Page 4 of Stroke Rate

“Thanks, man. I just have to grow some balls and do it.”

“Nah, man, you've got balls,” Jackson said with a wink. Well, Chris thought it was a wink, but in reality he closed both eyelids. Chris couldn’t stop himself from laughing at him, and Jackson smiled back with a laugh. “I know I can't wink.” He made another attempt; it didn't work. Jackson shrugged, pulling his lip ring between his teeth.

“Hey Bran, enough about me,” Chris nudged him with an elbow. “Why don’t you wave Phae over? He’s lurking like a vampire in the corner. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since we sat down.”

"Shhh," Bran said, as if Phae could hear them across the room. Chris called Phae over instead of making Bran do it himself. Phae strolled to the bar, looking ethereal. His hair was so white it glowed under the lights, and his eyes—those eyes, glistening and almost colorless. When he made eye contact, Chris couldn't break his stare, pulled into their magnetic icy-blue depths. He was gorgeous, but only had eyes for Bran.

Phae approached Bran from behind, his long delicate fingers wrapped around Bran’s shoulder with tenderness. Chris watched in fascination as Bran shivered, then melted with the feather-light brush of fingers against his nape, as if his body was relieved of every bit of tension from one touch. Bran’s muscles went limp, his body looking like a puppet with its tethers released as he leaned back into Phae’s chest. The small interaction felt intimate in a way that Chris had never known, but wanted with such intensity that his chest ached. He averted his gaze, giving the two men a moment alone, fearing the yearning he felt would be evident on his flushed, heated face.

“Nice seeing you again, Bran.” Phae stooped, speaking close to Bran’s ear, his voice like syrup. Chris noticed a deep crimson flush creep up Bran's neck, his eyes widening and his mouth falling ajar, as if Phae's gentle touch and words were the most electrifying encounter he'd experienced. Chris had never seen Bran so at ease; the habitual crease between his brows had vanished, replaced by a gentle, almost sleepy look in his eyes. The scene caused Chris’ bones to ache with longing at the sight of their tender, sweet moment. He wanted that.

He wanted to trust a touch.

He wanted to relax into someone’s arms.

He wanted to not freeze up with every feather-light brush of a hand.

“Again?” Chris questioned.

Bran’s eyes widened, like a deer that was frozen by headlights. “Ummm yeah, Phae asked me to meet him here a couple of days ago. We just hung out. It was nothing.”

“Shhhh Bran,” Phae caressed his arm, soothing him like he was a frightened animal, before running the tip of his nose up the shell of Bran’s ear.

“Y’all are really cute,” Chris motioned between Phae and Bran. “Have you guys ever thought of playing together? Dating? Anything?” A soft curve tugged at the corners of his mouth. Chris hoped Bran would understand that he was alright, that Chris would be okay if Bran pursued Phae.

Phae, with his tranquil dominance, observed Bran from above, arching his brow.

“Um, well, you and I play,” Bran stuttered. Phae squeezed his shoulder as Bran looked up at him, eyes tender and loving.

Phae looked straight at Chris. His direct eye contact was rare and vulnerable, making Chris want to reach out and squeeze Phae’s hand in reassurance. “What Bran is trying to say is, no, we have not but we would like to.”

“Oh you guys, yes please, yes. Bran, why didn’t you say something? This is nothing.” Gesturing between the two of them, making Bran bristle at the statement. “I’m sorry Bran, I didn’t mean we were nothing. I didn’t mean you were nothing to me. This is coming out all wrong.” He paused, putting a hand on Bran’s knee, practicing getting used to touching someone in comfort. “You should go and explore this. Seriously.”

Bran looked torn and apologetic, the crease between his brows was back, his eyes looking at the floor. He nodded his head and whispered, “Thanks.”

As the night wore on, Chris pondered what he wanted, considering the possibility of desiring more from a relationship. Watching Phae and Bran opened something in him—something he had pushed down for a long time. An unusual envy stirred in him, a desire not for control but for the natural intimacy the pair seemed to enjoy.

