Love in Every Season

by Charlie Cochrane

  I wondered if he’d taken to reading my mind, given that his first move once we’d got into the lounge was to put his arm around my shoulder and insist I make myself at home. “Jenny’s boyfriends always stand around like they’re footmen waiting for an order. I hope you’re not going to be like that.” He plonked himself down on the settee, taking me with him. I refrained from asking what his boyfriends usually did when they visited.

  “Just don’t ask my mum around for tea. She’ll think she has to serve it.” I tried to relax, which wasn’t easy given the twin anxieties generated by the classiness of the surroundings and the proximity of Nick himself. I had that awful butterflies in the tummy and heading for the loins sort of feeling. Nick had texted his sister, so I knew we weren’t going to be rudely interrupted, but I wasn’t sure how far I wanted all this to go.

  “Remind me if we ever get to the round for tea stage.” He shuffled in close, leaning across for another mouth-watering kiss. I was getting tired by that point—it was a long day in a long month—and I could already feel some slight tremors building up, so I put all my efforts into returning that kiss. With interest.

  “Hey, I’m sorry.” He pulled back, clearly concerned. “It’s late and I’m tiring you out.”

  “I told you before, I’m not a fucking cripple.” I pulled him back towards me, pressing my lips against his, but angry kisses aren’t that satisfying. And my motor skills go all to pot when I’m cross and tired. I leaned back on the cushions.

  Nick put his hands up, like I’d pulled a gun. “Like I said earlier, I never said you were.” He put his hands either side of my face and looked hard at me. I hadn’t realised just how piercingly green his eyes were. Emeralds, dancing with light. “You’re just too precious a commodity to spoil.”

  I wanted to fight back and say, “Spoil me, spoil me right now,” but my energy reserves had let me down and were running on empty. I managed to draw one of his hands to my mouth and kiss the knuckles—I’d seen that in a film and it looked dead romantic, while not requiring too much effort. “You’re pretty special, yourself.”

  “You say the nicest things.” He was taking the mickey, but in a good way.

  “I’m sorry I’m like a limp lettuce. Life’s a bit hectic at the moment and it gets to me. I’ll be more with it next time.” If there was a next time.

  “Damn right you will. You’ll have got your gold medals by then and you’ll be able to let your hair down.” He squeezed my cheeks. “I’m first in line for a congratulatory hug, although it’ll have to be out in the car park. Couldn’t get tickets for your 100 metres.”

  “I’ll have a spare. It’s yours if you want it.” Mum and Dad had somehow managed to wangle some in the ballot—they’re always lucky at tombolas and raffles—so I’d got a bit of leeway with my complimentary ones. Family were pretty well sorted and I was clinging on to the last remaining ticket just in case Mr. Right came haring around the corner. I guess Nick was the closest I was going to get at the eleventh hour and he was no bad candidate for the post.

  “Really?” Nick’s face lit up. “I’d love it. Can you send it here if I scribble down the address?” You’d have thought I’d offered him the crown jewels.

  “I’ll leave it at the front desk on the day.” That was the usual routine with tickets for family and friends. Always useful in Mum’s case as she had a habit of leaving home without things. “I’d be dead chuffed if you could make it.” I wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to handle it when he ended up sitting next to granny but at that point I didn’t care.

  “I’ll be there. Unless you’d rather I didn’t. I mean, how ‘out’ are you?”

  “All the way and then some.” Slight exaggeration, but I was feeling light headed with something or other and it wasn’t the beer. Nick was intoxicating. “My parents know, my coach knows, the boys in the squad know. The tabloids haven’t got hold of it yet, but I’m too low profile to bother with.”

  “Doesn’t seem to have hurt Lee Pearson, does it?”

  I nodded, impressed at his range of knowledge. Fancy me running into such a sports nerd; such a good looking sports nerd, at that.

  “Is he cornering the market in equal opportunities? Gay and disabled?” Nick grinned.

  “He’d have to add ethnic minority and female to get full house,” I said. Lee was a good bloke—I’d met him at an awards ceremony and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much. And he’d been a guest on Question of Sport, which I’d have given my right arm for. Well, maybe not my right arm because that’s the one that doesn’t tend to go tits up, but you get my drift.

