Page 6 of Stroked by (Stroked)
I take a look at my stomach, flexing it as my head falls forward. I might be older than my peers, but I still have one hell of a body . . . one that is slathered in oil currently.
“The girl who put it on was rather handsy. Pretty sure she spent extra time lathering me up.” I wipe my face with my hand in frustration and ask, “Ashley, is this really necessary?”
“The photo shoot?” she asks, her attention back on her phone. “Of course. They need pictures for the next season ofRollin’ In The Bacon. You know how production companies are, they always want promotional material.”
“I’m not talking about the show. I’m talking about the fake relationship you set me up with. In case you haven’t noticed, the woman is insane. She believes her dog is a disciple sent from God, she shames anyone who comes near her, and she seriously thinks this little publicity stunt you set up with her publicist is real.” I lean forward just to make sure Ashley is the only one to hear me. “She tried to kiss me the other day. She knows this isn’t real, right?”
Ashley nonchalantly shrugs her shoulders. “I can neither confirm nor deny what she knows.”
“Ashley,” I snap. “I’m a highly regarded Olympian—”
“Who is on his way out. Don’t forget this is your last Olympics, Reese. The media is already over the top with this being your send-off swim. We need to leverage this as much as possible for sponsors and partnerships once you hang up your little Speedo, especially since you don’t have the best reputation on the pool deck. Your temper with interviewers and paparazzi has painted you with quite the bad image. Oh, and don’t forget, you’re still striving for that untouchable gold medal you haven’t been able to snag.”
Didn’t I fucking know it.
I sit down and bring my hands to my head where I grip my hair, not caring that I’m messing with my “look.”
Three Olympics under my belt since I was sixteen and not one single fucking gold. I’m more popular for choking when it matters than my actual accomplishments. Rudely named The Silver Stroke by announcers, newspapers, and every media outlet there is, I’ve accomplished everything a swimmer could possibly ask for, besides the epitome of athletic success. I don’t have a gold medal. Not from lack of trying; my mental game has been fucked with too many times, all at the wrong moments.
I can be the fastest swimmer in the world but without a steady mental game, I can throw it all away. Every Olympics, I’ve come to a point where my mental game splintered right before it mattered and was unable to recover. Whether it was my dad having a heart attack, my grandpa dying, or private pictures being leaked to the media right before the big race, there has always been something that’s affected me that ultimately affected the outcome of every Olympic final I’ve participated in, christening me The Silver Stroke.
It’s not like being known as second best in my career isn’t devastating enough, but I think about it every fucking day while training, that and all the stories running rampant in the media about 2016 being my last Olympics. My face is plastered across almost every magazine right now, going into the games, claiming me as The Silver Stroke, only able to win silver at the Olympics and nothing more.
Ever hear about sports being eighty percent mental and twenty percent physical? It’s so fucking true. I’ve won championships, nationals, set records, established myself as one of the top male athletes in the world, but that one accomplishment—winning a gold—has eluded my grasp too many fucking times.
This is it for me.
I have one more chance, and instead of focusing on my training, I’m stuck doing promotional crap with a self-absorbed reality star.
At the time, when Ashley first spoke to me about having dinner with Bellini Chambers, it made sense, since her popularity was on the rise—Lord knows why—and I had just announced 2016 would be my last Olympics. It wasn’t a surprise to see the media waiting for us outside of the restaurant, taking our picture.
I couldn’t eat my food fast enough that night. Conversation was repulsive, given she talked about herself the entire time: how beautiful she is, how she has the best legs—ones that even rival Carrie Underwood’s—and how she is so rich, she doesn’t know how to spend the money. She giggled like an imbecile, had a piece of lettuce stuck in her teeth for at least three conversations, and of course, I never told her, because why would I? The girl needs to learn humility. Too bad for me the wine she had—served with ice—washed it down.
When I returned home that night, I vowed never to have dinner with her again, but after the media caught wind of our night out, all hell broke loose, and we were the new celebrity couple. Since I needed a future after swimming, Ashely thought it would be a good idea to leverage her popularity for my own good, to help with my image, and expose me in a light the general public hasn’t seen.
Looking at the leopard-print Speedo—which before today, I would never be caught dead in—I know I’ve made a mistake, but there is no going back now. I’ve already signed a contract to have my life recorded by a production crew and followed around, allowing the world into my life, a complete contrast to the private life I’ve strived for.
“Mr. King, we are ready for you.”
I nod at the production assistant and stand. Reluctantly, I grab my beach ball and head out to the set.
Before I am out of my dressing room, Ashely calls out, “This will be good for you, Reese. Suck it up for these next couple of months. I promise this decision will pay off.”
“I hope you’re right,” I mumble.
I am not a fame-whore, always seeking attention. It isn’t my cup of tea. I do magazine shoots, underwear campaigns, talk shows, and occasional announcing because it’s part of being a swimmer, not because I enjoy it. I don’t mind taking part in my duties, what I do mind is the invasion of privacy I deal with on a day-to-day basis with paparazzi and fans always taking pictures of me. Can’t a guy eat a burger without seeing his picture on Perez Hilton the next day with a half a strip of bacon hanging out of his mouth?
This reality show is against everything I want to be a part of, but after a long conversation with Ashley, I know my career is coming to an end and I need something as a backup. Without a gold, I am just a rugged face, with a reputation as the bad boy of the swimming pool, the legendary Silver Stroke, who never reached the apex of his career, instead failed miserably . . . three fucking times.
As I approach the set, Bellini is hyperventilating and waving her hands in front of her eyes, fending off tears. I resist the eye-rolling that forms from her ridiculousness and walk over to where she stands.
Mr. Chambers is holding Pope Francis, the only legit being in the family, wearing his same Burberry plaid pants, white polo, and gold sunglasses. He looks like an absolute mockery.
“Oh Reese,” she coos in relief, “thank God you’re here.” She grabs hold of my arm and hangs on to me dramatically. “They got the bench all wrong. It was supposed to be African blackwood, but it’s oak. I thought I could act like a peasant and sit on it but now I see it up close, I don’t think I can.”
I look at the bench, confused. “It’s a bench. Just sit on it. Who cares what kind of wood it is?”
The crew around me snickers from my clear logic.
