Personal Best 2

by Sean Michael

  “How’re you feeling?” Jess asked, sitting on the tops of his thighs. “Anything sore or stiff?”

  “Huh?” Fuck, Coach. Don’t make me lie to you. Please.

  “I asked if anything was sore or stiff.” Jess’s hands slid over his shoulders, started working them.

  He closed his eyes, sighed. “Little twinges, nothing big.”

  “Twinges? This something new?” Coach dug his fingers in.

  “Nope.” Not new. Three weeks. But the hurt that kept on after he got out of the water? That was new.

  Jess grunted, continued on down his back, worked his ass, his thighs, all the way down to his feet. Then one of those solid hands slapped his ass. “Flip.”

  “Mmm….” He turned, humming low, relaxed. “Feels good.”

  “That’s the point.” Jess grinned at him and started in on his shoulders again, hands moving slowly, fingers digging deep.

  He groaned; he couldn’t help it. It hurt. Coach’s gaze got hard, sharp, concentrating on his left shoulder, fingers careful, working each part of his shoulder slowly. He closed his eyes and focused on curling his toes, thinking about today’s race. Then that big thumb slid across a nerve or something, sending pain shooting through his shoulder.

  “Fuck!” He pulled away, growling.

  “Dammit, Mike!” Coach’s hands moved over his shoulder, focusing in on where the pain was, fingers gentler now. Mike turned his face away, chewing on his bottom lip, knowing he couldn’t push right now. “You’ve done something to your rotator cuff.” Coach shook his head. “Your swim was beautiful, perfect. You didn’t do this today. When?”

  “Couple weeks. It’s getting better.” He’d slipped and caught himself. Stupid.

  Coach stopped his hands. “A couple of weeks? A couple?” Coach got up and started pacing. “Bullshit, it’s getting better—you were just able to fucking hide it until today.” Then those blue eyes were back, glaring at him. “Why the fuck were you hiding it from me?”

  “Ten days left, Coach. Ten fucking days and then we’re gold.” He wasn’t going on the bench.

  “Gold? Gold?” Coach went a dark, almost purple kind of red, mouth still working, but no sounds coming out. Then he started pacing the room again.

  Mike sat up, put his shorts back on, his shirt, then settled in the chair.

  “All right. I’m putting aside you not telling me. For now. I’m changing our flight home to the earliest I can find, and then we’re going in to get the shoulder looked at properly. And once we know what’s wrong with it, we can decide what we’re going to do.”

  “I’m swimming the meet, Jess.”

  “Maybe.”

  He shook his head. “I can do it. I can.”

  Coach nodded. “I’m sure you can. And I’m sure you can take a minor injury and make it a fucking career-ending one by pretending it doesn’t exist.”

  “One more race, Coach. Just one more.”

  “I won’t let you make that decision without knowing what’s going on in your arm, Mike.” Coach was wearing his stubborn face. Well, and his angry, pissed-off face too. Fuck. Just ten days and he could have avoided this whole thing.

  He rubbed his forehead, groaning. This was so not fair—he was supposed to be resting on his laurels, damn it. “I don’t want to fight, Jess. I don’t.”

  “Neither do I. So we’ll agree to leave it be until you’ve seen the doc tomorrow. I’ll just rearrange our schedule, and then we can go to bed.” Jess went over to the phone and made calls, face tight.

  Mike sighed, rubbed the back of his neck, then stood. He wasn’t any good at fighting with Jess, never had been. He walked over, kissed the back of Jess’s head, and whispered, “I’m going down to the hot tub, man. I’m not sleepy.”

  Jess put his hand over the mouthpiece. “I’ll join you when I’m done.”

  He nodded and grabbed his trunks, tugged them on after pulling off his shorts, and then snagged a towel. The hotel was busy, the partiers just starting to leave, all snazzed up and glittery. It fucking sucked—he’d just beaten his personal best, and instead of celebrating, his lover was pissed, they were fixing to fly home, and he was going to get back in the water.

  Man.

  JESS GOT them on a 6:00 a.m. flight back home. He called the sports medicine clinic’s service and arranged for a 2:00 p.m. appointment.

