“I think she’s pretty distraught over not having you by her side, but she’s too proud to admit it. You know how she is, super guarded, always protecting herself. I think she knows what she did to you was wrong and is now regretting it.”
“I can see that.”
“Before I left, she was really looking to Pope Francis for strength.”
Pocket agrees full force. “That dog is the reason she’s able to wake up in the morning and willing to help others.”
There is a heavy sensation to roll my eyes but I hold back. “That’s why when I saw that they didn’t have Fiji water, I bought a regular one to refill the bottle I already have for her. I didn’t want to upset her any more than she already is. You can understand that, can’t you?”
Pocket’s face twists in understanding and the once-nasty purse of her lips turns into a bright smile. “You know, you might be better for her than I thought. That’s some quick thinking.”
“Thank you. It was a tough decision but if anything, I want to preserve the relationship between you and Bellini. I don’t ever want that to put that in jeopardy, that’s why I didn’t want to make the situation worse.”
“Wow.” Pocket fans her eyes with both hands, shifting on her feet. From the TV monitor above, the next race is starting. I still have some time, but not a lot. “That is so sweet of you, Mauve.”
Mauve . . . All right, so I guess we are calling each other by our demeaning names. Noted.
“Well, it’s a bond that’s so pure, I can’t imagine it ever being ruined. It’s a relationship for the ages, kind of like . . .” What’s a famous relationship? Thelma and Louise? Ben Affleck and Matt Damon? Justin Timberlake and Jimmy Fallon? Taylor swift and Selena Gomez?
“Like Pope Francis and his beige, diamond-encrusted cassock?” Poppet asks.
I raise a quizzical eyebrow. “Does Pope Francis have a good relationship with his beige cassock?” I ask, perplexed from the correlation.
“Very much so. It’s his favorite outfit, probably because it’s the first outfit Bellini made him. I think if he were to have a bro-mance, it would be with that cassock.”
With my lips thinned in a
what the hell?
kind of way, I nod in agreement. “Sure then, like Pope Francis and his beige, diamond-encrusted cassock.”
Pocket jumps up and down in glee. “Oh, what an honor to be compared to such a friendship. I think you’re right. Bellini and I are really two peas in a pod.”
“You’re a lucky girl,” I say, hoping my sarcasm isn’t evident. Lifting the bottle up to her, I add, “Well I better get back to the stands. But just know, when I’m up there with her, she’s thinking about you the whole time.”
“Thank you, Mauve. And don’t worry, we found you the perfect lesbian.” With that she pats me on the shoulder and heads out of the bathroom.
They found me what?
***
As there are many races in the same distance, Reese doesn’t pop out of the locker room until the end of the meet. It’s three days of racing but today’s race sets the bar for the rest of the meet for him.
I wait in anticipation as the swimmers start to emerge from the locker room.
“This is it,” Melony whispers in my ear.
The camera crew has set-up to capture Bellini’s reaction so now she’s on her feet next to us, petting Pope Francis and looking semi-interested.
“For Christ’s sake, what is taking them so long? They have a pair of spandex to put on, it’s not like they’re battling in a full suit of metal armor. Although, that would be vastly more interesting than watching these want to be mer-men flop around in the water.”
Scratch that, she is not interested at all, just acting like it.
“There he is,” Melony shouts, pointing to Reese who is wearing his swim cap, goggles on his head, and sporting his freshly shaven face. Even though I love the scruff, he is still handsome as ever. The lights are dim in the stadium but I can still see the outline of his body in his track suit, the dark scrawl of his tattoo peeking past the zipper, and the deep concentration in his hazel gaze.
Just like that, I’m on edge. This is what it comes down to. He wins this race, he’s in. He’s going to Rio. He will compete for gold one last time.
“In lane four, returning back to the pool, three time Olympic medalist, Reese King!” The entire stadium erupts in cheers as chills take over my body, tears threatening to fall.
With a lift of his hand, he addresses the crowd while people chant his name and scream for him. Signs are scattered around the stadium proclaiming their love for Reese and his career. It’s overwhelming, and I’m getting emotional over the widespread love pouring out for him.
