Mathias stepped off.
Once again, I coiled my fingers into fists, feeling the heat of anger, even as the rush in my heart I got only around him made it flutter. “Everything okay… still?”
“Yes. I was doing a bunch of press.” His face lit up—with the words—not at the sight of me, I thought.
“Press?”
“Yeah. A ton from back home. Where are you going?”
“I had some horrible thoughts. What if you’d been in trouble?” No one else was about, so I set down my bag, threw my arms around him, and kissed him hard. “What if they had done something to you for coming out?”
“Mmm. No. No one has said a word… except my coach and press agent. Let’s get inside before someone comes,” he muttered against my mouth.
“Can’t,” I said. Then I slid my hand down the front of his shirt, stopping on the front of his bright red corduroys, at his cock. “See you next s
eason.”
“What do you mean?”
“I waited half the night while you did press? While you became famous?” I shook my head and then shoved past him and into the elevator. “You could have called. I’m going home.”
“You are?”
“You may be used to taking second place. I’m not.”
His expression was priceless. It took everything I had to walk away, but one final victory felt pretty sweet.
15
IT WAS the middle of the night back in the States by the time I got home. I had a tiny apartment at Cloverton by now, since I’d started working as both a TA and an RA junior year. Stuck on campus most of the summer, working that semester, with a few days left before I had to be back to start again for fall, I headed for my real home—with Mama and Dad, and Devon. I quietly unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Surprise!” Then I nearly had a heart attack.
“Son of a—”
The lights had come on, and I could see the living room decorated with American flags and Olympic rings cut out of construction paper. “Congratulations Reed” was written in huge letters on what looked like half a bedsheet. The second e had once been an a, so I knew Devon had made it. Though the prior year’s World Championships celebration with pizza and sparkling cider at four in the afternoon was way less startling, I still got tears in my eyes, and was glad I’d called ahead with my change of plans.
Devon hugged me first. I didn’t want to let go. “I can’t breathe.” But then I did, before he turned blue.
“Way to go, Aquaman!” Cal threw his arms around me and kissed my cheek.
“Isn’t it past everyone’s bedtime?” I joked.
“It’s worth missing a little sleep,” my mother said. I hugged her more gently but just as long.
My father shook my hand. “You have no idea how proud….” His voice caught. “How proud we are of you. For everything. What you did took a lot of work. What you said took a lot of courage.”
“We saw you on TV,” Devon said.
“And looked for the press conference online,” Mama added.
I didn’t want to talk about that. “I haven’t officially made the team for Rio yet, you know.” I gently flicked one of the colored rings.
“You will,” my mother declared.
“How come you didn’t say you’re gay too?” Devon asked.
Cal snickered.
“I… uh… I’m not sure,” I said truthfully. “I guess because they told me not to.”
“Who did?” Dad asked.
“It’s not important.”
“Well, you supported Mathias,” my mother said. “And your words were quite eloquent.”
Guilt twisted my insides into knots. My parents had no idea what I’d done to Mathias after that. I also wondered if they were disappointed I hadn’t stepped up and proclaimed my homosexuality to the world, or at least to the ten or twelve people, not counting members of the swimmers’ families, who would actually know to look for the press conferences on the Internet. Though their words were all positive, I felt I had let them down somehow. “What I said was more verbal diarrhea than valor.”
“‘Verbal diarrhea,’ huh? So you’ve mentioned there’s this thing called a media coach…?” Dad asked.
“She’s already on it, and you’ve seen how badly I need one.”
PRIZE MONEY came with the wins—a lot of it—despite the various rules about how much an amateur college athlete could earn and from what organization the funds had to technically come.
“It’s complicated,” Coach had told me yet again, “but all on the up-and-up.”
After my first US Championships, I kept checking my bank account online just for fun. I hadn’t seen so many zeros next to my name since Mrs. Smeckler made good on her promise to start writing one a day in her grade book until I brought in that bulletin board picture.
The Christmas following my first victory at Worlds, the front room carpet was littered with a mountain of wrapping paper—the expensive foil kind, with candy-cane stripes and red and green snowflakes. We ate dinner off the china I got for my mom to complete her set that year. I got Julius and Beth a hot tub to set up outside the trailer they rented in a small park, figuring with two kids, they might need and enjoy some quiet time. Shemar’s eyes were as big as the star atop the tree when he saw the size of the box the trombone came in, and though he may have looked a little less excited when he actually tore into it, I told him someone in the family had to carry on the legacy. Devon and I took the four-wheeler I’d bought for him into the woods that afternoon.
Christmas 2014 was the best we’d ever had, at least until my dad sat me down for a serious discussion on Pajama Day.
“It’s too much.” He’d looked into his oatmeal bowl rather than at me. “All of it.”
