The warm-up is tough, a break from swimming has had more effect on my fitness than I thought it would. But I try really fucking hard to not let it show. To not show how much I'm puffing and how tired I already feel.
This isn't good, I'm dying and we ain't even half way through the session.
It's good to be back in the water, but I'm not enjoying it as much as I hoped, my mind occupied and fretting about the timed trials. Plus I'm distracted with how much Croissant talks to Oliver in the breaks.
I watched Croissant swim, yeah his name is not actually that and I'm a dick for calling him that in my head, it's stereotypical and lame, but I really don't like the guy. And Croissant is the nicest nickname I had in my head for him so...
The point is, he's good. Better than I'd like to admit.
Oliver tries to catch my eyes, I know it because I can feel the heat of his stare and Coach spews out the next instructions. But every time that heavy heat of his gaze settles on me, I'm suddenly very interested in the water.
Look at this water between my fingers. It's so nice and watery.
Watery? What the fuck?
I run a hand down my face, cringing at myself and feeling really stupid. I've been careful to not get too close to Oliver, at least I thought I did... But now I'm confused where we are at. I liked what we did. A lot. But I'm not in the business of letting people get close to me, and Oliver has gotten close enough.
Closer than anyone else.
What happens when he realises I'm not worth it? I'd rather not stick around for that part. So I ignore him. Pretend I'm really focused on my swimming, which I am. So I ignored the looks and nodded my head and took his comments without a bite. Probably the most tame and obedient I have been at training involving him telling me what to do. And for some reason he finds a lot of critiques on me today, more than usual.
But I underestimated him, I let my guard down. I wasn't expecting the ambush, at least not while I was getting up to go get a drink from my drink bottle at the stands.
"Beau, a word," Oliver grunts.
My eyes widen and I look for an escape. Oliver arches a brow and waits for me to resign.
I huff dropping my shoulders, dragging my feet over to him like a child in trouble. I refuse to meet his eyes. I can't meet his eyes. Unsure how to deal with the man who's seen so much of me. Basically seen me naked now. I turn red.
"Look at me."
I don't.
He hooks a finger under my chin and forces my head up, forcing my reluctant eyes to raise before dropping it. Oliver stands so his back is towards the swimmers, his large forming hiding me. To anyone on the outside, it looks like we are having a conversation, maybe Oliver bossing me around or some shit, It wouldn't be anything new.
"Why won't you look at me?"
I don't know what to say to that. Isn't that how this was supposed to work? Things go back to normal after our steamy session in the locker room. We go back to rivals, nothing more.
Right?
Oliver shakes his head, annoyed. "You just going to ignore what happened the other day?"
"..no.. yes.. I don't know?" I stumble over my words, eyes looking everywhere on his face except his eyes.
He grunts. "Maybe I would believe that—if you didn't stake your fucking claim on me." He spreads his arms out, exposing the art of bruises I did to his chest. I try not to flush further. "You made these hickeys visible—more than visible." He laughs darkly. "Everyone saw, just like you wanted them to. You want your mark on me? Stake your claim? Fine. Take it. Have it."
He leans closer now, close enough that his breath brushes my nose as he stares me down. "But if you take it... know the consequences," He states, voice low and angry. He turns and stalks off.
Cool and level-headed Oliver pissed.
I'm hit with the reality I was hiding from myself. He's right, I did mark him. I marked him right where it would be seen, impossible for people to not see, I made it obvious. Visible.
What the fuck was I thinking? It wasn't just a few innocent marks, but almost possessive marks. Like I was sending a message to people.
I rake a hand through my hair, questioning why I took it that far. Why seeing everyone look at the hickeys on with flickers of jealousy in their eyes at their all-adored captain, makes me not mad.
Maybe I wanted people to see it? To know my lips had him? Maybe I wanting a piece of him to myself? He's so perfect, so good, maybe I wanted some of that for myself? Some of his sunshine and warmth for me.
