Page 9 of Stroke Rate

River couldn’t make out Christopher’s face, but he could see him take a large mouthful of water and spit it out onto the pool deck, after which he took another mouthful, letting that one ooze from his lips. On video at the end of every single race, River had noticed Christopher doing this routine, and River was obsessed. Watching for it every. Single. Time. The fucking spitting, so goddamned sexy River couldn’t explain why his brain seemed so stuck on this one act. Adjusting himself before anyone noticed the growing tent in his pants, River muttered to himself what an embarrassment he was. Feeling so hard up, so desperate, that a swimmer spitting water turned him on.

Eager to study Christopher's cool-down routine, River descended the bleachers. He thought he was standing far enough away to watch without being seen, like a stalker.

Amidst the boisterous activity of the others in the pool, River observed Christopher's silent, reserved demeanor. He didn’t talk to a single person; stranger still, no one approached or talked to him. A lone wolf in the pool, eyeing his competitors with squinty eyes and tight lips, looking like a predator.

River had never seen anyone with a more striking resting bitch face than Christopher's. His behavior was so opposite from the persona he had during the interviews River had watched. River kind of loved the switch, but questioned who the real Christopher was . Was it the smiley, happy interview guy? Was it the one Brooke described, the softie who was silly, sweet, and understanding? Or was it this one? The one who seemed closed off and judgmental?

He lingered there, captivated and consumed by an intense obsession, unable to look away. Still puzzled why he felt the way he did about someone he had never even spoken to.

The forty-five minutes in between heats vanished as River’s thoughts raced in a million different directions. He tried to remember his plan of how to approach Christopher, nervous to see if his voice would hold steady or if his brain would seize, unable to say a word. Would Christopher be friendly, or would he look at him like he did the other swimmers in the pool? The possibility of Christopher looking at River like he was his prey sent an exciting rush through his body, making him flush, as his mouth dried and his tongue felt thick.

Christopher was in lane three, right between VanZeyl and Tran. They were Christopher’s strongest competition. VanZeyl, a towering figure even by swimming standards, possessed an ideal physique for the sport; his long legs, broad shoulders, and an astonishing wingspan gave him a distinct advantage in the water. Tran, well, Tran was an anomaly in the swimming community. Similar in height to Christopher, but tiny, slight-boned, almost waifish, and that’s where he got his speed. Not only training or god given ability, it was the fact that Tran was tiny and light—swimming through the water as easily as a hot knife slices through butter. It would be an entertaining race to observe these three next to each other.

The clock buzzed, and River sprang to his feet, his hands balled into fists, a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach about the upcoming race. Hoping to see Christopher hold himself back, remembering to save his energy for the last 100m of that marathon of a race. River understood at once that was not what Christopher was doing. He’d been swimming at a speed that was too fast to start the 400IM. Cringing at the rookie mistake, River rubbed his damp hands up and down the fabric of his thighs, the material covering the large scar and the tattoo on his left hip. Muttering to himself, willing his thoughts into the atmosphere, hoping they might reach Christopher in some way. It didn’t work; River observed Christopher’s fading energy, the heavy slap of his arms slowing as he rapidly lost ground on the others.

The race ended, and River felt ill. Christopher did not swim well…5th out of 8, with a time of 5:15.08. Not great, nor was it good ‌enough to make the trials. If River got the job, they would have a lot of work to do in the coming months.

Chapter seven

Chris

Maybe I should just quit. I hate this. Brooke had been right; Chris no longer found swimming enjoyable. He had been so dumb to continue this journey, so dumb to let Laura dictate his life. There had been a time when swimming was fun, a point in his life where swimming was his solace. Where the pool had been the place he felt comfort, joy, and relaxation. A sanctuary from the dreadful events unfolding at home. But somewhere along the journey, that was lost. Chris once saw himself as a river shaping his own destiny, but had come to realize Laura was gently guiding him towards confusion. Creating a perplexing labyrinth from which Chris could not find his way out.

Because now the place that for so long had been his safe haven had transformed into his place of torment. The words his coaches and mother had spewed at him for so long screamed at him in his mind. What a disgrace! A loser, too slow, too heavy, never enough. Chris' self-worth was inextricably intertwined with his coach’s and mother's constant dissatisfaction with his swimming. The shame and disappointment in himself had grown roots, like an embedded weed.

Sometimes—most of the time if he was being honest with himself—after a swim, Chris wished he no longer was Christopher Page, semi-pro swimmer who was talented but just not talented enough. The one whose greatest skill seemed to be his mediocrity.

The temptation to skip the trip back to Boulder after the meet, leaving the city he loved and his hideous family behind, was strong. He could use a bit of his measly savings, the money he had hoarded away from his parents without their knowledge, and disappear.

