Page 5 of Stroke Rate

Seven people died four years ago. Their lives ended before they had even started. Yet River remained, receiving a second chance at life, and his pathetic ass had to practice mouth movements. He wanted to bang his head against a wall or smother himself with a pillow; he couldn't stand himself most days. Coop should have been the one to survive. Coop would not have wasted four years drowning in depression, grief, and self-loathing. Any of his six swimmers would have made more of their second chance at life than River had. None of them would have lost their voices, unable to speak for almost a year. Each and every one of them was smart, driven, and so fucking young. But for some inexplicable reason, River survived. Even Brooke had resolved her issues, all the emotional wounds, building a beautiful life for herself: attending college and forming new friendships.

Not River, River had spent four years like a hermit, four years keeping everyone at bay, four years letting his broken brain convince him he wasn’t enough. Allowing his painful experiences and the hatred of himself to consume him, leading him to believe he should have been the only one to die in the crash.

Faltering over a word, his brain and mouth out of sync, River let the uncertainty of the next day wash over him. He felt a suffocating wave of panic. His skin grew cold and damp, and his pulse throbbed wildly as everything suddenly became too much. River had wished at this point in his life that the shame and embarrassment that accompanied his speaking difficulties would have dissipated. Wishing the agony of loss would have morphed into soul-deep numbness. It hadn’t. Instead, it had changed into a persistent, overwhelming feeling of fear.

He could sense the edges of a panic attack seizing his body. The mild nausea, a tingling around his lips, an unsettling tension that coursed through every fiber of his body. He focused on bringing his breathing back to a normal rhythm before it became panicked and thin. Before a sensation akin to a chest full of lead anchored him in place for hours on end. River began the fucking mental gymnastics he loathed so much. The fucking bullshit exercise a therapist had suggested he do years ago. Identify five things he could see, four he could touch, three he could hear, two he could smell, and one he could taste.

But what if each one of those things he could pinpoint were parts of his past? Part of his nightmares that seeped into his consciousness. Parts of the trauma he’d been trying to evade. What if the only things he could see, taste, feel, hear, and smell were memories burned into his brain? What if all he could see were bodies splayed in the snow, the pulsing of blue and red emergency lights, the intermittent glow of flames, the open, vacant gazes of one of his swimmers, the unmoving hands of the dead? What if the only thing he could feel were the icy fingers of the love of his life? What if the three things he could hear were screams, moans, and sirens? What if the two things he could smell were gasoline and smoke? What if blood was all he could taste? Fuck, fuck, fuck! He did not have the time or the energy to unravel. He didn’t have time for his brain to freeze and lock his voice away in a vault.

So River battled his past, and the game his mind was orchestrating. He centered his attention on the bleak hotel room and willed his mind to remain in the present. He identified five things he could see: a lamp, a remote, a TV, a thermostat, and a chair. Deep breath. Four things he could feel: crusty sheets, a velour blanket, his sweaty chest, his hair. Deep breath. Three things he could hear: a car alarm, the ticking of the A/C unit, and a person walking down the hall. Deep breath. Two things he could smell: the rank mustiness of his anxiety and chlorine bleach. Deep breath. One thing he could taste: the residual toothpaste in his mouth. Deep breaths in and out, in and out. His brain was more present, but his body was still tight with tension, like a bowstring ready to snap.

River needed movement; he needed to burn off the excessive energy his body couldn’t let go of. What he needed was the pressure of the water pushing in on his ears and lungs. Kicking his legs through the pool, with the right, left, right, left rhythm, was what he needed to realign his brain and body. His body screamed to repeat those movements until he was utterly spent, breathing hard and feeling floaty. He wanted his brain quiet, his body warm and loose, all his tension left in the pool.

But tonight there wasn’t a pool around that could offer respite; the thought of getting out of bed was so draining he couldn’t force himself to do it, anyway. Instead, River kicked. He got out from under the sheets, lay on his stomach, clenched a pillow to his chest and kicked on the bed like a man possessed. He had done this often enough; it wasn't strange to him anymore. It was freedom. Freedom from his mind and freedom from his corporeal self. Maybe this is what death feels like, he considered.

He wasn’t certain how long he kicked, becoming lost in the cyclical motion. River felt a pleasant exhaustion extending through his extremities, the almost imperceptible film of perspiration that cooled him as the A/C drifted over his body, and at long last the peaceful letting go of his mind. The knot unraveled at last, and he hoped the quiet darkness of sleep would come fast.

It did not. Instead, he listened to the air conditioner click on and off, breathed in the smelly, starched sheets that surrounded him, and visualized the smile on a swimmer's face he would meet tomorrow. The smile that he had watched over and over on video over the past months. He tried to relish the fact that his brain was finally quiet. What would it be like to never think again? The deep depths of sleep pulled him under. No nightmare or tangled brain, just rest.

