Built for Speed

by Declan Rhodes

  It was my turn to feel embarrassed when he explained the significance of orange. It was something that I should have known. I should have picked it up somewhere along the way watching sports coverage on TV. Lucas patiently explained that it was the color of national pride for the Netherlands. Orange is the official color of the Dutch royal family, and the speed skaters wear orange when they race in the Olympics. He said, “I used to wear this cap when I raced.”

  “You don’t race anymore?”

  Lucas shook his head. “No, I’m finished with racing. I only skate for fun.”

  “You won’t go back? You’re really young to retire.”

  He waved a hand and said, “Let’s forget about that. We both have a friendly challenge to focus on.”

  I asked, “What do I get if I win?”

  Lucas rubbed his chin for a moment and said, “A kiss.”

  “And if I lose?”

  He grinned and said, “You still get a kiss.”

  I laughed and stood up on my skates. “Those are good incentives to finish the race. I suggest we take two laps around the ribbon and then race the third. We should skate around the edge for the first two laps, and that might clear other skaters from that space for our little challenge.”

  “You take the lead,” said Lucas. “I’ll follow until I win at the end.”

  It felt like I was gliding on air when I was skating at Lucas’ side. We both moved across the ice with an ease that few of the other skaters could match. Neither of us gave it any thought, but our strides automatically synched up with each other. I could feel the eyes of some of our fellow skaters focus on us.

  Lucas asked, “Do you like hockey better than racing? Is that why you’re on a hockey team?”

  “I’ve not tried racing on skates before. Well, that’s not completely true. We sometimes do sprints at practice, and I pay attention to who comes in first, but I’ve never done real speed skating. It might be fun.”

  “I played hockey, but I’m awkward handling a stick,” said Lucas.

  I couldn’t help it. I busted out laughing. My mind automatically thought of body parts when Lucas made his comment about handling a stick. He glanced at me with an eyebrow raised. When I could speak again, I said, “Oh, ignore me. I just had childish thoughts about body parts when you talked about handling a stick.”

  Lucas got it when I said it, and he laughed, too. He said, “Sometimes I don’t know how something I say in English sounds until somebody repeats it to me.”

  We neared the end of our second lap around the ribbon. I asked, “Are you ready for this?”

  “I’m ready to win,” said Lucas.

  I was taken by surprise when he crossed our starting line and began digging with his skates like I saw speed skaters do on TV at the opening of a race. I stumbled along trying to keep up, but he had a clear head start. I grumbled under my breath.

  A quarter of the distance around the ribbon, I settled down, because Lucas was stunning to watch. He set out to win our second race triumphantly. I crept slightly closer when I pushed off hard enough that my thighs started to burn, but the artful sway of Lucas’ arm from side to side matched to his effortless striding kept him out in front the entire way.

  He didn’t even look winded when the race was over. I lowered my head and coughed, as I glided up next to him for our cool-down lap. Lucas sighed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to show off.”

  I said, “It was a race. You did what you needed to do to win. I’m sure you would have demolished me if you went all out.”

  Lucas laughed and patted me on the back. “I still think you could be a good speed skater, but I suggest shorter distances. I think you would do well sprinting.”

  I was curious about the concept, but I didn’t even know where to go to find a speed skating track. Everything was hockey in college. I decided to keep it in mind for the next break at home and do a little bit of research about skating facilities.

  “Hot cocoa now?” I asked. “I think I owe you one.”

  “And something else, too,” said Lucas with a broad smile.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by that comment, and I was curious while I unlaced the skates and pulled on my regular shoes. After we returned the skates, Lucas said, “Follow me.”

  I was still confused when I followed him into the building that held restrooms near the concession. It was mostly empty. Display boards trumpeted city events and the construction history of the park. Lucas headed straight for a nearly concealed hallway that wrapped around the far end of the restrooms.

  As I turned the corner, he pushed me up against the wall. I saw a grin on his face before he kissed me. I instantly melted into the kiss. I worried throughout dinner that we wouldn’t be able to share more than a little peck. Lucas found a place secluded enough that neither of us was shy about showing our passion for each other.

  Then he began to get even more physical. Lucas pushed a hand down over my abs and then the front of my jeans. I was rock hard inside, and I couldn’t help moaning from the sensation, but it was too much for me. I pulled his hand back, and he said, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

  I shook my head. “No, don’t worry. I love this, but we’re so far apart when I leave tomorrow. I can’t do all of this right now and then just say goodbye.”

  Lucas searched my eyes and asked, “Do you feel something special?”

  “I do, and I’ll remember this for a long time.”

  “If it’s special, we should stay in touch,” said Lucas.

  I was flattered. For whatever reason, I didn’t think Lucas would want to keep in touch. He lived halfway around the world from me. Our two little dates made sense to me, but I was confident he could find someone else as soon as he got home.

  “Let’s give ourselves a chance,” said Lucas. “Tonight won’t be goodbye. Don’t let it be goodbye.”

