Page 123 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Kill it, man,” Bodi says right before I walk out of the locker room.
The 100-meter freestyle is the only race Bodi isn’t racing with me during the Olympics; it’s not his best race so he doesn’t compete.
I nod at him in acknowledgement and follow the other swimmers to the pool deck where the cheering crowd waits for us. The venue is packed to the brim. It’s so loud I can barely hear the negative talk inside my head, trying to bring me down.
Despite the pep talk Hollis gave me in my dorm, I still can’t seem to shake the thought of this race being pointless. Throughout the last sixteen years, I’ve spent countless hours in the pool and the gym, and this is it. One race. For the life of me, I can’t overcome the feeling that I’m once again going to pull silver.
Maybe that’s who I really am. I’m The Silver Stroke. If anything, I will go down in history as the biggest choke artist in Olympic history. Any other race, whether it’s a national championship or a collegiate race, I’ve won gold. I have countless medals in my house boasting the talent I was blessed with, letting the world know I’m not just a B-swimmer, I’m a motherfucking A-swimmer, one to reckon with. But when it counts, when it comes down to the biggest race of my life, I’ve never been able to cash in. And I’m feeling it’s going to be the same thing now.
Lights flash around the stadium as I come into view. I’m not wearing my usual swim parka, and I’ve chosen to nix the earphones this go around. There is not one single song that will do my last race justice, so instead, I choose to listen to the crowd, to soak in this last moment, despite the war raging inside me.
As the other swimmers get ready by shaking their arms, moving their heads side to side, listening to their music, I rest my hands on my hips and look around the venue. There is not a single empty seat in the stadium, and viewers from around the world are watching with anticipation. Every pre-race ritual I’ve ever had vanishes as I continue to absorb every last feeling, every last noise,everylast smell.
In the distance, I can hear the announcer call out the swimmers and their lanes, which has the crowd roaring with appreciation for their favorite to win.
“In lane four, from the United States of America, Reese King.” The announcers voice echoes through my ears but is quickly washed away by the overwhelming roar of the crowd.
It’s deafening.
A camera is spotlighted on me from below, trying to capture my reaction for folks watching at home. Normally it wouldn’t bother me but the minute the entire venue starts chanting my name, covering up the voice of the announcer, emotions hit.
My throat clogs and my eyes star to water. In the stands, there are American flags waving frantically, signs with my name on them, and loyal fans screaming “Reese” at the top of their lungs.
This race isn’t for me anymore. This race is for them. This race is for the man who’s stood by my side from the very beginning, for my family who toted me around to various pools for meets and practices, for my teammates who’ve always had faith in for me . . . for Paisley who captured my heart the moment she stepped foot on set.
Fuck Bellini, fuck the drama, and fuck everything else. This is my last race—my last chance—and to hell if I’m going to let anything get in the way of me enjoying it.
The feeling of being twelve once again, barely filling my Speedo, overcomes me as I step up on the diving block. Who cares about form, about stroke count, about time? I’m going to swim this race as if a sea monster is chasing me, like I used to . . . one last fucking time.
Snapping my goggles in place, I adjust my swim cap and get into position. Excitement courses through me as I close my eyes and envision the sea creature that used to chase me so many years ago.
One last go.
One last chase.
One last race.
“Take your mark.” I lift my backside, applying my weight to my legs and while the venue quiets down, I listen carefully.
Beep.
The instant the sound flows through me, the crowd erupts as my body goes under water. Like a fucking bat out of hell, I kick my way through my dive and surface, not bothering to even notice the men swimming next to me. I’m completely focused on the monster behind me, nipping at my toes and trying to get as far away from him as possible.
Before I know it, I’m at the turn, working my away back on the home stretch. It’s a fast race, one that only lasts a few seconds, but while you’re in it, trudging through the water, it seems like hours.
My feet kick rapidly, my heart pounds quickly in my chest, and my arms fly over me, stroke after stroke. Below me is the pool’s black line, letting me know how straight I’m swimming and if I’m staying on course. As the “T” of the pool comes closer, I give one last surge—everythingleft inside me—as I kick and stroke right into the wall, my fingertips slamming into the wall, nearly snapping them in half.
In what feels like slow motion, I turn around to look up at the scoreboard as the venue nearly crumbles from cheers. Through my goggles, I look at second place on the scoreboard and I’m disappointed when King doesn’t come up. My heart falls and my stomach bottoms out as I realize I didn’t even fucking place second.
Lifting my goggles in disappointment, I lean my head against the side of the pool and look at the rankings.
That’s when I fucking see it.
Plain as fucking day, my name in the number-one spot with an American flag proudly displayed next to it.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper to myself as my hands go to my head in disbelief.
Once again, the crowd starts chanting my name as my competitors swim to my lane to congratulate me. They clasp my hand and hug me, but all I can do is stare at the screen in disbelief. Utter shock runs through me.