I'm conflicted, confused... Because this feeling that I feel for him, about him, I have called it hate... I think it's a little off.
Hate isn't supposed to make you feel gooey inside. Hate isn't supposed to make your cheeks red and awaken every nerve in your body. Hate isn't supposed to make you give them possessive hickeys over their body.
Hate doesn't feel like this, I should know, I feel full hate towards Josh. And this 'hate' I feel for Oliver, is a very very different feeling.
Croissant is all up on Oliver, chatting to him and playfully nudging him as soon as he is at the pool. A not-so-nice feeling stirs in my stomach. But a fraction of that feeling is eased, because while Croissant may be talking and being all friendly with him, I'm the one who had my tongue in his mouth and teeth to his lips. The one who has his love bites on his skin.
Yep, I think I need to re-check the dictionary definition of hate, because I'm pretty sure this feeling I hold towards Oliver, it ain't hate.
At least not anymore.
My mind's a little hazy as I make my way back to the pool. I take my cap off and ruffle my hair a bit before fixing it. Oliver's words are going through my head as I stare at the water, lost in thought.
You want your mark on me? Stake your claim? Fine. Take it. Have it. But if you take it... know the consequences.
My brows furrow. What's the consequences?
The rest of the swim session goes as usual. I'm breathing a little harder than normal, feeling a little more tired, and body feeling heavier than usual.
The time for the timed sprints comes too soon, and Coach gets us all out of the water and is going to race us in pairs.
My mind is still wrapped up in Oliver's words, trying to decipher what these consequences mean. But what I did get from that talk is that Oliver doesn't want me to avoid looking at him.
And if he wants me to look at him, oh I'll look at him. And I do, taking in all the damage I did.
The junction between his neck and shoulder has a splotchy red near the purple spot. There's another one under the corner of his defined jaw, light enough that you only see it if you are looking hard. Another two along his collar and one on his smooth chest. My stomach tightens at the memory of how he got them. What sounds he made when I gave them to him.
Oliver squirms a little under my gaze, one would only notice if paying close attention, which I am. Is... his cheeks a little redder?
But then Croissant steals his attention and I clench my fists, diverting my gaze back to Coach.
"Alright, who's first?" Coach calls.
"Croissant, you and me," I grunt, walking to the diving board. He frowns at the name, I know I'm being a dick.
I'm not usually this much of a dick. Or maybe I am? But I'm confused right now, my emotions all over the place. And while being a dick doesn't make me feel any better, maybe if I win this race I will?
Actually, I know for a fact that beating him will definitely make me feel better.
***
I lose. Bad.
Butt—fucking—kicked.
Ass handed to me.
Dust ate.
It was obvious loss—by only a few seconds, but seconds mean everything in swimming.
The sting of the loss is raw and fresh, I can't help wincing, feeling it ring right through me to my chest. A feeling similar to the one I feel every time Dad watches and I don't win. It's usually not as bad at training, but today it feels just as heavy today, like someone important that I wanted to impress was watching the race..
I get this heavy feeling when I lose against Oliver too, but it's not as intense, it's a significantly more watered-down feeling with him, and that realisation surprises me. I wonder why that is? Why is losing to Oliver not as bad as losing to anybody else?
I pull myself out of the water with a huff, my body hating myself right now. It got comfortable with the break, and it is not liking this sudden exertion.
Croissant is smug about his obvious win, unbashfully grinning as he gets out of the pool. And fair-fucking-enough. I know I would have been if I did. Hell, I would have probably been worse. He sends me a cocky look and I'm too annoyed at myself to even glare back at him.
I was shit. My body felt like lead and my movements were sloppy. I don't think I have swam that bad in a long time. I shouldn't be that bad, I haven't been off for that long? What is with me today?
A second wave of embarrassment and hurts hits at the awareness that Coach saw that, the squad saw that, Oliver saw that.
Coach slaps my back when I pass him. "Don't beat yourself up kid, you've been on break."