  And he paced.

  It took him over half an hour to calm down enough to grab his trunks and follow Mike down to the hot tub. Dammit, he was still pissed off. Maybe hurt, too, that Mike would swim for two fucking weeks trying to hide his injury. And how the hell had he missed it anyway?

  He shook his head. Neither of them had done their job. Mike should have told him. He should have noticed. Maybe he had to back off on their physical relationship; maybe that’s what was interfering with his focus. Mike’s was the wall and his was Mike the swimmer, and fuck it all if he hadn’t fucked that up good.

  He took a couple deep breaths as he got off the elevator. It wouldn’t do to go in with both barrels blazing, not until they knew what the fuck was up.

  He went into the hotel’s “spa,” looking for Mike. He found Mike floating, neck-deep in the bubbling water, eyes closed, bottle of Sprite sweating beside the hot tub.

  He slipped into the water next to the kid. “How long have you been in?”

  “A while. ’M okay. Just soaking.” Mike sighed, not opening his eyes. “You still pissed?”

  “Yeah. I….” He sighed and put his head on the backrest, closing his own eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “At first? ’Cause it didn’t hurt. Then? Because I didn’t want it to hurt. And then because I knew you’d freak out and I wanted to race.” And because Mike was scared and never listened to his body and was twenty years old and felt damned immortal.

  “Mike, the only reason I’m ‘freaking out’ is because you didn’t tell me. For two weeks. Dammit.” He sat up again and opened his eyes, biting back the rest. “If you ever hide an injury from me again, I’ll quit.”

  “You can’t.” Mike’s head popped up, eyes wide and shocked. “I need you.”

  “You don’t lie to me again and I won’t.” He shook his head. “Full access, kid. That’s the deal, and you know it. If we weren’t lovers, I’d still have my hand in that pie. I’d want to know who and how often and what fucking positions. I can’t coach you if I don’t have all the details.” And it would kill him to give Mike up. As a swimmer, as a lover, either or both.

  Mike stood up, white as a sheet, and grabbed a towel. “Bathroom.”

  Then Mike was heading for the little private john at a dead run. Shit. The excitement from the race. Pizza. Hurting. Fighting. Heat. Put it all together and it equaled one sick swimmer.

  Cursing himself out, Jessy followed, growling when he found the door locked. “Come on, kid, open up and let me in.”

  “Just a….” He could hear Mike retching, the pained groans. Watch the kid pull a groin muscle puking.

  He sighed, hand against the door. Shit. Fuck. This was his fucking fault. He’d let Mike down, he’d lost Mike’s complete trust somehow, and one thing had led to another, and now he had a sick kid on his hands. Dammit all to hell, he knew better than to let Mike float in the fucking hot tub longer than twenty minutes. Especially with all the other shit going on.

  It seemed to take forever, but the toilet eventually flushed. The door unlocked and opened to reveal Mike shivering and sweating, splashing his face with cold water. “Sorry.”

  He wrapped his arms around Mike. “No, I’m sorry. Come on, let’s get you back to our room. You’ll feel better after some sleep.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I feel woozy.” Mike leaned into him. “I wasn’t lying to you. I really didn’t think it was gonna get worse. Honest.”

  “If you get a hangnail, I want to know about it, Mike. Every single damned thing, you know?” He supported Mike to the elevators, fighting the urge to just pick the kid up and carry him.

  “Right now
I just want to brush my teeth and rest with you, Jess. I swear, I’m hangnailless.” Those pretty eyes were bloodshot and unhappy. “I don’t even know what a hangnail is.”

  He nodded, hustling them off the elevator and into their room. “Come on, kid. Bathroom and bed. We’ll figure everything out in the morning when we’ve both had a good night’s sleep.”

  And he had a little perspective.

  HE WAS so mad he was shaking.

  Category III? No way. No way was he not training that shoulder. Ice packs. NSAIDs. Physical therapy. A frigging sling? And the doc was talking steroid shots and possible surgery. Forget that. He was swimming the All-Americans. He was racing.

  Damn it.

  Coach drove home without saying a word. It wasn’t until the car was parked outside their home that Jess turned to him. “Mike.”

