Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Charles
We might not be able to room together, but getting the chance to be here this time is a huge improvement over the last Olympics.
I’m nervous as I wrap up tutoring for the day, head back to my room to change, and then make my way to the pool. It’s like my gut is eating itself, and I’m worried I might be sick, but I just force all those nerves down and remind myself to relax.
I’m decked out in red, white, and blue, am wearing one of Zeke’s swimming team jackets with “Ariston” across the back, and have done my best to look like the boyfriend of an Olympian.
Not that I have a lot of references to go by.
Both of our parents are meeting me in the stands, and it’s highly likely that the camera will find us at some point.
In the leadup to the games, Zeke has had more media reaching out to him, and a few have contacted me too.
I always send a polite “thank you, but no,” which didn’t stop them from writing an article about my family.
Given I hardly ever hear from him, the call Grampy made about the publicity being “unbecoming” was one I won’t forget in a long time. Like I asked for it.
Maybe it’s different for a lot of people, but I have no interest in fame or notoriety. I’m just a man who happens to be dating a man who won a gold medal once and might do it again.
Outside of the sports world, we’re both very simple guys living simple lives, and it’s how I like it the most.
“Hey, Charles,” my dad says, patting the seat next to him. It’s between him and Zeke’s mom, and she gives me an uneasy smile as I pass.
“You look as nervous as I feel,” I tell her.
“I don’t know how he does it,” she says, clutching my hand. “How does he go out there and swim like this? I could barely make it to my seat.”
“I know. I haven’t eaten all day.”
She runs her eyes over me. “You need to stop that. You’re too skinny.”
I bury my laugh into the swim jacket. “I like myself just as I am. So does Zeke.”
She lets out a long groan. “God, just let my baby do okay.”
Her anxiousness is making everything so much worse. Maybe misery loves company, but I don’t love being reminded that there’s a chance he might not do okay. Zeke walking away from this swim disappointed is unacceptable.
The worst part is this is all on him. I can’t go down there and fix it for him.
We had an early dinner last night, and I was careful not to say anything that would psych him out.
Then he went to bed early, and I called him this morning to remind him I’d be cheering him on and I loved him and was so proud of him.
All true things. All things I said for me as well as him.
“Relax,” Dad says in his soothing voice. “He will do fine. He’s been training hard and pulling some good times. Zeke knows what he’s doing out there.”
I nod quickly, agreeing with his words even though my brain won’t catch up. I’m just wondering what the odds are of sneaking down to the locker rooms to cut up everyone else’s bathing suits when the race ends and the next one is called.
Zeke walks out in his Team America jacket and tiny Speedos, and I can’t drag my eyes away. He’s grinning, looking confident and not like he wants to throw up all over his shoes. I have no idea how he does it.
He unzips his jacket, showing off his gorgeous tattoos and even gorgeous-er body, and my hands twist painfully in my lap.
Screw the cameras. Screw whoever’s watching. I’m so desperately, woefully, pathetically invested in how he does that I need the swim to be over with already.
And then I get to do this two more times.
The anxiety has coiled tight in my chest as I look down at all the swimmers, assessing his competition.
Zeke doesn’t look rattled though. He takes his time, making sure he’s ready before joining the others by the starting block.
His mom grabs one of my hands, and I latch onto Dad with my other. I’m not sure if holding their hands is better or worse than the grip I had on myself, but hey, at least we’re all dealing with this nerve-racking experience together.
“He’ll be fine,” I mutter, aching with the thought. “He’ll be okay. He’ll be fine …”
They call his name, and a surge of pride fills me. No matter how he does, I’ve never been so impressed by someone in my entire life. He had a goal, and he’s accomplished it, but here he is, putting himself through it all again.
I swallow the lump in my throat as he climbs onto the starting block.
The swimmers get ready.
Silence fills the room.
Then the starting whistle blows, and they’re off.
Zeke makes a good entrance, coming up in second place as the swimmers pass like torpedoes through the water. It always blows my mind how fast they move and how effortless they make it look.
A whole two hundred meters. Less than two minutes until we know the outcome.
I’m fucking shaking for him, but Zeke doesn’t even look like he’s trying. He’s cruising along in second place, and I’m almost bouncing out of my seat. A silver is a fucking incredible effort. He just has to hold on.
His mom’s nails are digging into my skin, and I’m pretty sure I’m crushing Dad’s fingers.
The first minute is an excruciatingly long time, and when they make the turn into the final length, Zeke’s neck and neck with third.
I surge to my feet, and before I know it, I’m screaming his name.
The crowd is deafening, the swimmers are flying, and Zeke’s pulling away from Australia in third and hunting down the guy in the lead.
I’ve forgotten how to breathe, how to think, how to do anything except shout, “go, go!” over and over, and then like he can hear me—or, you know, like he’s been training for this for years—Zeke makes a final burst of speed.
His hand hits the wall first, and I scream, our parents along with me, as I finally, finally, watch my man win a gold.
Then, through his rapid breathing, he turns in our general direction and blows a kiss toward the stands. That’s all I see before the tears are spilling onto my face, and pure fucking happiness washes over me.