  “Don’t talk like that around Guardian readers. You’ll get yourself shot.” He leaned in one last time, to share a kiss. At that point, I knew what was different about Nick. Romance. He didn’t seem like he just wanted to get his leg over as quick as possible; unless he was a bloody good actor, of course, although he’d have had to have taught his groin to act, too. He couldn’t hide anything in those trousers. “Come on, let’s get you home in one piece.”

  “Only if you promise we can meet up again, once I’ve done all my events.” I must have sounded like a little kid, but I didn’t care; I didn’t have the time or the energy for fannying about.

  “Of course we will, you dozy mare.” He ruffled my hair, then reached into his jacket pocket. “Bugger. No paper.” He got up, went over to a cabinet and rummaged about in a draw. “I have no idea why there’s never anything to wr…Aha!” He produced a notepad and pencil, scribbling things on it before ripping off the sheet. “Here. My mobile number and e-mail.” He held out the pad. “Give me yours as well. You’re not getting away from me that easily.”

  “I didn’t think I was intending to.” I carefully put down the letters and figures, taking particular trouble with the ones that tend to go a bit skew whiff when I’m tired. Not because of Nick—him seeing what I’m really like was fine—but because I didn’t want to risk him reading a seven as a two and getting the wrong number. “Here.” I sprang up—or the closest I could get to springing—and almost ended up in his arms once more.

  “No more of that, Cinderella. I’m getting you home.”

  I could feel the beetroot shade spreading up my neck again, so I mumbled something about being desperate for the loo and insisted I could find it myself.

  “Here, let me show you. Don’t want you ending up in Mum and Dad’s room by mistake.” He took my arm—that was an unexpected bonus—and steered me out of the lounge, down the hall and into a bathroom.

  “Thanks.” I dived through the door, suddenly realising that the volume of beer had started to make itself felt, so I really did have to use the facilities before we got in the car, rather than just earning myself some get your act together time, as I’d intended. I got a hell of a surprise at the décor, enough to make me forget how embarrassed I’d been. Like I said, the rest of the flat was really nicely done out, original watercolours—ones that even I could see were classy—on the walls. But in the loo there were loads of pictures of Nick, Jenny and what must have been their parents, given the resemblance. Skiing, making bad snowmen on huge snowfields, and snowboarding.

  Real snowboarding, on real snow, not on the X-Box. I remember staring at the pictures as if they represented life on some alien planet. Took me ages to remember that I still had my flies undone and my todger in my hand and there was Nick’s sister and mum staring at me. I quickly finished off, washed my hands and left, with a long last look at a particularly good snap of Nick in all his boarding gear.

  “I didn’t realise you were into winter sports.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder.

  “We’re into all sorts of sports.” There was a knowing look in Nick’s eye which suggested he’d introduce me to some of them—and I don’t mean the Winter Olympic variety—once I’d got the small matter of a few qualification and medal races out of the way. “Do you ski?”

  I was dead chuffed that the question seemed genuine and not just token. “Nah. My parents aren’t rea
lly into that sort of stuff.” Couldn’t really afford it, for one thing, not without sacrificing our summer holiday, and that was sacrosanct. “I’d love to try snowboarding, though. Closest I’ve got is a video game.”

  “X-Box?” Nick grinned like a mad thing. “I wish I’d known. I’d have whipped you back here earlier and we could have given it a go. I’ve got mine lurking under the bed somewhere.”

  I’ve had blokes say some romantic stuff, make some wild suggestions, but that had to be the sexiest proposal I’d ever had. Made me wish we had the whole night so we could start with the X-Box under the bed and finish up with activity on top of it. I just hoped I could control the contents of my own trousers on the way home as I was getting too excited for comfort.

  “Next time, maybe?” I managed to squeak, before he was rattling his car keys and ushering me to the door.

