Page 50 of Depths of Desire
But never fast enough.
That ghost of defeat haunted every flip turn, every missed breath. Until now.
Because now, for the first time in forever, I wasn’t just swimming away from shame.
I was swimming toward something.
I hit the wall and pivoted into another lap. As I pulled, I imagined him—Lennox—standing at the far end of the pool. Hoodie sleeves shoved up to the elbows. Hair mussed. That grin he wore when he thought he was being subtle and absolutely wasn’t. Watching me. Waiting.
And my chest tightened—not with fear, but with something wild and electric. Something I hadn’t let myself feel in months.
Pride.
Not just mine. His.
I wanted him to see me fly across the water. I wanted to climb out of the pool breathless and see that spark in his eyes that said fuck, you’re amazing. I wanted to show him that all this pain, all this effort—it meant something. That I wasn’t just a body chasing gold. I was a man worth watching. Worth wanting.
My arms burned. My legs ached. But something had shifted. The resistance I’d been fighting inside me—the knots, the doubts, the noise—quieted. I reached for the next wall, turned, and pushed off. Smooth and fluid. My heartbeat roared, but my mind was calm.
Half a lap in, I realized I was pacing Olympic time.
Three-quarters in, I realized I was beating it.
I hit the final wall and clung to the edge, panting, blinking water out of my lashes. Coach’s whistle pierced the air. I barely heard it. Everything was static. My pulse, my breath, the numbers echoing in my skull.
I hadn’t done that since the Olympics.
I hadn’t even come close.
And it wasn’t because I hated losing. It wasn’t because I feared failure. Not this time.
It was because he would’ve seen it.
Because I wanted him to.
And maybe, just maybe, that was what I’d needed all along.
The locker room shower hissed around me, steam curling up into the quiet corners of the tiled walls. I stood under the spray, arms braced against the slick surface, water sluicing down my back and legs, hot enough to sting.
I hadn’t even toweled off yet, just stripped my suit and stepped in. I closed my eyes, and there he was.
Lennox, barefoot in my apartment again, hoodie too big on him, sleeves shoved up past his elbows. Grinning like I was the only person in the world who’d ever made him feel weightless. Like being near me wasn’t work.
I pressed my forehead to the cool tile and let that image settle behind my ribs, let it bloom in the space I’d carved out over years of brutal silence and tunnel vision.
He would’ve clapped if he’d seen that swim. Not for show, nor because it was impressive. But because it was mine.
He would’ve lit up. Would’ve thrown his head back with that full-body laugh and told me, “See? You’ve always had it in you.”
And maybe I would’ve believed him.
The locker room was half-empty by the time I left the shower, steam still lingering in the corners like ghosts reluctant to leave. I moved slower than usual, toweling off with quiet deliberation, dragging fabric over my arms, my chest, my hair. Everything felt vivid and electric. Even the worn cotton of the towel registered differently against my skin, coarser, more present, as if it were a little more real than before.
I dressed one piece at a time. Compression shorts, then sweats. Hoodie last, the sleeves bunching just slightly at the wrists. I didn’t rush. The rush had already happened, in the pool, in my chest, in the way my lungs still expanded like there was more space in them now. I felt lighter. Like something had burned out of me, and the air left behind was cleaner somehow.
The hum of the ceiling lights faded behind me as I stepped out into the early evening chill. My breath fogged faintly as Iwalked across campus, cutting through a strip of gray light that the sun left behind as it sank behind the skyline.
I didn’t pull my phone out until I was inside my apartment, the door locked behind me, shoes kicked off at the mat. The air in the room was warm, still tinged with the faint smell of the garlic and onion I’d cooked with two nights ago. My damp hair dripped slightly at the collar of my hoodie. I padded into the kitchen and leaned against the counter.
