Distant Swimmer

Chapter 1 Ryan was the last guy in the shower. He hung his dark blue towel on the only free hook and then stepped into the swirl of steam and heat, searching for the last free showerhead. The whole swim team was there—pink and brown bodies all dripping with soapy foam. Some guys laughed—others were silent and thoughtful, worn out from practice. One by one, the young men peeled off their Speedos, turning toward the tile wall as they stepped out of their suits. Their bare, dimpled bottoms glowed pale, showing the tan lines of late summer. Ryan knew when to look away. Years and years of swim team had trained him to feign total disinterest in the naked male display that followed every practice. He played it cool, dropped his head, and turned the shower knob to hot. Besides, there was no need to stare—Ryan caught everything out of the corner of his eyes—all those slim and muscled men beneath the white wall of water. In the blur of shampoo rinsing down his face, he saw the parade of exposed flesh before him. His teammates posed like slow-moving statues, some of them with their d***s long and droopy, other guys still small and recovering from the ice-cold swimming pool, their shriveled up members growing fuller, their balls blushing red with heat. Ryan closed his eyes and turned back against the wall. No—he would not get hard. At least, not too hard—most days, he only ever got to a semi-erection that could be covered with his hands or shampoo bottle. He steered his thoughts away from s*x—thinking instead about his heavy homework load, his shabby car, and his negative bank balance. Focusing on all the crap in his life deflated his b***r like a sad balloon. Besides, all these guys on the swim team were off limits—they were his friends and fellow athletes. He knew them too well ever to be interested, and they were straight. The post-practice shower brought nothing more than a fantasy glance—a few minutes in the steamy darkness when he was surrounded by beautiful college boys, memories that he could replay in his mind at night, back in his room, eyes closed and his hand shaking out his own farmboy’s c**k. The fantasy vanished quickly as the guys stepped out of the steam and slid barefoot into the locker room. There was Hunter—the team’s Butterfly champ, with his bulky shoulders, huge thighs, and shaved head—the guy looked like Mr. Clean. Then Zach, who was so tan it looked like his white butt had been painted on, and redhead Kyle with his orange pubes and spotty freckled back. Theo and Mason looked like twins, but they were only brothers, black-haired lumberjacks from up near the Canadian border. Jay was the only city boy—from Minneapolis—mocha-skinned and double majoring in Computer Science and Biology, while Darian was the only black guy on the team, with a set of tight, eight-pack abs, and a spread of fine curly black hair in the middle of his broad chest. Darian switched to baseball in the spring, and was the only student ever to actively compete in two different collegiate sports at Chippewa College. Owen was state breaststroke champion and swaggered around the locker room, frog-like, forever scratching his crotch and shaking the water from his shaggy black hair, like a dog. Erik was some kind of foreign student—was it Switzerland?—long and fit, with a cute elfish haircut and crazy European goggles that made him look even more alien. Ryan knew him the least of all. Then there was AJ, who had the Roadrunner tattooed on his right butt cheek—a smiling cartoon bird in mid-sprint, ready to leap from his hard hip. AJ was by far the fastest guy on the team, a sprinter who lapped every other swimmer at the last semi-final. The whole team loved him. After Ryan, the last guy out of the showers was Owen, still in his Speedo, who only ever changed beneath a tightly wrapped towel, careful not to show even an inch of butt crack. The guys chalked up Owen’s modesty to his being a serious Christian—the guy wore a cross on a gold chain—so it was that, or else, he didn’t want to confirm the stereotype about Asians having small d***s. Ryan used to hope Owen was a closet case, but then Owen went and got a steady girlfriend, and now the rest of the team were all a bit jealous of him. These were the swimmers of the Chippewa College Men’s Swim Team in Lakeside, Minnesota. They had nowhere near the numbers of the bigger state schools, but what they did have was the PAC, or Pearson Aquatic Center—a state-of-the art, Olympic-sized swimming and diving complex built by the biotech billionaire Jack H. Pearson. Jack had done his undergrad at Chippewa, where he swam for the team and event went to state finals. When Pearson came back years later to speak at graduation, he