28. Brent
Brent
“What?” I ask.
“Posey is here.” He nods his head toward the stands.
If I glance in her direction, I’ll be distracted. Whatever made him laugh is likely going to have the same effect on me. Can’t afford it. Not this race.
“You’re not going to look?” Ethan asks while we swing our arms and shake out our limbs.
“This and the relay are my closest events. After the relay, I’ll check the stands for her.”
“She charmed the pants right off Jess at lunch. I need to learn her skills.” Ethan rotates his torso as the heat before us steps onto the blocks.
The final ahead of us makes their turn on the wall, and Ethan goes to his lane while I start stripping off my Northern University Ravens tracksuit, securing my cap, and getting my goggles ready.
The person racing in my lane is in the homestretch, and instead of staring at the end of the pool visualizing my race, I sneak a glance at the stands.
There, with a sign large enough to block the view of several rows behind her if there’d been more fans, is Posey. I read the sign.
Hey, Faulkner, is your real name the 400 IM? Because you take my breath away.
I grin and shake my head. She’s quite possibly the most interesting woman I’ve ever known. When she sees me looking, she jumps up and down and waves profusely. My heart swells at her adorableness.
The race in the pool finishes, and as we’re whistled onto the blocks, I stare down my lane to the end.
Normally, I want to win for myself or my school or my country.
Tonight, I want to win for her, and there’s a fire in my belly at the thought of her watching, being here, cheering me on in the stands.
Turns out she’s not a distraction. She’s added motivation. Not at all what I expected.
As soon as the electronic beep sounds, I’m off the blocks and in the water.
My brain switches off, and I race on instinct, letting years of training take over.
At the final turn, I catch a glimpse of Don Davidson from Michigan State hot on my heels.
Or more like at my shoulder. Too fucking close.
I dig deep and pull hard, pushing myself to finish each stroke even though my muscles are on fire.
At the final five meters, I focus on the black line and propel myself toward the finish. My fingertips touch the pad, and I check the race clock on the wall. First by a few hundreds. Don leans over the lane rope and holds out his hand. I take it and congratulate him on his race.
When I glance up at the stands, Posey is jumping up and down with the sign above her head. At some point, she’ll show up at a swim meet in a cheerleading outfit, and I’m not going to be mad about it.
I hoist myself out of the pool, and the campus YouTube channel calls me over to chat about my race. While I’m there, Posey turns her sign around. On the back, if it’s possible, is something more punny, and I stumble over my words on camera as I read it.
Faulkner, you’re one pool guy.
When they’re done recording, the interviewer turns to look over her shoulder. “Girlfriend?”
“It’s her first time at a swim meet. I think she’s confused about the lack of Ra-Ra-Ravens fans.”
“Not generally a sport people cheer for.”
I laugh. “Not at these sorts of meets. If anyone can change that perception, it’ll be her.”
We chat for another minute, and then I wander to where my teammates are strewn across the pool deck.
“She’s got another one, Faulkner,” Ethan says. “Might be my favorite yet.”
I turn to read her newest sign, and I shake my head at her audacity. Faulkner, you dove in hard and came out wet. Even from a distance, I can see the saucy grin on her face.
“How many of those signs did she make?” Jessica asks.
“If I had to guess?” I turn back to them.
“More than I’ll want to see.” Except, like everything she does, I’m finding her enthusiasm amusing and highly endearing.
I’ve had girls I’m dating come to swim meets before, but they often admit later to being bored.
Posey is holding up a generic Go Ravens sign, and she’s cheering for one of my teammates in her final.
Wherever Posey goes, she unpacks the fun, and she doesn’t wait for someone else to deliver it.
“I’m not sure you could have found someone more opposite to Val,” Jessica says.
“Funny how life sometimes provides exactly what you need when you’re not even looking for it.
” Saying too much to my teammates, who we’ll likely be going out with after, is a tad dangerous.