  The journey home was a bit disconcerting. Nick drove well and his Satnav took all the angst out of having to direct him, but the car smelt too much of him, subtle cologne and something more earthy—good old fashioned sweat?—mixing to produce an intoxicating blend. And the continuing conversation, “X-Box games we have known”, all the way from Victoria to my road end didn’t do anything to dampen my ardour. I guess it’s what I’d wanted, in my secret fantasies of Matty—a blokish bloke, who’d be into nerding about on the computer and who just happened to be gay. And, by the way, drop dead gorgeous.

  So, here was my A1 perfect pin up and I was going to have to let him wander off for a few weeks. I tried to ignore the underhand voice in my head which said if I allowed him off the hook I’d never catch him again, despite what he’d said about not letting me go. For all that I sound like I’m brimming with confidence, I’m not when it comes to relationships. Maybe that’s another reason why I’ve fought shy of commitment; I’m afraid of getting myself in too deep and then the other guy deciding he doesn’t want to hang around with a cripple and going off to find someone who isn’t quite so disastrous on the dance floor or prone to giving it the hippy hippy shake for all the wrong reasons.

  Nick pulled up not far from my door, deliberately stopping the engine. I didn’t expect a full blown snog there in the front seat—this was the suburbs, not under the pier at Brighton on pride weekend—but I was kind of hoping for another kiss before the parting of the ways.

  “You’ll be in touch tomorrow? Just to let me know you got to the training camp safe?” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

  “All the way to the frozen northern wastes of Manchester? Yeah, of course.” I told the sceptical voice in my head to put Nick’s “You’ll be in touch tomorrow?” in its pipe and smoke it. Didn’t sound like he was on the lookout for anyone else at the moment. “But don’t worry if I don’t keep up a stream of texts and messages. A delay in replying doesn’t mean I’m ignoring you. More likely I’m knackered.”

  “Or spending too much time tweeting.” He grinned, most likely because even in the half light from a street lamp he could see I was gobsmacked. “You probably had no idea I follow you.”

  “Bloody hell. Too right I had no idea. Sorry, that seems so rude not to have picked it up earlier.”

  “I didn’t expect that you’d have recognized me among the thousands of others who hang on your every word. And anyway, I use a pseudonym so none of the people at Warwick can tell what a nerd I really am underneath this suave exterior.” He leaned over and gave me that kiss I’d been hoping for. “Put some secret messages to me among your tweets and I’ll be happy.”

  “I will.” I guessed I’d just been given my marching orders, so I opened the car door, said a quick last “Goodbye” and headed for my house glad that I’d at least avoided having to explain to my parents exactly who my chauffeur was. As I was opening my front door, he drove past with the driver’s window down, shouted, “Night night, gorgeous,” and left me worrying about whether I’d have to clarify that one, instead. Luckily Mum and Dad had already gone to bed, leaving me a note that they’d be up early to see me off.

  Normally I’d have been a bit miffed at being left to fend for myself, but tonight I was pleased to be alone with my thoughts and not have to face a grilling. Driving eastwards towards the smoke was the best bloke I’d ever had the luck to run across and, while I don’t believe in love at first sight, what I felt for him was more than just a stirring in the loins. Only why did it have to be now, at the worst bloody time imaginable, when I had to have my mind firmly fixed on hitting the pool wall first among my S9 peers?

  I grabbed a drink of water, cleaned my teeth, slipped into a t-shirt—all the usual routine stuff—and tried to sleep, although I knew it was going to be futile. All I could think about was Nick’s smile, Nick’s laugh, Nick saying he wasn’t going to let me slip away. What it would be like to have Nick lying here next to me. I stuck a pillow over my head and told my groin to behave itself.

  Disruption

  U k?

  Yep. U?

  It’s hardly Shakespeare, I know, but phone messages don’t lend themselves to soliloquies. However, they do make it easier to keep a fledgling relationship going when the party of the first part has been whisked off to training camp.

  Training gud?

  Fine.

  You can lie in a message, too—or in an e-mail, which was our other way of daily contact. I could distract Nick by saying how the pool at Manchester’s absolutely brilliant, how it’s got a great atmosphere, how it has the advantage of being a known quantity, given that I’ve been up and down it no end of times taking part in the Paralympic World Cup. How I always do great times there.

  What I didn’t say was that I always had done quick times in the past; I’d no sooner hit training camp than I’d hit the wall. Ben the barracuda was more like Ben the tortoise.

