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“You do not have to believe me. Not yet. But I will be here, through all of it.”
I sigh, the air escaping from around my thumbnail, which has found its way into my mouth again. This would be easier if it was someone else. If it was anyone else. But Javier is a good coach. Like me, he’s always been one of the best.
“Fine,” I say, voice muffled by my thumb, and I’m dragged under, sleep finally staking its claim.
Chapter 4
So Blatantly Bratty
Javier
Standing at the edge of the practice pool, I stretch my neck from side to side. I am too old to be sleeping on the particle board couches they bring in for the Clash of Creatures. My back and neck feel like a single, interconnected knot.
Still, it is better to sacrifice my body than Aleks’.
Watching him in the water now, a wave of emotion fills my chest. He slides along the surface of the water, one hand extended in the air above him, before turning and diving smoothly below the surface. My breath catches; he still dances beautifully.
Coaching artistic swimming requires an impartial, almost ruthless assessment of the body. In a sport governed by precision and synchronicity, my focus is trained on the little things: the angle from elbow to wrist, the timing of a head popping up above the surface, or the twist of a tailfin spiraling underwater.
Aleks is accurate. Meticulously so. There is still the unmistakable stamp of his mother’s coaching on him. Flexion past what is typical was gained through hours and hours of stretching when the sirens were children. Aleks’ arms stretch out on either side of him on the surface of the water, wet scales catching in the sunlight, so straight they hyperextend at the elbows, and his webbed hands make perfect right angles where they stand upright.
When he finishes showing me his routine, he treads water, staring up at me. Even through the transformation, Aleks’ pale, sea-green eyes are hard and angry. He watches me like he is daring me to criticize him.
His vocal filter is stretched tight around his face, the leather strap pressing hard enough into his skin to indent his cheek. It is an older model, made with brown leather and obviously worn with time and use.
He should loosen the straps. It looks uncomfortable.
I rub a hand absently over my beard, considering how I want to approach him. Everything about him screams skittish, and even after our conversation last night, I do not think he is ready to hear what I think.
Underneath the technical perfection, there is something…not quite right.
“Overall, it is good,” I begin.
Aleks snorts. “But,” he says, and I can hear his voice, even if it is slightly muffled. The vocal filter is designed to contain their magical song, not to block their spoken words.
“Your routine is fine. The elements are…fine. You have done well adapting to a solo, highlighting the high difficulty elements that look the best on their own.”
“Spit it out, will you?” Aleks rolls his eyes, leaning his elbows on the edge of the pool like he does not have a care in the world.
I should not enjoy this, but he is so blatantly bratty I have to bite back a grin. I should not feel an itching in my palm or my cock taking interest. No, it cannot be like that between us, no matter how my body responds to him.
I am here in Monstralia because Aleks needs a coach. Nothing more.
“You dance like you are trying to impress your mother.”
His eyes flash, then narrow. “What are you talking about?” There is a hint of a snarl in his voice.
I crouch down, trying to get closer to him. I want to make sure he hears me, that there is no room for his mind to run away with his own interpretation of what he thinks I said. “You have changed, Aleks,” I start, holding his gaze. “Your body is not the same. You are not the same person who was trained to dance. There is dissonance now, between your style and who you are.”
He listens, eyes wary, but focused. “The way your mother teaches artistic swimming is grounded in precision and refinery. We both know how she teaches young sirens to eat, to try to sculpt their gods-given bodies into her idea of perfection. You,” I point right at him. “You have liberated yourself from her thinking. You are free. So dance like it.”
His eyes swirl, like an oil-spill on the surface of a roiling sea. I dare him to look away.
“You’re full of shit,” he says, but his heart is not in it. As he dives down below the surface, his tail slapping the water, I push to standing, shoving my hands into the pockets of my khaki shorts, and watch him swim away.
“How’s it going with your siren?”
I sit at the edge of the dining hall across from Zephyr, in a seating area like the swim-up bars in the hotels of Monst-Vegas. He is able to swim up to the chest-high table from the pool side, while I can sit on the dry, sunken stool on the other side.