  6

  Lucas

  The rest of my time in Chicago was uneventful compared to the time I spent with James. He sent me a text message to let me know that he arrived at his college safely. We began exchanging messages through video chat software on the computer. For my last two weeks in America, we settled into a pattern of talking when James first woke up in the morning. Both Sophie and Jerry were at work, and I had their condominium to myself. I loved looking at his tousled hair and sleepy eyes. He was effortlessly sexy. I wanted to crawl back in bed with him and sleep another two hours before waking up, kissing, and doing whatever else came to mind.

  The day before my flight back across the Atlantic Ocean, I went shopping with Sophie to choose small gifts for friends and my parents back home. Sophie said, “It’s been so wonderful to have my little brother around. Are you sure you don’t want to move to Chicago?”

  I said, “I’ve got so many places to explore in the world, but I’ll be back. I love visiting you. I think I get along a lot better with Jerry now, too. I needed to get to know him.”

  Sophie giggled. “He said last night that he’s going to miss the skinny guy.”

  When I planted myself in my seat on the plane back to Amsterdam, I thought it would be a quiet flight. I didn’t want to sleep, but I figured a few movies would be enough entertainment, and I could stumble to my apartment at home and finally sleep for hours and hours. My plans disintegrated about thirty minutes later.

  An older man, perhaps age fifty or sixty, sat next to me, and he pulled out a newspaper. I was fascinated watching him fold it up into a small enough package that he could easily read it on an airplane full of so many passengers. He ignored me at first.

  No words other than our first terse, “Hello,” passed between us until I ordered a drink from the flight attendant.

  My seatmate turned to me and said, “You’re Dutch.”

  I smiled politely and nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”

  He said, “I didn’t pick it up from the way you speak English. It’s something about the sounds that form around the words. It’s hard to explain to someone who isn�
��t a linguist. Anyway, I did business in Amsterdam for many years. I’ve known a lot of people from your country.”

  I said, “Most people don’t notice, or they assume that I might be Swedish when they see my hair.”

  He nodded and asked, “What enticed you to cross the Atlantic? Was it vacation time? I’m assuming that you live in Europe.”

  “I do. I was visiting my sister. She married an American and lives in Chicago. It was my first visit since she left home.”

  I knew that an extended conversation was on the way when the man reached a hand toward me and said, “I’m Harold. It’s good to meet you. I usually stick to myself on flights, but this is a long one.”

  “I’m Lucas. Do you live in America, Harold?”

  He said, “Yes, I’m an American from Grand Rapids, Michigan. I’m on my way to Rome. I have an old friend that retired to Italy from the U.K. My wife passed away just three years ago, and I spend a lot of time traveling now.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry for that. I hope this is a good trip for you.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. We had thirty amazing years together. Is there a special woman in your life?”

  I blinked before I answered. I hesitated, and I wondered what I should say for my answer. I knew that many Americans were still very biased toward gay people, and a long flight lay ahead. I didn’t know if I should give him ammunition to use to be antagonistic toward me.

  Noticing the hesitation, Harold asked, “Is that a question I shouldn’t have asked?”

  There was something about the open sound of his voice that gave me the courage to speak up. I said, “No, and I don’t date women. I’m a gay man.”

  I was confused when Harold burst out laughing, but then he said, “I always stick my foot in my mouth in conversations like this. I shouldn’t have assumed. It would’ve been just as easy to ask if there was a special person. Let me back up a step. I’m still curious about your answer to the question. Is there a special man in your life?”

  Usually, I thought questions about my dating relationships were invasive. Harold was different. He wanted to enjoy a pleasant conversation. I said, “I’m not sure.”

  As Harold’s brows knitted together, I began to explain. I told him about racing James on skates and the dinners we shared. I explained that I was a former speed skater, and James played hockey.

  Harold interrupted me. “You said he plays hockey? These planes always turn out to be signs of such a small world. I used to play hockey. I coached, too. I was a high school history teacher until I retired early after Carol passed.”

  I said, “He plays hockey in college.”

  “Oh, which college?”

  When I answered the question, Harold’s eyes opened wider. I could see the interest in his gaze. He said, “That’s one of the top programs in the country. He has to be very good to even make the team. If he’s starting, he has at least an outside chance of making it to the NHL.”

  I asked, “NHL?”

  “National Hockey League,” said Harold. “It’s our professional hockey league. It’s the aspiration of hockey players in both the U.S. and Canada. Several European players come over, too.”

  “He does skate well. I’ll ask him more about hockey. I have to admit that I only know the most rudimentary concepts of the game.”

  Harold said, “I’m surprised you don’t know much. Some NHL players retire, and then they go to play in the Netherlands.”

  I grinned. “Exactly. You just said it. Hockey players come to my country when they’re no longer good enough to play in the world’s top leagues. On the other hand, we have many of the best speed skaters in the entire world.”

  I thought about James. He was humble about his athletic skills. I had no idea that he could be among the top college hockey players in his country. He was faster skating than I expected for a hockey player. As I spoke with Harold, I thought about James racing on a speed skating track. His body was truly built for speed compared with my longer and lankier figure.