  GTG. Weights then speed work. XX.

  U just live 4 pleasure. XX.

  I set off for the gym, hoping this was the day I got my act together. By the time I came up for air at the end of my first speed session, I knew it wasn’t.

  “Edwards, what the bloody hell’s wrong with you?” My coach’s voice cut the air like a chainsaw. Brian Weston had the wonderful knack of being able to make himself heard across the length of a fifty metre pool and over a packed house of screaming spectators. At a training session, with the seats mostly empty, the noise of his roar was deafening. “You haven’t put a decent series of times together these last two days. No, I’m wrong about that. You’ve not put one decent bloody time in.”

  He didn’t need to tell me. I knew. I’d been sluggish the day before although there was a mild tummy bug going through the camp and a couple of us hadn’t been up to scratch. Brian had let it pass, but he wasn’t going to let me get away with anything today, especially when it was plain there was nothing physically wrong with me.

  “Sorry, Brian.” I got out of the pool and dripped my way towards my stuff. I felt like I was seven years old, in trouble for not having done my reading homework. Nobody likes to let Brian down; hell, none of us like to let anyone down, least of all ourselves.

  “Sort it, Ben.” Brian’s no bully, he doesn’t believe in beating performances out of his swimmers, or humiliating them into pulling their socks up, although he’ll push you to your limit and then some. He’s part of a good team—you only have to look at Great Britain’s results over the last decade to tell the Paralympic boys and girls know their business—and they generally get the best from us. Trouble is, I didn’t have a lot of “best” to offer at that point and there wasn’t going to be that long to get my head screwed on and find some.

  It wasn’t a physical thing; I was in the best shape of my career. It was the whole Nick thing. Only three days had gone by since we’d met and the first twenty four hours of that I’d felt sick almost every moment. All I could think of was how soon we could meet up again, how soon I’d get myself into his bed. The very thing I’d promised myself I wouldn’t allow to come along and fuck up my Olympic dreams had whizzed around the corner and got me in the solar plex
us and I had no idea how to cope with the situation.

  Coach’s arm around my shoulder snapped me out of my slough of despond. “You’re bloody miles away. Penny for your thoughts?”

  “You don’t want to know.” I laughed and carried on towelling down, trying to pass my distraction off as a bad mood or something.

  “I do, though. If I know what’s going on in that head of yours then perhaps I can help your form come back from wherever it’s gone walkabout.” Brian’s voice was low and soothing now; that showed he really did mean business, even more so than when he was shouting. “We haven’t got long.”

  Tell me about it. Seven years of dreams and aspirations were bound up in these next few weeks. I swallowed hard and tried to sound truthful. “I just need to refocus. Got to get myself into the zone, only it’s the sort of zone I’ve not been in before. A step up from what I’m used to.”

  Brian liked that sort of talk; he could deal with discussion of zones or performance mind maps or whatever this week’s psychological buzz words were. I’m not sure he’d have ever coped with, There’s this bloke I’m desperate to get my end away with and it’s distracting me something rotten.

  “Is that all?” Brian smiled, although I wasn’t sure my charade had convinced him. Luckily, another one of the swimmers sauntered past at that point, someone who’d made even more of a tit of himself in the pool and he was clearly in line for the rough end of coach’s tongue. I slipped away, needing to shower down and get some physio, brain more all over the place than my body was.

  The shower only helped so much, the previous night’s dream I’d had about Nick—featuring me, him and those very showers—coming back to both haunt and taunt me. I turned the water to a colder setting and waited for my bodily parts to start behaving themselves. I’d read somewhere—it was an article about a football or maybe a rugby team, I think—where the coach encouraged the players to sleep with their wives or girlfriends the night before a match as he reckoned it improved their performance on the pitch. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to get that one past Brian. Excuse me, coach, I’m sure I can get back to breaking my personal best, if you’d only let me have a bit of how’s-your-father with this bloke I fancy. Oh yes, he’d wear that, wouldn’t he? Thoughts of Brian broke my daydream, bringing me back to the realisation I was freezing my balls off under the cold passion killer of a shower.