He could go anywhere, get a job—his first actual job—and make it work. Build a new life—just be Chris or, fuck, he could rename himself; he could become Ewan. And as much as that idea of disappearing and never having to see his horrible, controlling family again, of never having to deal with an awful coach again thrilled him, it would be hard. His parents controlled his money, monitored his bank account, and owned the house he lived in. The money he saved apart from them would go fast and, let’s face it, he wasn’t smart enough to figure his life out. His mother reminded him of how dumb he was every time they saw each other. Plus, the prospect of being on his own scared the life out of him because without swimming, without his family, he was no one, and he had no one. The weight of his loneliness was so immense that the prospect of ostracizing his family, the only people he had, even with their dismissive treatment, felt too devastating. Maybe I wouldn’t be missed, maybe they would be happier if I never came back?

Today’s race was a mess from beginning to end. Instead of putting all of his focus on his swimming, Chris let his frustrations and sadness from earlier in the day eat at him. Without a coach or his parents, no one was on his side to cheer him on and distract him from firing Rick. Chris felt drained from years of vying for attention, tired of coaches yelling, tired of his mother beating him down and corroding his soul.

As a result, Chris started the race too fast, not conserving enough energy for the long heat, and then his goggles ‌flipped on his last turn, causing him to swim blind for the last twenty-five meters. It was literally a swimmer's worst nightmare.

Taking a deep breath, Chris dipped under the cold water, trying to escape the stinging burn at the back of his throat and hoping to cool the heat threatening the back of his eyes. Gathering his strength, he emerged to the surface, taking a huge mouthful of water and spraying it in front of him. Then he took another big mouthful, letting the warm water dribble from his mouth—the motion, a habit, a tic, a superstition, whatever you wanted to call it—was an easy way to relax after each race.

Glancing towards the stands, his eyes glimpsed the familiar face he had seen in the pictures Brooke had shown him: River—looming tall as he descended the stairs, long thick legs encased in joggers that were a bit too tight. His skin was pale and covered in dark tan freckles, a beautiful head of dark auburn hair that glowed when the sun hit it, and a smile so big the corners of his eyes creased.

As Chris started his cool-down, the rhythmic splash of water offered a momentary distraction from the anxious flutter in his chest at the prospect of speaking with River. Shocker, the laps did not help. As Chris swam, his labored breaths grew shorter, and his heart hammered a panicked, uneven cadence. Approaching the pool's edge, Chris spotted fingers wriggling beneath the surface; they were long and thick, connected to a hand heavily marked with freckles. What a cute way to get my attention. He brought his body to a halt. The water lapped around him, and Chris tilted his head back, his eyes traveling skyward.

Before he could even think of catching them, the words burst from his lips as he hauled himself out of the water. “Fuck, you’re tall.” River looked down at him with a restrained smile and a raised brow. So fucking pretty. Chris felt such warmth as he gazed up at River's kind, benevolent expression, completely imprisoned by River’s gaze. Chris was short and, looking up at River; he felt tiny. Having come from a family of tall people and spending most of his life competing against significantly larger men, Chris was well-prepared for the feeling. But standing looking up at River, with his tight white shirt stretched across his broad shoulders and powerful, veined forearms, Chris felt every inch of his smaller stature. He didn’t feel intimidated by the size difference; as a matter of fact, he kind of liked it…a lot. He liked it so much that a rush of heat coursed through his veins as he stared.

Chris kind of wanted River to pick him up and carry him.

He kind of wanted to climb River’s powerful body like a tree and hold on to him like a little koala. The visual image made Chris shake his head, because what the fuck?

Fuck, he is stunning. Chris couldn't look away, mesmerized by River's soft, almond-shaped eyes, accentuated by thick, dark lashes and bushy brows that seemed to quiver with amusement, like caterpillars doing a whimsical dance. River’s irises were a light honey brown, speckled just like his skin. Chris tried hard to keep his eyes from lingering on River’s striking, aquiline nose. Why am I such a slut for big noses? Chris resisted the urge to gawk. He tried and failed to not think of River nudging his sack with that nose. He tried and failed to not imagine that nose running up the length of his neck; the thought made him shiver. Chris’ mouth watered at the thought of getting up on his tiptoes and licking the tip, maybe biting it.

WHAT. THE. FUCK?

He should have felt mortified, of his imagination running wild with one titillating image after another, all conjured by a nose. Fucking weirdo. A nose was a weird fucking thing to be attracted to, but there was just something so…undeniably sexy about it. Ugh, god he couldn’t stop looking at it, and now the front of his shorts were tighter, and Chris was trying not to draw attention to his hands readjusting his traitor of a cock.

River was the one Chris wanted to have as his coach—he shouldn’t be salivating over River's nose, the reaction as unwelcome as the constricting sensation in his chest when looking into River's compelling eyes. He fought the urge to kiss each freckle adorning River’s plump, pink lips, but the thought persisted. River Arroyo was the most stunning man Chris had ever laid eyes on, and he felt a pull towards him he knew would lead to trouble.

“Nice to meet you, finally.” River’s voice rumbled, deep and authoritative, commanding attention.

Chris almost swallowed his tongue hearing River’s voice. “You too. Brooke has told me a lot about you.”