Any of them could replay my comments to Posey, and they could send her running.
It's easy enough to explain them as playing along with our fake dating, but I’m wondering if we’re reaching the point where even Posey realizes there’s more to what’s happening between us.
Nothing about us feels fake to me anymore.
As finals wear on, Posey drags out more signs riddled with sexual innuendos. If nothing else, she appears to be amusing everyone on the pool deck. Each time one arrives, a burst of laughter somewhere on the deck signals a new opportunity to marvel at her boldness.
The last event of the night is the freestyle relay, and when I glance toward Posey in the stands, she gives me a fake high five, and her sign reads You really (flip) turn me on.
The whistle blows for the first swimmer to take to the blocks.
I’m the anchor, so I don’t swim until last. As soon as the beep sounds, I’m focused on the race.
By the time I’m on the blocks, we’re behind by about a second.
Freestyle is my best event, and when I hit the water, I kick and pull as hard as I can to catch Michigan State in the lane beside us.
When I hit the turn, I’ve managed to draw even with their final swimmer, and as I accelerate off the wall, I pass him.
My fingers hit the touchpad, and I check the clock.
Not a new team record, but it’s a very respectable time for this point in the season.
Posey whistles from the stands, and I wave to her from the water.
Instead of mentally replaying my race like normal, I stare at her, and I’m astounded that posting on a campus chat server resulted in her.
Outside the locker rooms, the team gathers to decide on where to go for some food. Posey appears in the hallway after I text her to come down to the lower level from the stands. Her other signs appear to be gone, but she’s holding one in front of her as she approaches.
Your breaststroke may be weak in the pool, but it’s strong in bed.
I grin and loop my arm over her shoulders before tugging her against me and kissing the top of her head. “Nice sign,” I say.
“My favorite was about Brent being too sexy for a sport that requires clothes,” Ethan says. “’Cause it applies to me too.”
“I left them all upstairs by a recycling bin, if you want to retrieve it,” Posey says, and she snuggles against me.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Brent so relaxed and happy at a swim meet,” Jessica says as we stream out of the building into the cold night air. “Normally, he’s just like—” She turns her expression into a glaring glower.
“That’s called being focused,” I say with a laugh. She does have a point, though. At a meet, I’m often in my own head.
“You were still focused enough to win, and you looked like you were having fun. Not sure I’ve ever seen you smile that much.”
When I glance down at Posey, she’s beaming. “My signs were pretty punny.”
“Pun-tastic,” I admit. But I’m having trouble discerning how much I can reveal to my teammates and consequently to Posey before she’ll freak out.
The swim meet, an event I’ve been to a thousand times, brimmed with a different energy today.
Jessica is right. Having Posey there offered a balance I didn’t realize I wanted.
I was focused when I needed to be, but I also enjoyed the atmosphere.
In the past, I’ve feared my ability to transition or switch myself into race mode.
Whether I’ve been to enough competitions now or whether it never would have been as hard as I believed, today proved I can switch from grinning at Posey’s joke to staring down my lane, ready to kick ass.
I can have both. The insight sends a shot of warmth across my chest, and I kiss Posey’s temple.
“Thanks for making the meet so much fun,” I say to her.
“I’m a fun factory.” She squeezes my side.
She is, and my instinct is to press her on why she has been denying herself a relationship for so long.
As far as girlfriends go, she’s top shelf.
The idea that I might get to stay with her if I can keep my cool is a little daunting.
At some point, my growing feelings will be painfully obvious to both of us.
I’m already wondering whether the warmth in my chest radiates outward, showing her how I feel if she only cared to look.
But if she’s not there with me, there’s no way she’ll stick around.
Fake is all she thinks she can offer, and we’re already far too real.
If coming to Chicago freaked her out, then realizing why she wanted to come to Chicago will be one step too far.
At least right now. Just keep inching her along until the line she thinks she can’t cross is so far behind us, she’ll forget it even existed.