Chapter four

River

River awoke with a raging hard-on, humping into the mattress with the need of a teenager at the height of their sexual awakening. He rolled over and gripped his straining erection, registering the steamy puffs of air departing from his lips, his head tilting, his neck arching as he gave himself a few loose tugs. What the fuck, he thought. Why is this happening now? Why am I so hard all the time now? River growled, annoyed with himself as he reached over to his bag on the floor. He grabbed the lube, wetting his palm, holding his shaft in a teasing grip. It wouldn’t take much; just a few fast, firm tugs would have him coming, but he didn't want that. He wanted to savor the moment. Sure, River felt annoyed that his traitorous cock had recently decided now was the time to reawaken, but he still wanted to revel in the fact that his body seemed to be alive. He wanted to revel in the feeling that he had woken up and was yearning for the touch of another, rather than the suffocating dread of nightmares.

He squeezed the root of his dick and gave his testicles a sharp tug, the resulting pain enough to stave off his climax. Releasing his dick, River concentrated on massaging his balls for a few breaths. Gently he rolled the orbs in his palm, before his fingers snaked down and pressed against his seam. Sliding his fingers along his taint, he nudged right in under his balls to press against his prostate. He moaned as he pressed in deeper, rubbing the bundle of nerves through the thin skin, the pressure sending bright flashes of pleasure down his spine. River grasped his shaft with the clenched fingers of his other hand, running his thumb through his slit to gather the beading precum, using the added wetness to massage his swollen crown. The digits of his other hand ventured lower, massaging his rim, moving in circles but not entering. With a backward slide of his hand, he rolled his balls again and stroked his dick, repeatedly teetering on the edge but not quite letting himself tip over.

River pictured a man on his knees, naked and needy, running his tongue through the pre-cum at his tip, flicking and pushing down into his slit. River imagined the little moans the man would release as he sucked his balls, and the choking noises the stranger would make as he took River’s dick to the back of his throat. Bright, damp eyes would gaze up at him—intense sapphire irises glinting up at River as he swallowed around his crown, drool and pre-cum painting his chin.

River’s shaft spurted more fluid onto his abdomen as he clutched his length, the head enlarged and deep red, emerging and retracting into his foreskin with every thrust. River traced a finger through his mess, bringing it to his mouth, tasting himself, imagining pushing the same finger into the imaginary man’s waiting mouth, having him suck them clean. That visual did it; and just as he was tipping over the edge, a vision of golden skin, wavy dark blond hair, and a sly smirk played behind his eyelids.

He came so hard it made him cough, a choking cough that turned into a pathetic laugh. Why the fuck did Christopher’s face ‌pop into my mind? This was absurd. For years, he’d been numb and nothing could rouse his cock. He thought that part of him had died in the accident alongside Coop. And now Christopher’s face, the person he wanted to coach, was the sight his brain had conjured as he climaxed. Fuck my life, he thought as he ran a hand over the rough hair on his face.

He finally found someone he wanted to train, and then his libido and disobedient cock had decided they were indeed alive and well. River had been celibate for four years; even the thought of jerking off some days made his gorge rise, as if his body were reacting as if he were cheating or betraying Coop. The idea of enjoying any pleasure blurring his vision and deflating his erection. It defied logic; he knew it did. River was aware Coop would have wished him to move on. Coop wouldn’t have wanted River’s spark to be extinguished. But why this guy? Sighing, River scrubbed a hand over his unshaven jaw and resolved not to dwell on it anymore. He had to clear his head, and he had to prepare for what was next.

River called Brooke as he ambled to the aquatic center, with the hope she could ease some of his apprehension before he faced Christopher.

“Hey Riv, what’s wrong? You okay?” Brooke harbored a constant concern for him, tending to him in a parental fashion to the extent River frequently failed to remember he was the one who should behave like the parent, not the opposite.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. You really need to relax. Just in Indy for the meet, remember?”

“Oh, I remember, old man. I know where you are and I remember who you're there for,” she said it in that cheeky manner she had. Her voice was laced with sarcasm, forever teasing him about something.

Christopher was Brooke’s best friend. They met at college the year that followed the accident. Christopher had been the one who ‌supported her. He held her hand. He was the one to aid her through her recovery sessions; she didn’t have River and Coop's house anymore. She didn’t have her teammates and friends to lean on, something River would always hate himself for. Christopher was the one who supported her in keeping her head above water, supported her in keeping her grades up, and supported her in juggling her new life. While River closed her out, convincing himself he didn’t deserve her, allowing himself to be swallowed by his heartache, convincing himself she would be happier without him in her life. He shook his head at the memories, the negativity doing nothing to calm his frayed nerves before approaching Christopher.

“So why are you calling me? It’s close to the first heat? Chris swims first, right? 9:30?”

“Yeah, I’m standing outside the aquatic center,” River’s voice cracked.

“I talked to him last night. He’s just nervous and hates his coach.” Brooke’s tone was tight and tinged with irritation. “Things haven’t been going well.”

“What does that mean, Brooke? I am aware they’ve had issues.”

“Well, I think he’s going to fire him.” She stumbled through her words, “He’s just always such a jerk. On Chris’ ass because he is five minutes late to the pool. Critiquing his swimming, but not helping him fix it. He screams at him,” she whispered.

“Hmmmm.” River breathed the noise through his nose, letting her continue.

“It’s not his fault. Rick shouldn’t yell at him. Chris can be prickly and snarky, but Rick doesn’t take any shit, and when he’s mad, he shouts. Then Chris gets, well…he withdraws or walks out.”