Page 12 of Stroke Rate

“I eat a lot post-race. Rick the dick was always so strict with my diet. I get it, like my body needs to be fed well so I can swim well, but he was…He was mean about it.” Chris' voice went soft at the mention of his last coach.

“Brooke mentioned you guys didn’t gel. She didn’t give me much information. Do y-y-you want to tell me a-about it?”

“What did that monster tell you?” Chris blew out a raspberry, lifting his head, hands over his eyes, peeking at River through his fingers. River wanted to pull his hands off his face, so he did. Chris jerked at the touch, but then relaxed, gripping River’s fingers with his own.

“Chris, there’s no need to feel embarrassed. Brooke said nothing bad. She always has great things to say about you. But I want to hear all about your coaches. What has worked, what hasn’t. S-So we can make a plan together.”

Chris looked shocked by the statement; his face pinched and his eyes were wide, and the sight of it confused River. He decided to let it go and not poke; Chris seemed not too keen on talking about his coaches.

“Together, yeah, I like that. Now let’s order. I’m ‌starving.”

Chapter eleven

Chris

Ashiver ran through Chris's body, causing his hands to shake as he clasped River's fingers. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he knew he didn't want to let go of the soft, warm hand that had enveloped his own. When River had first touched his arm, an icy chill of fear had zapped through Chris, replaced by the syrupy heat of comfort spreading throughout the rest of his body. Chris couldn't figure out the tennis match his body and brain seem to be battling, but he knew he’d wanted to keep touching River, and even more he'd wanted River to touch him back.

The waitress interrupted when she came over to take their order, smiling as she looked at their intertwined fingers on the table. Chris’ face heated with her smirk, but he didn't mind because he was too pleased to be holding River’s hand.

“I’m sorry, is this weird?” Chris asked, squeezing River’s fingers.

“No, n-n-no, it’s okay-okay. Want to tell me about the race today?”

Chris explained what had happened before the meet and during the second race. Explained why he had fired his coach earlier in the morning, how Rick had raised his voice, how nervous Chris had been that Rick was going to use violence and manhandle him, and how the whole situation had made him feel uncomfortable. He further explained how his thoughts had consumed him, preventing him from focusing on the race; and then his goggles had flipped, causing him to swim blind the last twenty-five meters.

Letting out a tight breath, Chris expected to see River's disappointed face. Instead, he was met with compassionate eyes and a slight nod of River’s head.

“Okay, well, that makes more sense.” A kind softness emanated from River, something Chris had never experienced with a coach. Hell, something he hadn’t experienced with another person ever, except with Brooke. Letting go of Chris’ hand, River rubbed ‌his lips.

Chris tracked the movement, wanting to suck those lips into his mouth and bite them. River's gaze fell upon Chris, his lips slick and a smile dawning on his face. He reached out and ran his thumb up the side of Chris’ wrist.

“Please don’t,” Chris said, in his pathetically soft voice that sounded more like a whimper, shaking his wrist free of River’s gentle touch. He spoke again, trying not to sound as weak as he felt. “I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just…” Chris recoiled, whispering, "Don't touch my wrists." Drained and repulsed by his own sensitivity, his skin quivered with anxiety from even the slightest potential touch. The snaking feeling of hands on his wrist made him wish he could peel away every layer of himself, revealing something new. Something not so broken.

“N-n-no, no, you’re fine, Chris. I-I-I didn’t mean to scare you,” River said, brows turned down on his beautiful face.

Chris felt his breath quicken, his skin feeling too tight, the ghost of sharp nails digging into his arm trying to consume him, and the memory of liquor-filled breath on his face threatening to make him gag. Chris wanted to move on; he didn't want to think of his troubled past and current issues. Squeezing his eyes tight, he swallowed the lump in his throat and pushed everything down.

“Yeah, sorry. I just don’t like my wrists grabbed.” Chris confessed so quietly that he wasn’t sure River had even heard him.

“It’s o-okay. Wa-want to tell me what you are looking for in a coach?” He asked, ignoring Chris' weird reaction to his touch.

“All I want is someone to work with me. I want us to work as a team. To feel heard and seen, like a partnership. I need a coach who doesn't yell. I just, I can't…work with someone angry.” Chris could not force his eyes up to meet River. He was nervous and embarrassed.

“Oh, oh, that. I, uh, I think I can do that. We can do that. I-I enjoy working with my swimmers. I need to know how they're feeling and what they are thinking when they swim.” The statement came out robotic, almost as if River were repeating memorized dialogue. “I need to know how they felt during a race. I need them to tell me what they think their weaknesses are. So we can make a plan together.” River rubbed his throat, and Chris watched River’s prominent Adam's apple bob. A sudden need to lick and suck it bloomed bright, causing Chris’ abdomen to clench. “You are the one in the water; you are the only one who can explain what your body feels like, what it needs.”

“I’ve never had a coach say anything like that,” Chris whispered. “Coaches have never asked me anything; they always have a regiment to follow, and that was the law. My opinions were never welcome.”

“Well, yeah, I’m not sure I’m a typical coach. I haven’t done this in a long time.” The statement hung like a noose. “I’ve watched your tapes; Brooke sent me so many and I want this. I want to try again. Watching you swim made me want to try coaching again. I-I think you and I could make a good team.”

“I really like the sound of that.”‌

“Ahem,” River cleared his throat. “Can I tell you what I’ve noticed you need some work on?”

“Yeah, please go ahead.”

“Well, your stroke rate is off. It’s glaringly obvious on tape, and I think we need to strengthen your legs? I need to watch you more. Talk through your dry-land training. Make a plan.” River paused, swiping his pink tongue across his abused bottom lip. Chris tracked the motion, watching as the spit-slicked skin glistened, wanting to lean in and see what that lip tasted like. “As I see it, we have around four months before the TYR Pro Swim Series back here in Indy. That would be your last chance to get a spot at the trials. But I think you can do it. I think we can do it,” River said, smiling at Chris.

Chris nodded, a slow grin pulling at his dimple as he thought about what he was going to say. Chris knew that comment would get him into trouble, but he couldn't help it. He needed to push River just a bit. "Stroke rate, you say?” He huffed. "I've had no complaints about my stroke rate. Dudes are usually pretty complimentary about it, in fact. Just the right speed." Never breaking eye contact, Chris waited to see if he affected River as much as River affected him. And there it was: the slow pink blush from his hairline, down his cheeks, ‌creeping down his neck, pooling at the divots of his collarbone.