was so upset by the moldy, crumbling pool from the 1940s that he wrote a check on the spot. Two years later, the PAC opened and turned Chippewa into one of the best swimming schools in the country—right up there with Ohio State in Columbus and Pinecrest in Florida. At least half the team was made up of Pearson Scholars, like Ryan. Awarded to high-ranking competitive swimmers with proven academic excellence, the Pearson scholarship covered full tuition and books, with a sizable allowance for living expenses. It was by far the most prestigious scholarship for swimmers in Minnesota—Pearson Scholars were treated like celebrities and envied by the 2,500 students at this small Midwestern college. Back on the farm, at the end of his senior year of high school, Ryan’s parents had thrown him a backyard barbecue when he won the coveted prize—all the other parents shook his hand and told him how they wish their own child was as smart as he was. Now Ryan was a sophomore, struggling with all his schoolwork, while trying to pull his weight on the swim team “All right, guys!” Coach Ken shouted to be heard as he walked into the locker room, a clipboard in his left hand. “You swam hard today—that’s what I like to see.” The coach paused and looked around at the team. Half of them were already dressed, and half were still mostly naked. Ryan had his socks on with a towel tucked loosely around his waist—he liked to be completely dry before putting on his clothes. “We have a big season ahead of us, and I think you’re ready for it…” the coach began. Some of the guys whooped and whistled, but Coach Ken held up his hand. “Still, I don’t want any of you getting too comfortable.” The room got quiet. When the coach got serious, everybody shut up. “College sports is not comfortable. Right now, you’re pulling sixty percent—maybe seventy, some of you.” Again, the coach scanned the room. “But I need you at a hundred percent for the U of M meet. Hear that? One hundred percent!” Out of the blue, a new guy walked into the locker room. Ryan had never seen him before. He was tall and broad, cloaked in an unzipped gray hoodie, with dark brown hair sticking out from his Green Bay Packers baseball cap. His face was square and naturally tan, and he looked a bit taken off guard to find himself surrounded by so many other guys. “Come on in, Blake—take a seat.” Coach pointed to a spare bench, then raised his voice once more: “One hundred percent! What does that mean? That means giving it all at practice, and then some, and I want you guys to start cross-training on your own time—that means running, lifting, biking, stretching—you name it. Your strength and cardio gotta go way up, guys. I see you back in the water and you think you’re bringing it, but in fact, you’ve been chilling out all summer, and I can tell. Yeah, you lifeguarded at the city pool or whatever.” Coach stared at AJ, who was the managing lifeguard at Lakeside in summer. AJ smirked and flexed a bulging bicep, but coach ignored him. “But summer’s over, friends! We got two weeks to get there—three weeks max. No more breaks, no more chilling, now is the time to give it to me. I wanna see you strong.” Coach Ken stopped his tirade and wiped his brow. It was warm and wet down in the locker room, and the armpits of his white polo shirt were now soaked with sweat. “So, you all got that?” he repeated. “Yeah. Got it, coach,” said AJ. Ryan nodded along with the other guys. He knew coach did not like a lot of back-banter, and now he felt a little stressed. How the hell was he supposed to find extra time for cross-training? “Now—just to make sure we’re all on the same page here,” the coach continued, “I’m assigning you pairs. You’re all gonna buddy up for cross-training—push each other and work hard.” Coach looked down at his clipboard and began calling out names. “Hunter, Theo—you’re a pair. Darian and Mason,” Coach made a circle with his finger, “you two are together—sorry guys, but can’t have two brothers in a pair. You might be too soft on each other,” Coach let out a little laugh, then drummed his fingers on his clipboard. “Zach and Jay!” he shouted. “Owen and Erik. AJ, Kyle.” He looked up from his board, and then looked over at Ryan, who wondered why he was last. “Okay, last thing—Blake, come over here.” The boy in the hoodie and Green Bay cap came forward and nodded at the team, then offered a little wave, before clasping his hands behind his back. Ryan gawked at him, enamored by Blake’s powerful legs, exposed from the edge of his running shoes all the way up to the hem of his brief nylon shorts, draped over his large and unmistakable bulge. “This is Blake Gossens—he just transferred to Chippewa from Wisconsin, where he holds