  “We have to hit the pool, Coach. I have nine days, and I missed laps this morning.” He wasn’t going to argue.

  Coach blinked at him for a moment. “Did you hear anything the doctor said? Anything at all?”

  “Yep. I heard. Nine days. I won’t race all of my events, but I’m racing the four hundred.”

  “I’m not sure you can, Mike.” Coach gave him a quiet, serious look. “Racing might just screw up that shoulder for good. Do you really want to end your career on that note?”

  “It won’t. I can push through this, Coach. It’s not as bad as all that.” If he stopped now, his ranking would crash. Hell, he couldn’t afford to lose his sponsors, his livelihood.

  Their livelihood.

  “Mike. If we take it easy now, work the shoulder back into health, take three to six months off, you can come back next year stronger than ever. If you go out there and train like hell the next nine days, you might not even make it to the race. Or you might and then blow the shoulder permanently at the race. One race is not your entire career, nor is it worth risking your entire career for.” He could see Coach’s jaw twitching, the big hands clenching and unclenching—Jessy trying to be reasonable.

  “It’s not one race, Coach. You know it. I know it. Every one adds up, and if I blow this? I’m the ugly stepsister at the Olympic trials next year.” Six months?

  Six months?

  He’d go crazy.

  “It doesn’t matter how you show up at those trials next year, you’re going to get a berth and you know it. Unless you can’t swim. And believe me—you fuck up that shoulder any worse right now? And you aren’t going to be able to swim next summer, maybe not ever. You think I want to pull you out? I know how this game works. I know what the consequences are. I’ve also seen swimmers race hurt and then never race again.”

  Mike shook his head, got out of the car, and headed inside. He couldn’t think about this right now.

  He wouldn’t.

  If he’d only been more careful. If he’d only not flinched. If.

  If.

  If.

  Coach followed him, grabbed his hand. “We need to talk this out, Mike. Decide what we’re going to do.”

  “I’m going to the meet. I’m swimming the race. Focus, remember? Focus and train and don’t give up. You taught me that.”

  “I’m not asking you to give up, Mike. I’m asking you not to ruin the rest of your life for one fucking race.”

  He groaned, slamming his fist against the front door, trying to work the keys in the lock with his other hand. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

  “No? Well, you’re not getting back into the pool until we do. So that’s no skin off my nose.” Coach took the keys from his hand and opened the door. “And don’t fucking injure yourself further.”

  “I’m getting in the friggin’ pool, Coach. I’m a swimmer. It’s what I do.” Who he was.

  “Not until we’ve talked this out, figure out what we’re going to do. I’ve got a regimen in mind that’ll improve your kicking, especially your dolphin kick, and let you practice fairly hard without overusing your arm. Now it does mean missing the All-Americans, but it doesn’t mean stopping training right out. With any luck, you’ll be good to go without an operation in a few months, six on the outside, so you can get in some more meets and remind people who you are before the Olympic trials.” Coach’s hand was warm on his arm. “I’m not the enemy here, Mike.”

  “I know. I know, Coach. Let me do this meet and I’ll start therapy. Nine days. I can handle it.” He sighed, started walking, pacing.

  “I don’t know about the meet. I want you to do all your laps with a flutterboard or on your back without using your left arm for the next few days, and we’ll do the icing and hot packs and go back, see how it’s healing. My gut says the meet’s out, Mike.”

  “Okay, Coach. Yeah. Two days on the flutterboard. That gives me a week.” He nodded. That would work. He could do that.

  He could.

  He headed to get changed and get to the pool and start the day’s training.

  JESSY MANAGED to keep Mike on the flutterboard for three days, and they’d gone back to the doctor this morning. The news wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great, but it was better than he’d been hoping. There was improvement. Marginal, but enough that the doctor agreed Mike probably wouldn’t need surgery, as long as he was careful of the arm. It was going to take some time, but it was going to heal up just fine on its own. Another week or three and Mike would be able to start strengthening exercises, as well as swimming using the arm.

