Page 84 of Depths of Desire
It was true. The crushing weight of expectation that had defined my entire existence for years had lifted somewhere along the way, replaced by something that felt more like anticipation than dread. I still wanted to win. That competitive fire would probably never die, but the thought of losing didn’t feel like the end of the world anymore.
“Good,” Lena said. “Because you’re going to be amazing. And even if you’re not, you’ll still be my annoying older brother who happens to be freakishly good at swimming.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“That’s what family’s for.”
The wordfamilysettled around us like a warm blanket. It had taken years for our parents to even appear to notice who I was. And Lena had been our champion from the beginning, fierce and loyal and completely uninterested in anyone’s discomfort with her brother’s happiness. And there was Lennox, the foundation of this warm feeling sitting in my chest.
“Dinner’s ready,” Lennox announced, appearing in the doorway with a dish towel slung over his shoulder and a grin that still made my pulse skip. “I made that thing with chicken and lemon that you like.”
“The thing with chicken and lemon,” Lena repeated dryly. “Such poetry. No wonder Oliver fell for your charm.”
Lennox stuck his tongue out at her, a gesture that should have been juvenile but somehow looked endearing on him, and disappeared back into the kitchen. I could hear him movingaround, opening cabinets, setting the table with the mismatched plates we’d accumulated over the years.
Three years.
It felt like a lifetime and no time at all. Three years since that night at the mountain cabin when we’d collided like galaxies, and when we’d nearly lost each other, and when I’d been stupid enough to think a gold medal could fill the hole that loving someone had carved in my chest. Three years of learning how to balance ambition with affection, how to want something desperately without making it the only thing that mattered.
Lennox had moved in officially six months after we got back together, though he’d been spending most nights here anyway. The transition had been surprisingly easy, his clothes migrating into my closet, his hockey gear claiming space next to my swim equipment, his terrible taste in movies slowly infiltrating our shared collection.
Ourshared collection. Even thinking the words made something soft and happy bloom in my chest.
He’d graduated the year after me, got drafted by a minor league team in Wisconsin. For exactly three weeks, we’d tried the long-distance thing before both admitting it was miserable and he was probably better suited for coaching anyway. Now, he worked at a youth hockey program in the city, teaching kids how to skate and occasionally coming home with stories that made me laugh until my sides hurt.
Lena had been right about the apartment, though. Two and a half years of cohabitation, and we still lived like college students who’d never heard of interior design. But it wasours, every scratched surface and mismatched piece of furniture, every badly hung picture and pile of books that never quite made it to shelves. It was home in a way no place had ever been before.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Lena said, nudging me with her elbow.
“What thing?”
“That sappy, contemplative thing where you stare at Lennox like he hung the moon and personally invented happiness.”
I felt heat creep up my neck. “I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do that. It’s disgusting and adorable in equal measure.”
From the kitchen came the sound of Lennox singing along badly to whatever playlist he had going. Something upbeat and ridiculous that he’d probably heard on the radio and immediately added to his collection of songs that made him happy. His voice cracked on the high notes, and I found myself smiling without conscious thought.
“Okay, maybe I do that a little,” I admitted.
“A little?” Lena raised an eyebrow. “Oliver, you look at him like he’s the solution to world peace and perfectly temperature-controlled pool water rolled into one person.”
“That’s oddly specific.”
“I know you well.”
She did. Better than almost anyone, in some ways. Lena had been there through everything: the Olympics four years ago, the loneliness that followed, and the slow process of learning how to be happy instead of just successful. She’d been my anchor when everything else felt uncertain, the one person who never doubted that I’d figure it out eventually.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” I said, the words coming out more serious than I’d intended.
Her expression softened. “Where else would I be? You’re about to go win a gold medal. I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Even if I don’t win?”
“Especiallyif you don’t win. Someone has to be there to remind you that you’re more than your fastest time.”
The words hit something deep in my chest, something that had been tense and worried without me fully realizing it. Thepressure was still there—it probably always would be—but it felt manageable now. Survivable.