the state record for the 400 IM,” Coach Ken made the announcement like a voiceover on a nature program. “Blake will be the twelfth member of our team and we’re damn lucky to have him. I want you all to show him the ropes, and maybe get him to teach you a thing or two—Hunter, I want you to watch his 100 Fly. This man knows how to push through a lot of water—his record is 57 seconds. Ryan—you and Blake are cross-training buds. I want you guys together every day, outside of practice, an hour a day, pushing the limits, okay?” Ryan nodded and looked over at the new guy. Blake stared back, sizing up his smaller sophomore partner. Ryan was only about five-eleven—one of the shorter guys on the team. Standing there in a towel, Ryan revealed a decent athletic build, though he was a bit on the skinny side. Ryan felt Blake’s gaze on his chest and shoulders. He’s already planning our workouts. Blake stepped over to Ryan. “Hey, I’m Blake,” he said, extending his large hand. “Ryan,” he replied, reaching out to shake his hand, making the light blue towel slide from his waist, slumping into a pile around his ankles. For a split second Ryan was butt naked and still holding Blake’s hand—the rest of the team crowed with laughter. Darian was doubled over in near hysterics, and AJ let out a guffaw. Blake yanked his hand away from Ryan, and Ryan’s hands came down, over his puff of brown pubic hair, down to his towel, which he quickly replaced around his waist. He knew he was blushing now. “Score, Ryan! s*x on the first date!” shouted Theo. “Dude, you gotta wear a condom!” Mason echoed his brother. The young men laughed even harder, only quieting down when Coach Ken stepped closer. “Ryan—that’s not really what I meant by ‘cross-training’,” said Coach with a smirk. The guys all howled, and Darian came over and slapped Ryan on the back. Then he started chatting with Blake. All the guys circled around Blake and began welcoming him to the team. Back at his locker, Ryan pulled on his underwear—soft, grey cotton boxer-briefs—then quickly dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, rubbing his damp hamster hair with a towel. He checked his watch—it was already eight P.M. Damn it—he was going to be late—he rushed out the door and up the stairs, slamming the metal bar on the glass doors and pushing them open. The cold October air washed over his wet hair and skin, sending a shiver to his shoulders. He began running into the dark evening, but stopped short when he heard his name. He turned around in the dim light of a streetlight, the wind rushing in the dry leaves overhead. “Ryan?” shouted Blake, jogging after him. “Oh, hey,” said Ryan, still embarrassed by his brief naked incident in the locker room. “I’m sorry about that—I hope you don’t think I’m not an exhibitionist or anything. It’s not my thing to flash everybody I meet.” “Whatever dude—it’s cool,” laughed Blake, tugging at the straps on his backpack. “It’s a d**k, and I’ve seen a d**k or two in my time—you know, swim team and such.” “Yeah,” Ryan tried to smile back. “Men’s swim team—we all got a p***s!” joked Blake. “That’s like a slogan, almost,” said Ryan, and Blake laughed, relaxing them both. “You gotta minute?” asked Blake. “Not really, actually. I’m sorry, but I got a study date at the library—I really have to run—but we need to…” “Figure out our training schedule,” Blake finished his sentence. “Coach wants us to start tomorrow. “Yeah, we need to do that,” said Ryan, feeling put on the spot. He looked back at Blake and caught the glimmer of eye light that shone beneath the shadow of the baseball cap. The guy was handsome, with the nose of a Roman statue, a hard chin, and full pink lips. Ryan stared at the moving mouth, yet barely heard Blake. “Can I get your number?” Blake repeated himself, holding up his phone. “Two-one-eight,” began Ryan absent-mindedly. When’s the last time I gave a hot guy my phone number? Never, thought Ryan. “Two, one, eight. Got it,” said Blake, his face glowing blue from the light of his phone. The wind picked up and the giant oak leaves rustled even louder, waking Ryan from his reverie—he read the rest of his number out loud as Blake tapped it into his phone. “Ryan what?” asked Blake. “Zwick,” said Ryan, “Z-W-I-C-K.” “Rhymes with d**k. Got it,” joked Blake. “You’re not gonna let it go, are you?” said Ryan. “And I think I’ve been hearing that once since kindergarten. Never gets old.” “Sorry man—I’m just kidding. I’ll text you later and we can figure out this week.” “Sounds good,” said Ryan. “I’m sorry, but I gotta run. Must study!” Ryan waved a little, and then took off. “Is she hot?” mumbled Blake, but Ryan ignored the question and just kept on running, all the way across campus.