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Panting, I hold my cum-slicked fingers out toward my phone, like he can see them. I doubt he’s tasted a man’s cum before. He shoves his heterosexuality down the throats—no pun intended—of everyone who visits his social media. But I’d bet money he wants to try. Anyone who goes through a girlfriend a week clearly hasn’t found what he’s looking for.
Someone turns on a lawn mower outside and I jerk back to reality. Dazed, I walk more carefully to the bathroom and wash my hands until they only smell like Tropical Sunset, according to the soap bottle. My head throbs in protest when I turn on the overhead light and start chucking empty bottles and cans into a recycle bin. I haven’t seen daylight for so long that the whole world looks unfamiliar as I climb the stairs and sit on the kitchen counter, downing glass after glass of water and studying the trees out the window.
I logged out of all my social media apps a few days ago to try and save my sanity, and now there’s something humiliating in the way I have to try passwords over and over until they lock me out and make me laboriously reset everything. Ignoring the notifications in the corner, my eyes go straight to the new tweet at the top of my feed, sent just a few minutes ago:
@justdare2believe: Thanks for all the tips over the years, @tvaughnswims. I owe everything to your example of what not to do.
It's followed by a smug kissing emoji. Slamming my phone down on the counter, I bury my face in my hands and groan.
* * *
Four Months Later
“Bye, Mister Tate.” Dripping water everywhere, the little boy winds up like a pitcher in the World Series, then smacks my palm so hard his feet nearly leave the concrete. All the kids in my level two swim class watch my face eagerly. When I just smile, unphased, they groan and slouch away to the locker rooms. They think I don’t know about their contest to see who can be the first person to make me flinch. I haven’t let on that I found the bag of candy they hid in the back of an unused locker, to be awarded to the winner. When I’m feeling weak after an hour in the weight room, I steal a fun-sized Snickers or two.
Stretching and toweling off, I finger some gel through my wet hair and pull on a Seattle Krakens hoodie. Laughter, voices, and splashing carry down the hallway from the rest of the Lang Aquatic Center. I’ve volunteered here since my retirement four months ago, donating my time to their packed schedule of outreach, education, and professional training. Between the classes full of unruly kids and Alek and Victor, the two eccentric ex-Olympic swimmers who run the place, it keeps me on my toes and fulfills me in ways my swimming career never did.
The kids scattered foam kickboards all over the deck, so I gather them up in a neat pile, setting aside the ones that have gotten cracked from too many head-smacking fights between the boys.
“Tate.” I don’t have to turn around to identify the laconic voice behind me.
“Yeah?” When I flex one of the damaged boards, it breaks in half in my hands and I sigh.
“Tate.”
“Hm?”
“Tate.”
I spin around irritably. “Can I help you, Victor?”
“Stop breaking shit and pay attention to me.” One of the greatest swimmers of our generation flops down cross-legged on the edge of the pool and strokes his fingers through the water, like he’ll die if his body isn’t connected to it at all times.
“Oh, sorry I’m busy teaching eighty percent of your classes for free. Are you going to help me clean up?”
“Sure.” Pushing his curls out of his eyes, he picks up a board, studies it distractedly, then drops it in the pool and watches it float away. “I need you to drive someone down to the charity swim meet this weekend in Vancouver.”
I pause in confusion. “Why? I’m not a taxi service.”
Tipping his head back, he blinks at the skylights far above, streaked with spitting Seattle rain. “In a beautiful twist of irony, Alek was helping him rehab from an injury.” I flinch. Alek, the other owner of the facility, has been hobbling around on crutches since he tripped on the front steps a few days ago. “He wants someone to keep an eye on the kid, make sure he sticks to his reconditioning routine and takes care of himself. I’d go, but Alek says I’m not allowed to take anyone anywhere unsupervised. You have a sports medicine degree, right?”
I consider pretending I majored in textile art–any excuse to stay away from an event where I’ll undoubtedly see my former team. Instead, I just shrug and fumble for words.
“I’ll pay you. Name the price.”
“I don’t…”
He scrambles to his feet, all lanky and still damp from whatever pool he just left. “I’ll buy you new kickboards. Whatever state of the art fucking microchipped self-driving smart kickboards they make these days, all for you.”
Huffing, I roll my eyes. He knows I don’t have a life outside of my cat and my classes here. “Whatever.”
“Thanks.” He offers his hand. When I take it, he tightens his fingers around my palm. “To be clear, we just shook on this. The fate of nations hinges on the sanctity of handshakes, so no take-backs.”
Unease flares up in the back of my mind. “Why would I want to take it back?” But he’s already gone. I study my hand, then wipe it off on my shorts with the sinking feeling I just made a mistake. Once everything’s cleared away, I decide to hit the treadmills upstairs before lunch. I jam my bare feet into a loose pair of sneakers and shuffle down the hall, pausing outside the door to Pool 3. Last week, the staff forgot to put out the lane lines, and I wasted the first ten minutes of my afternoon class unspooling them. I should make sure everything’s ready this time.
When I shoulder open the heavy door, the faint sound of splashing drifts up to the vaulted ceiling. Hot, chlorinated air washes over my skin as I approach the pool, looking around for any sign of a teacher or coach. I’m alone except for the muscular body powering through the water, twisting into a turn, then coming back. He’s an aggressive swimmer, throwing water everywhere instead of keeping his body streamlined. Something about it tugs at my memory.
The man comes up, gulping in breaths as he grips the side of the pool with one hand and pushes his goggles up with the other. “You can’t be in here, sir,” I call. “Open swim hours start at four. People are using this space for classes.”