Chris watched as they glanced at each other, observed as their hands brushed, and how a gentle squeeze on a thigh lingered. A fractional tightening in Chris' chest accompanied each minimal touch between the two, almost stealing his breath with an overwhelming need, his skin feeling taut and eager with want. That’s it, the voice said, that’s what you want, and Chris thought he might actually like touch like that. With the right person; with a person who felt safe. He might even crave the soft squeeze of a gentle hand against his skin, a soft caress down his back, a raking of fingers over his scalp. The possibility had goosebumps erupting down the length of his spine. What would it feel like to give in to that want? To not have so many rules, to give in and just feel. If only Chris could react like Bran did to Phae, if only Chris could find the one person who could have soothed all of his scars. Maybe one day. A hopeful little spark ignited in his chest; maybe one day he would find what those two seemed to have found in one another.

Chapter three

River

The hotel room was nothing special. It was a small, sterile box devoid of warmth, with a bed fitted with stiff, bleached sheets that were too rough, too scratchy, and too smelly for River’s body to find comfort in. He stared up at the popcorn ceiling, contemplating what he had done in another life to warrant the reality he was enduring. At thirty-six, River was nowhere near the path he had imagined he would be on. River had envisioned himself as a husband with a child in his cozy Lakewood, Colorado bungalow, in a soft bed, with the love of his life. What River would have given for another evening in bed with Coop, another sniff of that spot behind his earlobe that always made Coop shiver, or another taste of Coop’s soft lips against his own. Alas, destiny seemed to have had alternative plans.

For months Brooke had been forwarding River footage of Christopher Page, her best friend and semi-pro swimmer. River had watched swim meet after swim meet, interviews and practice tapes; watching them more than he would ever admit. Brooke thought River needed to be Chris’ coach, always with a twinkle in her eye as she said, ‘You would be great together.’

It had been four years since River had coached, four years since the accident, four years drowning in his grief and therapy. Four years leaching off the colossal financial settlement he had received. When the legal process after the accident was all said and done, he and everyone else on the bus had received enough money to live a life of luxury for the rest of their lives. And even though River was thankful to have the cushion, it was one more thing that made him feel worthless and unworthy to still be alive. Most days he found even spending a penny of the blood money repulsive, as though he was benefitting from the loss of so many people he had loved.

Though River had worked for four years to recover thanks to endless therapy sessions, journal writing, and inner reflection. It wasn't until he heard the sounds of an aquatic center and saw images of swimmers on the videos that he thought about living again.

River found something captivating about the boy in the videos. The same boy he had watched four years ago at the regional trials on the day that irrevocably altered his life. Perhaps it was the way his smile lit up his face during interviews. Maybe it was the way his fit body glided through the water. Or maybe it was his heartbreaking loss at the last Olympic trials. Whatever it was, it inspired River to want to try. Watching Christopher swim had made him want to coach again; and maybe to even attempt to live again. So, he did something completely out of character and flew to Indy to watch Chris swim. His plan for the next day was to introduce himself, ask for a meeting, and plead his case to see if Christopher was ready for a new coach.

Resting on the scratchy, uncomfortable hotel bed, River started his mouth and tongue exercises, hoping the muted thrum of the A/C unit and the repetitive motion of his tongue would soothe his apprehension about the day to come. He pulled his lips taut, filled his cheeks with air, and wiggled his tongue. The routine so habitual he didn’t have to think about it anymore as River’s difficulties with speaking had been a challenge for as long as he could remember.

Childhood Apraxia of Speech was his official diagnosis—a frustrating miscommunication between the brain and mouth. His mind knew the words he wanted to say, but his mouth could not always say them, often causing him to falter when speaking. At times, he lost words entirely—which could last for days, weeks, or months at a time—although that was rare, thank God. He had not experienced difficulty since immediately after the accident. River’s voice had vanished, plunging him into a year of wordless days. From that point onward, he had practiced daily to keep his ability to communicate. Constantly working his mouth with repetitive motions to preserve clear neural pathways.

River eased his brain and went through every letter sound, making sure of correct tongue placement and perfect oral formation. River listened to his vocalizations, assured that he had no stutter, lisp, or loss of vowel sounds. The exercises helped, but they made him feel pathetic. What thirty-six-year-old man had to practice letter sounds like a toddler? Pathetic, the voice in his head stated.