  Harold continued the conversation. He asked, “What do you do for a living if I might ask. I’m assuming you are out of college since you said that you’re a former speed skater.”

  “I do graphic arts, and I spend time on the more artistic side of painting when I can.”

  “Do you sell your paintings?” asked Harold.

  I nodded and said, “When I can. I’ve not done a lot yet, but I want to expand in that direction.”

  “What kind of subjects? Abstract? Figurative?”

  I grinned. “You know about art, too?”

  Harold smiled back at me. “I have a personal collection of hockey art. Much of it is photography, but I have some paintings, too.”

  I said, “I paint portraits mostly. I’ve done a few with people posed, and then others I do using a photo of the person and creating my own abstract background.”

  “Do you have any images of your work? On your phone maybe?”

  I reached up and rubbed my chin. Then I remembered that I took photos of a couple of my paintings to show Sophie. I frowned when Jerry butted in to look at the images and said, “I don’t know why you don’t just go with a photo. They cost nothing to make now with digital cameras, and the quality is good. A painting takes hours to create and might cost you a thousand bucks or more.”

  Sophie glared at him and said, “Because you can capture things in paintings that you can’t with a camera. It’s why people still write poetry instead of only reading news articles.”

  Jerry sighed, and, after a few minutes of reflection, he said, “I guess you do have a point. Lucas, I apologize.”

  Remembering the moment distracted me from the conversation with Harold. That ability to rethink his snap opinion and apologize when necessary was one of the things I liked best about Jerry. Stereotypically, guys like Jerry would just stomp off and growl about an assault on their authority. He had enough self-confidence to carefully consider all viewpoints.

  “Did you find anything?” asked Harold.

  I turned my attention back to my phone. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about my sister and her husband. They are the reason I took the photos in the first place.” I added, “These aren’t the best images, but you can probably get an idea.”

  I held up the phone and Harold lowered his glasses while leaning forward. He said, “Those are excellent. I love the backgrounds in particular. They make the subjects jump off the page. Are you going to paint your new boyfriend?”

  I laughed nervously. “If James is my new boyfriend. I don’t know where things are going. It’s possible I may never see him in person again.”

  Harold reached up and scratched his head before turning his head to face me. He said, “It sounds like you really like him. What’s standing in your way?”

  “Six thousand kilometers of land and ocean.”

  Harold nodded. “That is a lot. Is there any possibility of being together if something developed through remote contact?”

  I was shocked at an older man like Harold sounding open to talking me through the relationship possibilities. When I thought about my parents, I assumed that they would think I was crazy to seriously entertain any options with James. I considered dating a guy from Germany that I met on the street in Amsterdam, and they thought that was pointless despite the fact he lived just across the border.

  “I’m hoping to make my graphic arts work profitable enough that I can live almost anywhere. I want to travel and see the world.”

  “Do you know what James wants to do?” asked Harold.

  I stared back at him. “He’s studying architecture in college, but I think his gut wants him to pursue hockey. I wish him the best in both pursuits. He’s smart; so he would make a great architect. He’s competitive, too, and that would be good for hockey.”

  Harold continued his line of questions and asked, “Are you planning to keep in touch.”

  “Yes, we’ve already used video chat since he left Chicago and went back home. We wil
l keep doing it when I’m home.”

  “Then you have a good question to ask him,” said Harold. “See if he has a preference for sports or the arts.”

  Since he seemed so open in the conversation, I decided to ask, Harold “Have you ever been in a long-distance relationship?”

  He smiled broadly. “Yes, with my wife, for the first three years after we met.”

  I started to ask about whether or not it worked, but it was evident that it turned out fine. Harold mentioned that they had thirty years together. Instead, I asked, “How did you make it work?”

  “A lot of communication and trust. She wanted to be an actress. She moved to Los Angeles to try and make that work while I was in graduate school in New York City. She thought she had a better chance with TV and film than considering the Broadway stage.”

  I asked, “Was she somebody famous?”

  He shook his head. “She wasn’t famous, but she had a successful career. When she didn’t have a big break acting, she started writing articles and then books. My wife has written some of the best work on movies and TV of the 1960s out there. She was a writer, and I was a teacher. We got to travel together most summers. It all worked well, and I miss her terribly.”

  7

  James

  I couldn’t wait to see Lucas’ smiling face. We put together a plan to keep up communication when he returned to his home in Amsterdam. The time of our daily conversations wasn’t going to change for me. Lucas said he could take a late lunch, and the timing would match up with me getting up in the morning. Unfortunately, I was so eager to talk to him that I had a hard time getting to sleep the night before, and I was up by 5:00 a.m. I still had two hours to wait for Lucas.

  I decided to pile on the winter parka, cap, and gloves and go outside to get some exercise. Burning off calories was an excellent way to try and distract my mind. My family lived in an ordinary suburban neighborhood. The upside was safety and comfort. The downside was the fact that everybody looked, sounded, and sort of acted the same. The subdivision sprawled with a spider web of streets. It gave me many options for walking and jogging over an ever-changing route.