Page 85 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Someone inform Pocket we’re leaving. I can’t even think about her right now, I will throw up. Let’s go, Mauve and Melon.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, my feet cemented in place.
“What don’t you understand? We’re leaving. Did you really think we would be staying for this entire weekend? No, not a chance. Book yourselves on standby flights, we’re heading home. I have some sorting of fabrics I must attend to and, Mauve, you have some assisting to do. So get up, I don’t pay hired help to sit on their asses all day long.”
My heart sinks to the ground as I realize I won’t be staying for the rest of the races, or even the rest of the weekend. I should have known better than to think Bellini would stay the entire meet. I’m surprised she even showed up in the first place.
On our way out, I shoot Reese a quick text message to let him know what’s going on and then hightail it back to the hotel where I spend a good two hours packing Bellini and trying to find a flight for Melony and me back home.
“Oh, Mauve, please order ten cases of tomato juice to be sent here. Put it on the card.”
“Aren’t you leaving?” I ask, confused by the insane request.
“Yes, but I refuse to fly back with Pocket smelling like a used trash bag that she ate, puked up and the swallowed again.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rolling her eyes, Bellini hovers above me, a patronizing look in her eyes. “What don’t you understand? I’m going to dip Pocket in tomato juice to get that horrid smell off her. Honestly, Mauve, how you’ve been able to walk through life with half a brain cell is beyond me.”
She storms off, Pope Francis trailing behind her.
But tomato juice is for skunks . . .
Pocket deserves a purple heart for the shit she has to put up with.
Chapter Twenty
**REESE**
“Feels great. I’m excited to join the team down in San Antonio in a few weeks,” I say into the phone, answering questions for my tenth interview today. I scan my watch. Six forty-nine, Paisley should have been here almost two hours ago.
It’s bad enough she missed the rest of the swim meet because of Bellini and left me without a fuck and snuggle in Omaha, but I haven’t seen her since I’ve returned, and it’s driving me insane.
“You’re only doing three events this year, a significant drop from your usual seven and six, was there a reasoning for that?”
Yeah, it’s called getting fucking old. I am barely able to get out of bed these days, swimming prelims, semi-finals, and finals for seven events in a five-day span seems like hell to me. I talked it over with my coach and we came to the conclusion I’m just not built to do that many races anymore. My body can’t keep up with the young twenty-year-olds I will be swimming next to and I would rather not look like a dick trying to float around with them. So we’re stuck with my three best events, the 100M Butterfly, 400M Individual Medley, and the 100M Freestyle.
Being as professional as possible, I answer, “My body isn’t what is used to be, Dave. Do I wish I could do all those events and keep up through the entire course of the week? Yes. Is it realistic? No. I would rather give up some races for some new blood to come in and give it a shot than hoard all of them. I’m comfortable and confident with my three races.”
“Do you think this is the year you finally shed the nickname The Silver Stroke and capture a gold for the first time in your career?”
That question never gets old, still makes me want to punch a hole through the wall. Do I like being known as the biggest choke artist in Olympic history? Not so much. I hold world records, world championships, and have built a brand and a name for myself by stroking my way through water. I’ve done everything a professional swimmer can accomplish, besides one thing . . . winning gold. No matter my other accomplishments, I feel like a complete failure from never being able to take home a gold, but instead I watch Bodi Banks stand in the middle podium, his arm propped over his chest, singing our national anthem. Silver is great and all, but what it comes down to is it’s the first loser. I don’t want to be remembered as the first loser for the rest of my life.
“Who knows?” I answer as casually as possible. “I’m definitely gunning for it.”
“Well, we wish you luck, Reese. We would love to see you rise from the ashes.” I grit my teeth and hold back the slew of curse words threatening to take over the interview.
“Thank you,” I grit out and hang up as the interviewer finishes up the call, reading off my stats.
What a prick.
Tossing my phone on the coffee table I run my hand through my hair. This weekend in Omaha was a whirlwind, and I don’t even remember most of it. I do remember swimming some of the best races of my career. I felt like I was twenty again, gliding through the water with ease. Bodi Banks wasn’t even a concern of mine this weekend. If I wasn’t pushing my early thirties, I would think about racing more events, but I’m smarter than that.
After this Olympics, I plan on wrapping up this godforsaken show, getting out of it as quickly as possible, “breaking up” with Bellini, and cashing in on some promos, maybe go into some announcing, or start my own swim camp. Who knows? Starting a family would be on the top of my list, but I’ve just started seeing Paisley, and she’s significantly younger than me, just starting her career out of college. She still needs to find her way before settling down.
Shit, is that something I would want? To settle down with Paisley?
I might not know everything about her, but what I do know is she makes me happy, and she eases the tension constantly coiling in my stomach over my last ride down the Olympic pipeline. With just one smile on that beautiful face of hers, she brings me to my knees, and I pray she doesn’t leave me. I’ve only known her for a few weeks, but within those weeks, I don’t think I’ve ever smiled as much as when I’m around her.