I grit my teeth, my jaws clamped so tight it's starting to give me a headache.
Beat myself up?
Ha, I'm in a war with myself. Feeling as low as dirt, pride in the trenches, bullets to the confidence.
Croissant grins up at Oliver, as if expecting a congratulations, but Oliver's eyes aren't on him. Lips downturned and attention unfortunately on me.
The rest of the timed sprints couldn't go quick enough. It's funny how I wanted to come back to swimming so bad, and now it's the last place I want to be. The session drags slow, and I watch everyone race, not really paying attention though. Andy tries to cheer me up, and I appreciate it, but it does little to settle the pit in my stomach. Oliver obviously wins his race, getting the best time, and of course Croissant is the first to congratulate him. I try not to roll my eyes.
We are soon dismissed and I feel like a zombie going through the routine motions. I can't wait to get back to my dorm and crash. Sleep has never looked so good.
Except that isn't exactly the plan—because Oliver grabs my arm as I walk out of the locker room, holding me back. I was the one of the last ones out of the changing rooms so it only takes a few minutes before everyone has left the building. All of theme going back home for dinner, going to their beds, and Olivers holding me hostage here. But his eyes warning enough for me to not protest and put up a fight.
"Don't," he grunts, visibly annoyed.
"Don't what?" I huff, annoyed by this demanding man.
"Don't fucking be like that. I know what you are thinking, and stop it, right now."
"You don't know shit," I scoff tiredly trying to break my arm free, the usual fire to my words lacking a little.
His grip tightens.
"You lost, so what?"
I wince. I hate that word.
"If you measure your happiness on winning a race Beau, on beating me and others; your happiness is never going to be consistent." He expresses, eyes searching my own.
"I don't.." I scrub a hand down my face. "I can't.. I'm trying to..." my voice dies off, a little lost and confused.
Does he want me to stop trying to win? To stop caring about winning? How can you ever be great if you don't want it bad enough though?
I tilt my head to the side, looking up at him. "You want me to stop caring?"
He shakes his head. "No. Fuck no. Your drive and determination is.. good—really good." he finally says, face softening a little. "I'm telling you to stop putting so much weight on yourself, to not let one outcome control you so much."
I scoff. "And how the fuck do you suppose I do that?" I exclaim frustratedly, voice raised, hand tugging the ends of my hair roughly. "Tell me Oliver, how the fuck am I going feel good if I am no good? I don't get it?"
He steps in, hands cradling my face as he stares down at me. Blue eyes so bright and so full, I forever swim in their warmth.
"You love yourself anyway."
Silence.
Hot white painstaking silence.
"You swam shit, didn't perform your best—love yourself anyway."
I shake my head, not wanting to deal with his sappy shit, but his hold on my arm forces me to stay.
"You didn't get the results you wanted—love yourself anyway." His voice is demanding, eyes frustrated.
"You came butt fuck last...
Love.
yourself.
anyway."
There's a determination in his eyes, one that I am familiar with, and when he gets it, he never loses. "You starting to get it now?" He asks, a slight strain in his voice. "Is it getting to your head?"
I swallow and he sighs.
"Love isn't something you have to earn, Beau, it's something everyone needs and deserves; and I think it's about time you start letting yourself have it, from others and yourself."
What is this, therapy? I'm fine. I never, I well I, didn't think I had a problem with self love... I guess I never thought about it. I've heard all that bullshit before and I've never really paid much attention to it. What difference could it make?
But If I think back now, really think, the times when I actually liked myself most was when I was on the podium in the first place. And that rings the question, am I supposed to like myself more than a handful of times? Could I even like myself even when others don't and I don't have the success to deserve it?
He leans forwards and so gently it almost hurts, he places a soft kiss to my forehead and murmurs, "Think about it." Then he leaves.
Leaves me with a weird feeling in my chest and more questions then answers.
Fuck I really hate this guy, (and I think we have established my definition of hate is a little off).