Shaky hands rest on my lap as tunnel vision eclipses me, pulling me into one view and one view only; Reese King, standing tall next to his diving block, swinging his arms back and forth, smacking his muscles, waking them up for the swim that awaits him.
Black and green goggles decorate the top of his black swim cap, black jammers cling to his legs, and his eyes are laser focused, zeroing in on the lane in front of him.
Eight swimmers, one hundred meters, and the difficult butterfly stroke separate him from his first qualification to Rio.
“Are they ever going to get in the pool?” Bellini asks. “Like they really all need an introduction. They are a bunch of grown-ass men who want to impersonate dolphins for a living.” She condescendingly slow claps. “Yes, let’s cheer about their commitment to masquerade as wet porpoises in crotch-hugging spandex. What is wrong with America?”
Ignoring the ignorant bitch next to me, who I can only truly assume is asexual, I clasp my hands together and steeple my fingers at my chin, a faintness starting to consume me.
Stepping up on the block, Reese bends over, stretches his arms and then gets in place as a hush falls over the crowd. From a megaphone, you hear “Take your mark,” and then a beep, causing all eight swimmers to shoot off their blocks and into the water. My heart plummets and I watch with anticipation.
Reese is the second out of the dive, surfacing with a wide stroke, his upper half gliding over the water. In a blur of splashes, Reese’s tattoo shines through, letting me know where he is in the pool. I fixate on that tattoo as fans around me scream and cheer.
To his right, Bodi Banks extends what only seems like a few inches further, beating Reese to the wall where they turn flip and head for the home stretch. Above the pool, the jumbotron shows the world record pace line and how close both Bodi and Reese are at catching it.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper, my hands sweating together.
“King is coming up on Banks, he has a lot to do if he wants to win this over Banks’ steady pace.”
Announcers are annoying, let’s just get that out there. They do nothing but ruin the experience for viewers, filling their minds with unnecessary stressors.
They’re closing in, Reese and Bodi are battling for the lead, it’s too close to tell with the human eye, it will come down to who’s fingertips touch the wall first.
“They’re neck and neck coming into the final meters, it looks like it might be Banks . . .”
Both swimmers touch the wall and turn to the screen up above, as well as the entire stadium. Lane four lights up with the win and Reese’s name appears at the top just as the crowd erupts in cheers.
Fisting the air, Reese celebrates, water spurting from his mouth. Bodi reaches over the lane and holds out his hand. Both men, pull each other in for a hug and then look back up at the screen displaying the time.
He’s done it.
“Ahhhhhh!” Melony screams next to me. “He won!”
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” Bellini says. “Are we done here?” she asks Jasper who is taking notes on a clipboard in his hand. “The chlorine smell is making Pope Francis nauseous, and I can’t stand to see one more rounded ball poking through those ill-fitting swimsuits.”
“We got the shot. Even when you clapped Pope Francis’s paws together.”
“Oh good,” Bellini states, gathering her items. “He always wants to clap but can’t seem to work his paws the right way.”
“We’re good here,” Jasper says to the crew.
“Someone inform Pocket we’re leaving. I can’t even think about her right now, I will throw up. Let’s go, Mauve and Melon.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, my feet cemented in place.
“What don’t you understand? We’re leaving. Did you really think we would be staying for this entire weekend? No, not a chance. Book yourselves on standby flights, we’re heading home. I have some sorting of fabrics I must attend to and, Mauve, you have some assisting to do. So get up, I don’t pay hired help to sit on their asses all day long.”
My heart sinks to the ground as I realize I won’t be staying for the rest of the races, or even the rest of the weekend. I should have known better than to think Bellini would stay the entire meet. I’m surprised she even showed up in the first place.
On our way out, I shoot Reese a quick text message to let him know what’s going on and then hightail it back to the hotel where I spend a good two hours packing Bellini and trying to find a flight for Melony and me back home.
“Oh, Mauve, please order ten cases of tomato juice to be sent here. Put it on the card.”
“Aren’t you leaving?” I ask, confused by the insane request.