“Dad… let me. I owe you guys for everything you’ve done.”
“You don’t owe us a thing. The way you’ve turned out is the gift.”
For his real gift, I had wrapped the signed contract for the guys who would come and completely finish off the basement downstairs—the bathroom, especially—a builder, electrician, plumber, and carpenter. I’d figured it could be Dad’s man cave once he retired, since Beth and her family had left it.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate it. I do, but it’s something I want to do myself… with my own two hands and my own money.”
“And this is something I want to—”
“Reed!”
I’d spilled some cocoa when he’d startled me by snapping.
“I said no.”
When my father raised his voice, I knew it was a matter of pride and let it go. “Okay. I’ll call them all tomorrow,” I’d told him.
THOUGH IT was still officially summer, once the party ended and everyone was in bed, as I lay in mine, stroking the footboard post with my foot, my soft dick with my fist, I was already thinking ahead to December. Money I hadn’t even gotten yet was burning a hole in my pocket. I’d definitely be a bit more frugal for Christmas 2015. Everyone would get something—something nice—but since I learned rather quickly that as fast as cash comes, cash goes, I had to be more careful. Once I started paying attention to financial matters, I’d discovered I wasn’t as rich as I’d thought. There were Coach’s fees per my FINA contract, which I happily handed over. I had college loans to repay, and of course, Uncle Sam wanted his cut. What started out as a huge sum after some big wins in 2014 looked rather paltry rather quickly. It made me think again about the sponsors, and how much money had gone out before I’d actually earned a penny. Though I thought it might be a good idea to quit the college team in order to be eligible for every cent of prize money available without restrictions, I definitely wouldn’t be quitting my day jobs as I continued on to Rio, that was for sure.
Just as day began to break, my mother headed off to work before I had even fallen asleep. Dad gave her a kiss I could hear upstairs.
“I love you. Have a nice day.”
“I love you more. Have a better one.”
I’d heard the exchange a million times in my twenty-some years. It made me make a promise to myself right then and there that I would play the media game as best I could if I did well in Rio, to earn even bigger bank and give my parents a vacation, at least, and a whole new life if possible, despite Dad’s stubbornness. I wasn’t a little kid anymore and could raise my voice too. I could be just as strong-willed.
I WAS a little jealous I didn’t have a billion messages from fans, personally known and otherwise, when I checked my Facebook page, the one I rarely posted to. I was the gold medalist, after all. Devon and Cal had promised to set up fan pages all over social media. Maybe before Rio, I would. If not a million, at least a couple dozen or so. I checked TMZ to see if Mathias had made their website. He hadn’t. He wasn’t a twenty-two-time Olympic medalist with a Head & Shoulders ad, a bong party pic, and a DUI arrest, after all.
I put down my basic computer tablet and started to jack off. I wasn’t in the mood, a
nd Devon was snoring. Staring a little while at the ceiling I couldn’t see in the dark, still playing with myself, I wondered which guy I was, the one who’d felt so good blowing Mathias off, or the one my father thought, who’d publicly supported him. I’d been ignoring a WTF subject line since Coach and I had boarded the plane. I went to click on it, but then put that off too. Yes, I was a stubborn man. That much I knew for sure. And Mathias was sometimes inconsiderate. “I’ll be a little late.” Those six syllables would have gone a long way.
After some mindless TV downstairs, I checked TMZ and the Internet ten more times. Mathias’s revelation made a couple of sports sites. I vowed not to read the comments, but long about 8:40 a.m. I gave in and did. That was a mistake. Faggot, cocksucker, fairy, tranny—he was called those words and worse. Snaggletooth albino—that one was about me. Most of the posts were complimentary and supportive, but more than once, Mathias was labeled an embarrassment to the US swim team. I decided to send him a supportive text, but read his first—all three. Not one of them an actual note, as it turned out, just three angry subject lines and one animated show of disappointment.
WTF?
Missed opportunity.
Jerk.
The animated emoji that ended his correspondence wasn’t the naked guy with a boner this time, but rather an annoyed shaking head I found myself mimicking. The fact he still didn’t really apologize for leaving me hanging—or up and hard as it were—while I waited and he basked in the media glow, that pissed me off.
Fuck that shit. Until Mathias realized why I bolted, I refused to give him the satisfaction of a response. Pride had two definitions, the one about feeling accomplished and another—self-respect.
THE CHRISTMAS I’d planned for back in August came and went, complete with cold weather and a cold silence between Mathias and myself. I had an entire week off from everything at the end of the year, since I had gone through with my plan to leave the Cloverton College Cavaliers to concentrate only on my professional career. It was difficult. It made me kind of sad, but in the end, if it meant more revenue coming in, I had to do it.
