Page 117 of Stroked by (Stroked)
Is she kidding? Every single day I’m with her she talks about how I don’t brush my hair. At first, I took extra time in the morning to make sure it was brushed more than normal. I even bought some anti-friz serum to calm any flyaway hair, make it look more silky. However, when she continued her little digs, I gave up. There was no use. I brush my hair. I know it, Reese knows it, and Melony knows it, that’s all that really matters to me at this point.
“Ugh,” she moans, draping herself over the chair, her legs dangling over the stranger next to her and leaning on Ruby. “This is torture. I’ve done some abhorrent things for this show, for a good laugh, but this is an entirely new level of desperation on production’s part. Do they really think viewers will be interested in Reese jerking off in the water? We all know he’s going to get silver. Let’s cut to four years ago and be done with it.”
“Bellini,” I hiss. “Stop, people can hear you.”
Straightening up, she looks me in the eye. “Do you really think I care what these foreigners think? They don’t even know who I am, which is insulting in itself, nor do they understand English, which is barbaric. I want to go back home where silly pedestrians stop me on the street to ask me to have Pope Francis bless their children.”
Thankfully, the announcer, speaking in English and then Portuguese, drowns out Bellini’s voice. The next race, according to my schedule, is Reese’s first heat. Some races have prelims, semi-finals, and then finals, but for the 400M Individual Medley, they just have a round of heats and then the finals, which take place this evening. It’s a grueling schedule for those swimming in multiple events. I can’t imagine Reese doing more than the races he already has, which is three. His other two races are later in the week.
Cheers erupt through the stadium as some of the first swimmers from Australia and Great Britain are announced. There is something to be said about the atmosphere of the Games: the best athletes from around the world coming together to compete, you can’t help but get chills from it.
“And in lane four, from the United States of America, Reese King.”
An uproarious chant for Reese starts all around us, and I’m that girl who joins in, clapping my hands and screaming at the top of my lungs. Melony stands next to me, doing the same, and it isn’t until my side starts to hurt that I realize Bellini is poking me in the rib with her nail file.”
“Yes?” I ask her, losing my patience.
“Did you realize you look like a two-ton out-of-work Komodo dragon when you scream and bounce around like that? It’s very unflattering.”
“Noted,” I grit out, so not in the mood to listen to Bellini’s shit.
“No wonder you have to lie about being a lesbian and hide the fact you’re dating a man by the name of Clyde. I would be ashamed of myself too if I had your pores. Do you even exfoliate?”
I’m two seconds from blasting my fist through Bellini’s throat only to strangle her with her own esophagus when Jasper turns in his chair and looks up at us, camera crew in tow.
“Bellini, I suggest you hold your tongue for the next few minutes while the camera is on you. We need film of you watching this race.”
She rolls her eyes and picks at a piece of lint on her skirt. “I’m not some marionette puppet that you get to pull around. I am a real human being.”
“Are you? Seems more like you’re a disciple of Satan,” Jasper mutters just loud enough to hear over the announcer.
“How dare you,” Bellini roars, drawing attention from our surrounding seatmates. “I will have you fired for that.” Straightening in her chair, she puffs out her chest and fixes her cardigan that is starting to fall off her shoulders. “This entire production is forming a mutiny against me. I will remind all of you, including you, Melon, that I am the one in charge. I am the talent, and the lies, the comments, the nasty retorts are going to stop now or you’re not going to like what happens. My dad knows people in the mafia. I can have you all slaughtered in seconds and then put through a wood chipper. I would watch what you say.”
Jasper doesn’t even blink an eye. “Bellini, you need us more than we need you, simple as that. So you can either drop the threats and start acting like a professional, or you can walk away. I will release you from your contract right now.”
“Fine, release me,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’m sure I can find another network—”
“You can’t,” say Jasper. “No one will want to work with you. You have a bad reputation. So, put a smile on your face, look at the camera, and cheer for Reese, because the race is about to start.”
“Barbarian,” she screams, but then like a demonic human being, plasters a fake smile on her face, waves a mini American flag, and looks down at the pool with all the intention of cheering for Reese. I’ve never seen someone morph that quickly; it’s quite frightening.
Shaking my head, I turn toward the pool as the swimmers prepare to stand on the blocks. My eyes are fixed on Reese as he starts whacking his arms and legs, warming up his muscles. Everything in his body flexes and shakes as he focuses on the lane in front of him.
His jammers hang low on his waist, showing off his deep V and the stomach muscles I ran my tongue over a few weeks ago. I miss his body, the warm heat of his skin, the way his lips run across my ear as he whispers into it. It’s been too long since I’ve been with him and even though FaceTime has been helpful, it’s not the same. I want his touch. I need it.
After this race. Before the finals tonight.
Together, the swimmers take their places on the diving blocks. Some of them fidget with their goggles, others check their hair in their swim cap, and then there is Reese. He stands tall on his block, his tattoo making him easily identifiable from the rest of the swimmers. His stature screams power, confidence, and in this moment, I know he’s going to accomplish everything he’s dreamed of. This Olympics is his.
Bending over, the swimmers grip the edge of the block and plant their feet askew. Back muscles and toned arms vibrate down the line, waiting to be released. I wait in anticipation for the beep to sound.
“Take your mark.” The crowd dies down, and the venue is almost completely silent. Then, a simple beep and the race begins.
Reese jumps off the block, flying through the air and straight into the water. Like a fish, he propels himself underwater only to surface into the butterfly stroke. His commanding arms rotate in and out of the water, shooting him forward ahead of the pack.
Just from talking to Reese, I know his best strokes are the butterfly and free, backstroke being his worst, so he needs to a good lead going into the backstroke which is next.
Cheers echo around me. The announcers call out who is in the lead through the speakers, and right next to me, Bellini cheers, calling out to Reese, “You got this, baby.”
