Page 84 of Stroked by (Stroked)
I wait in anticipation as the swimmers start to emerge from the locker room.
“This is it,” Melony whispers in my ear.
The camera crew has set-up to capture Bellini’s reaction so now she’s on her feet next to us, petting Pope Francis and looking semi-interested.
“For Christ’s sake, what is taking them so long? They have a pair of spandex to put on, it’s not like they’re battling in a full suit of metal armor. Although, that would be vastly more interesting than watching these want to be mer-men flop around in the water.”
Scratch that, she is not interested at all, just acting like it.
“There he is,” Melony shouts, pointing to Reese who is wearing his swim cap, goggles on his head, and sporting his freshly shaven face. Even though I love the scruff, he is still handsome as ever. The lights are dim in the stadium but I can still see the outline of his body in his track suit, the dark scrawl of his tattoo peeking past the zipper, and the deep concentration in his hazel gaze.
Just like that, I’m on edge. This is what it comes down to. He wins this race, he’s in. He’s going to Rio. He will compete for gold one last time.
“In lane four, returning back to the pool, three time Olympic medalist, Reese King!” The entire stadium erupts in cheers as chills take over my body, tears threatening to fall.
With a lift of his hand, he addresses the crowd while people chant his name and scream for him. Signs are scattered around the stadium proclaiming their love for Reese and his career. It’s overwhelming, and I’m getting emotional over the widespread love pouring out for him.
Shaky hands rest on my lap as tunnel vision eclipses me, pulling me into one view and one view only; Reese King, standing tall next to his diving block, swinging his arms back and forth, smacking his muscles, waking them up for the swim that awaits him.
Black and green goggles decorate the top of his black swim cap, black jammers cling to his legs, and his eyes are laser focused, zeroing in on the lane in front of him.
Eight swimmers, one hundred meters, and the difficult butterfly stroke separate him from his first qualification to Rio.
“Are they ever going to get in the pool?” Bellini asks. “Like they really all need an introduction. They are a bunch of grown-ass men who want to impersonate dolphins for a living.” She condescendingly slow claps. “Yes, let’s cheer about their commitment to masquerade as wet porpoises in crotch-hugging spandex. What is wrong with America?”
Ignoring the ignorant bitch next to me, who I can only truly assume is asexual, I clasp my hands together and steeple my fingers at my chin, a faintness starting to consume me.
Stepping up on the block, Reese bends over, stretches his arms and then gets in place as a hush falls over the crowd. From a megaphone, you hear “Take your mark,” and then a beep, causing all eight swimmers to shoot off their blocks and into the water. My heart plummets and I watch with anticipation.
Reese is the second out of the dive, surfacing with a wide stroke, his upper half gliding over the water. In a blur of splashes, Reese’s tattoo shines through, letting me know where he is in the pool. I fixate on that tattoo as fans around me scream and cheer.
To his right, Bodi Banks extends what only seems like a few inches further, beating Reese to the wall where they turn flip and head for the home stretch. Above the pool, the jumbotron shows the world record pace line and how close both Bodi and Reese are at catching it.
“Come on, come on,” I whisper, my hands sweating together.
“King is coming up on Banks, he has a lot to do if he wants to win this over Banks’ steady pace.”
Announcers are annoying, let’s just get that out there. They do nothing but ruin the experience for viewers, filling their minds with unnecessary stressors.
They’re closing in, Reese and Bodi are battling for the lead, it’s too close to tell with the human eye, it will come down to who’s fingertips touch the wall first.
“They’re neck and neck coming into the final meters, it looks like it might be Banks . . .”
Both swimmers touch the wall and turn to the screen up above, as well as the entire stadium. Lane four lights up with the win and Reese’s name appears at the top just as the crowd erupts in cheers.
Fisting the air, Reese celebrates, water spurting from his mouth. Bodi reaches over the lane and holds out his hand. Both men, pull each other in for a hug and then look back up at the screen displaying the time.
He’s done it.
“Ahhhhhh!” Melony screams next to me. “He won!”
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious,” Bellini says. “Are we done here?” she asks Jasper who is taking notes on a clipboard in his hand. “The chlorine smell is making Pope Francis nauseous, and I can’t stand to see one more rounded ball poking through those ill-fitting swimsuits.”
“We got the shot. Even when you clapped Pope Francis’s paws together.”
“Oh good,” Bellini states, gathering her items. “He always wants to clap but can’t seem to work his paws the right way.”
“We’re good here,” Jasper says to the crew.