  Hell, if they kept up the flutterboard work, working on his kicking, keeping the other arm loose and ready, Mike wouldn’t even lose much of his edge. A strict regimen of staying off it, cold- and hot-packing it, and then gradually building the strength back up in the surrounding muscles, and Mike would be good to go in three or four months. Six, tops. Which did indeed put them right in line with being ready for the Olympic trials. Would let them get some meets under their belts before the trials. Even next year’s All-Americans.

  But it meant not swimming the upcoming meet. And Jess knew, he just knew, that Mike was going to give him a hard time over it. The kid wanted it so bad he could already taste it.

  He got home and made lunch, then set the burger down in front of Mike like the peace offering it was.

  “All right. Here’s the deal. You don’t swim in the All-Americans. You do stay in the water and keep training hard. In four months, six at the outside, you start going to meets again, as long as the doc has cleared you. I know it’s not going to be easy, but think of it this way—that’s six months without a ban on sex.”

  Mike shook his head. “I want this one, Coach. I won’t win forever.”

  “You start using that arm now, and it might give out on you before we even hit the meet. Come on, Mike. You’ve got to give your body time to heal; you’ve got to listen to it. Right now it’s telling you it needs a fucking break.” Damn it, the kid had to listen, or he could screw that arm up for good. “I’m the first one to push you if you want to slack off before you’re tired or your muscles ache from being pushed. This is different. This is a deep injury that could sideline you forever if it’s not taken care of. Forever, Mike.”

  “Don’t give up on me yet, Coach. I got a week. Seven days. Let me try.”

  “I’m not giving up on you! Don’t you get it? I believe in you. I believe that you can race at the top of your game for the next five years. But not if you screw up your arm now.” This was partly his own fault. He kept telling Mike to look at the wall, never think beyond the next lap, the next race. It was his job to look at the big picture. And if Mike raced in seven days, that picture was bleak.

  Mike sighed, shook his head. “You’re talking forever. What if the sponsors pull out?”

  “I’m talking six months at the most, Mike. That’s not forever. Forever is you hurting that arm at that meet in a way you can never recover from. And let me tell you what—you do that and you won’t ever get them back, no matter how good you come back. They aren’t going to pull out if we tell them you’re injured but that you’ll be good as new by the t
ime the Olympic trials come around. Trust me, the sponsors understand long-term benefits.” The kid was worried about the fucking sponsors. He shook his head. “Your job is to swim, kid. Not to worry about sponsors. You listen to me, you do what I tell you, you swim your heart out when it’s time. It’s not time. Not now.”

  “Not worry about the sponsors. Shit.” Mike pushed the untouched food away, started pacing like a caged cat. “I do worry. I’m not empty-headed. I know I’m fucked when I get older and not worth dick to anybody but as a pro in the swim club.”

  “We’ve talked about this, Mike. We’ve talked about you taking some courses at the university, about going full-time once you’re done swimming. We can coast by on my savings and salary as a coach wherever for a while. Hell, if I get in with a school, paying your tuition’ll be a part of the deal.” He got up and went over to Mike. “Sh. Stop. Don’t do this to yourself. You need to get quiet and still and think clearly.” Maybe it was time for a round in the playroom. They hadn’t fucked since the week before the last meet. It was a hell of a way to get rid of some of the tension and to focus Mike to boot. “Let’s go upstairs and play a little, get out of our heads for a while.”

  To his utter relief, Mike nodded, leaning against him a little, trusting him. Trusting in him. He moaned softly, arms going around Mike as he let the coach go, let all his walls down so he could hold his lover.

  Mike cuddled in, the softest sound brushing against his throat. “Need you. Jess. I’m… I need you.”

  “I know, baby. I’ve got you. I do.” He picked Mike up, carried him upstairs. He knew Mike could walk. He didn’t care. He needed to do this, to care for his lover, make him fly.

  Mike, for all that his legs were long, didn’t weigh one hundred fifty pounds soaking wet. Hell, he’d teased his swimmer about being a bird in disguise. Mike didn’t protest, didn’t complain, just held on to him and let him move them.

  He went into the playroom because it was the one space where they could leave everything but this behind, the one place the swimming never came. He laid Mike out on the bed, following him down, finding Mike’s mouth with his own.