“Yes, but I refuse to fly back with Pocket smelling like a used trash bag that she ate, puked up and the swallowed again.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rolling her eyes, Bellini hovers above me, a patronizing look in her eyes. “What don’t you understand? I’m going to dip Pocket in tomato juice to get that horrid smell off her. Honestly, Mauve, how you’ve been able to walk through life with half a brain cell is beyond me.”
She storms off, Pope Francis trailing behind her.
But tomato juice is for skunks . . .
Pocket deserves a purple heart for the shit she has to put up with.
**REESE**
“Feels great. I’m excited to join the team down in San Antonio in a few weeks,” I say into the phone, answering questions for my tenth interview today. I scan my watch. Six forty-nine, Paisley should have been here almost two hours ago.
It’s bad enough she missed the rest of the swim meet because of Bellini and left me without a fuck and snuggle in Omaha, but I haven’t seen her since I’ve returned, and it’s driving me insane.
“You’re only doing three events this year, a significant drop from your usual seven and six, was there a reasoning for that?”
Yeah, it’s called getting fucking old. I am barely able to get out of bed these days, swimming prelims, semi-finals, and finals for seven events in a five-day span seems like hell to me. I talked it over with my coach and we came to the conclusion I’m just not built to do that many races anymore. My body can’t keep up with the young twenty-year-olds I will be swimming next to and I would rather not look like a dick trying to float around with them. So we’re stuck with my three best events, the 100M Butterfly, 400M Individual Medley, and the 100M Freestyle.
Being as professional as possible, I answer, “My body isn’t what is used to be, Dave. Do I wish I could do all those events and keep up through the entire course of the week? Yes. Is it realistic? No. I would rather give up some races for some new blood to come in and give it a shot than hoard all of them. I’m comfortable and confident with my three races.”
“Do you think this is the year you finally shed the nickname The Silver Stroke and capture a gold for the first time in your career?”
That question never gets old, still makes me want to punch a hole through the wall. Do I like being known as the biggest choke artist in Olympic history? Not so much. I hold world records, world championships, and have built a brand and a name for myself by stroking my way through water. I’ve done everything a professional swimmer can accomplish, besides one thing . . . winning gold. No matter my other accomplishments, I feel like a complete failure from never being able to take home a gold, but instead I watch Bodi Banks stand in the middle podium, his arm propped over his chest, singing our national anthem. Silver is great and all, but what it comes down to is it’s the first loser. I don’t want to be remembered as the first loser for the rest of my life.
“Who knows?” I answer as casually as possible. “I’m definitely gunning for it.”
“Well, we wish you luck, Reese. We would love to see you rise from the ashes.” I grit my teeth and hold back the slew of curse words threatening to take over the interview.
“Thank you,” I grit out and hang up as the interviewer finishes up the call, reading off my stats.
What a prick.
Tossing my phone on the coffee table I run my hand through my hair. This weekend in Omaha was a whirlwind, and I don’t even remember most of it. I do remember swimming some of the best races of my career. I felt like I was twenty again, gliding through the water with ease. Bodi Banks wasn’t even a concern of mine this weekend. If I wasn’t pushing my early thirties, I would think about racing more events, but I’m smarter than that.
After this Olympics, I plan on wrapping up this godforsaken show, getting out of it as quickly as possible, “breaking up” with Bellini, and cashing in on some promos, maybe go into some announcing, or start my own swim camp. Who knows? Starting a family would be on the top of my list, but I’ve just started seeing Paisley, and she’s significantly younger than me, just starting her career out of college. She still needs to find her way before settling down.
Shit
, is that something I would want? To settle down with Paisley?
I might not know everything about her, but what I do know is she makes me happy, and she eases the tension constantly coiling in my stomach over my last ride down the Olympic pipeline. With just one smile on that beautiful face of hers, she brings me to my knees, and I pray she doesn’t leave me. I’ve only known her for a few weeks, but within those weeks, I don’t think I’ve ever smiled as much as when I’m around her.
A knock startles me from my reverie, pulling me to the entryway. I fling the door open, ready to pull Paisley into my arms when I see Hollis and Melony standing on the other side of the door: Hollis with a six-pack of beer in his hand and Melony with a pie in hers.