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“Whatever.” I fumble with my boxers and shorts, struggling to my feet. Every part of me hurts, my shoulder most of all. Or maybe it’s coming from somewhere deeper, in the center of my chest. “Just leave me alone.”
He doesn’t do anything to stop me from stumbling out the door. At least it’s late enough, as I head back to my empty room, that there’s no one around to wonder about all the cum stains on my shirt.
5
TATE
Rather than risk running into Darius at the continental breakfast, I head for my Jeep and drive around until I find a Walmart the size of a small European country. I waste almost forty minutes scouring the store for the exact protein bar and pre-packaged Danishes I always bought on the morning of a competition.
Athletes love rituals, or maybe we’re just slaves to them. You spend hours every day perfecting your body, and you still have so little control of what happens when it’s time to perform. For every winner, there are eight losers who worked just as hard. So you chase coincidences, the things you did before a win, in case they can bring you another. My team and I would get up at six and hunt through local stores until we found these exact Danishes. Then I’d go back to my hotel room and my partner would be awake. He’d laugh and pull the blankets over his head, pretend he couldn’t get out of bed until I fucked him. Sometimes he wanted me to make him my slut, and other times we just made love.
Here I am, missing my first major event since my retirement, and I’m still chasing rituals I can’t even complete because I don’t have a team or a partner anymore. Just a squashed pastry in a plastic wrapper.
Maybe I should have expected it, but as I pass the breakfast aisle I hear familiar voices. The men I thought were my best friends are goofing around as they collect handfuls of peanut-butter flavored protein bars. My heart swells and pulls desperately toward the sound of their laughter, which was home to me for years. Like I could start over and ride with them to warmups, talking strategy for the day. My body still pulses to the rhythm we taught it, even five months later. Just as I’m about to hurry away, I realize Darius isn’t with them. Maybe he’s still in his room, skipping breakfast, or maybe he’s eating oatmeal alone in the corner of the dining area. Maybe I’m not the only person who’s been left behind. But he didn’t even have a chance to enjoy it first.
As I speed-walk toward the checkout, looking over my shoulder to make sure they didn’t spot me, I have no idea whether I’m going to get in my car and drive straight back to Seattle or go and face Darius. What started out as a desire to fuck with his head turned into something far too complicated, and I don’t think either of us has any interest in revisiting that mistake.
But when I get in my car and catch the faint remnant of Darius’ scent, I turn back toward the hotel. I’m here for Alek, and Victor, and the boy who makes bad decisions, who insists on swimming with an injury. The one that fought me and tried to be good and orgasmed while clinging to me like a piece of driftwood in a flood. “Fuck you sideways,” I grunt, looking at myself in the rearview mirror and pretending my face belongs to Victor.
By the time I go back to my room, change, and return to the lobby, Darius is waiting on an uncomfortable-looking bench by the door. He slouches against the backrest, staring blankly at the floor between his feet. When I clear my throat, his head jerks up and about fifty expressions flicker across his face before flattening into a halfhearted smirk. “You’re late. Let’s go.”
“What did you eat for breakfast? How much sleep did you get?” As his de facto coach, I should have given him instructions instead of leaving him to fend for himself.
“Jesus. Eggs and seven hours.” He gets up and stretches, revealing his blond happy trail and the hem of his swimming trunks under his loose shorts. Despite his gelled hair and freshly-shaven cheeks, something feels off about him. Before I can look closer, he shoves on his sunglasses and stalks toward the door, lugging his backpack. “Alek isn’t paying you to talk to me, Tate.”
“I’m not going to let him pay me. That’s ridiculous.”
He fumbles for a second, almost losing his grip on the heavy front door. It’s gone so fast I wonder if I imagined it. “Then you’re an even bigger loser than I thought.”
The strained conversation dries up completely when we climb into the Jeep and start the eight-minute ride to the pool. He hugs his bag in his lap today, instead of throwing it in the back, and stares out the window. Weeks of endless drizzle gave way to a bright blue sky with cotton ball clouds that have never heard of a rainstorm. All the trees and grass still sparkle with the memory of water that never quite dries.
The parking lot has started to fill up, so I pull into the back corner, under a sagging oak tree. Darius doesn’t move, even when I switch the engine off. Just when I get sick of waiting and reach to pull the keys out of the ignition, he sucks in a deep breath. “I lied to you.” Eyes still hidden by shades, he studies the landscaping.
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t try to sleep. I watched Brooklyn 99 reruns all night and drank energy drinks from the minibar until I puked. I didn’t shower or eat this morning.” When he finishes, he tips his chin up defiantly, still facing straight ahead.
I stare at him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, his fists clenched in his lap. He’s so unfairly gorgeous, with a perfect jawline and beautiful muscle definition beneath his sun-bronzed skin.
Reaching across the center console, I hook a finger around his chin and turn his face toward mine. My fingers brush his cheek as I carefully pull off his sunglasses, revealing that electric blue beneath. Christ he looks exhausted, hurting and scared with dark smudges under his eyes. You know who’s still here when I wake up in the morning? None of you.
“Do you enjoy making the worst possible decisions, or do you just not know any better?” I ask quietly. His breath catches, and relief floods his eyes. If I didn’t already know I made a terrible mistake last night, I do now.
“What would you do if I told you it was on purpose, to spite you?” he enunciates, throwing each word at me like a challenge.
“I want you to feel good and perform well for your competition,” I say carefully, reaching for the keys.
His jaw tightens. “Maybe I don’t want to.” And I can’t tell if he’s serious or just trying to get a reaction.
Turning in my seat to face him, I place two fingers against the pulse point in his neck. It’s going a hundred miles an hour. “I don’t think you’re trying to spite me.” When he starts to protest, I move my fingers to his mouth, pressing against his full lips. The touch makes his eyelids flitter. “Let me finish. I think you’re trying to spite yourself, because you’re falling apart as a swimmer and you’re desperate for cock and you can’t cope except to fuck everything up even more. Does that sound about right?”
He swallows, watching me intently, then ducks his chin and noses softly at my fingers. “Hurt me again, Tate. Make me do something sick. I don’t wanna be the most fucked up thing here anymore.”
I almost do it. His face is in my hands, and I know he’ll do anything I say. Then reality crashes in, along with an ache in my chest. “Wait, stop. No more.”
He jerks back a little, breaking the physical connection, his eyes startled. “Huh?”
I rub at the beginnings of a headache throbbing at my temples. “This…thing. It’s really personal for me. You said you don’t want to be used; neither do I. I can’t dispense it like a vending machine just because some random person wants reassurance.”
