Personal Best 2

by Sean Michael

  Mike’s whole world stopped. Just stopped.

  A bus pulled up to the corner where he was standing and staring—Christ, had they done all this on the street?—and he slid in as the doors closed. Just got on, dropped a quarter in, and sat down, leaving Jessy standing openmouthed on the corner. He didn’t even know where he was going.

  MIKE WALKED in the door at dusk, sweaty and exhausted. He’d ridden the bus to the end of the route and then walked and walked, spending the afternoon wandering. He didn’t know if he had a lover, a coach, both, neither.

  Everything was betraying him—his body, Jess, everything.

  He’d called his Aunt Kathy, cried a little, fussed a little, growled a little, and then stopped when he realized she wasn’t listening. To her, swimming was little kids splashing in the pool, and the races were just about bragging rights and medals.

  Jessy came out into the hall, looking drawn and haggard. “I’ve been out of my fucking mind worrying about you.”

  “Come to the meet with me. I need you, Jess. Please.” He was too tired to play.

  Jess rubbed his face. “Mike… I can’t condone you racing. I can’t.”

  Everything in him slumped, and he headed downstairs to grab his little bag of gear. He’d never done a meet without his coach. Hell, he’d never done a big meet without Jess.

  Jess followed him. “So you’re going?” He sounded incredulous.

  “What am I supposed to do? Damn it. What if it doesn’t get better? What if this is it? I’m a swimmer, Jessy. I fucking swim. I race. Focus on the motherfucking wall. I’ve been training for this meet for a year.”

  “It’ll get better, Mike. But not if you fucking push it. There’s other goddamned meets. Focus on another fucking wall.” Jessy took his face in those big hands. “Please, Mike. Don’t do this.”

  He closed his eyes, leaned into the touch, a tear sliding down his cheek. “Jessy.” He reached out, circled the trim waist with his arms. “I need you. I need you there with me. One race. No relays. No bullshit. I need to do this, and I can’t do it without you.” He wouldn’t.

  Jess’s thumb brushed away his tear, and those lips touched his, breathed Jessy’s air into him, and he felt as much as heard the long sigh. “I still think this is a bad idea. A stupid idea.”

  “You can yell at me after. When that prick’s apologized and we’ve got first place.” He met Jessy’s eyes. “I love you.”

  “You’re not doing this just to show up Hank, are you?”

  “No. I’m doing it because I can win. Because I’m at the top of the rankings and I’m not losing it at the end.”

  Jess shook his head. “It’s a bad fucking idea, but I’ll go with you. And if you make that shoulder worse, I am going to be all over your ass for the next year. You think I’m a hard-ass now? You ain’t seen nothing yet, kid. Nothing.” Then Mike was being held close, hugged tight. “I love you, Mike. And I won’t abandon you. But I’m not happy.”

  Oh, thank God. Something inside him eased, something deep. Jess wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t desert him.

  “Come on. If you’re going to insist on doing this, we’d better get our gear together and get our asses on a plane. You’ll need a feel for the pool.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, Coach.” He took a quick kiss. “Thank you. I need you.”

  Jess took a kiss, too, long and hard. Possessive.

  “I need, too, Mike. More than you might know.”

  He dared to smile at his lover, his coach, his entire fucking world. “Do I still get six months of anytime sex after?”

  THE ALL-AMERICANS were a pretty big deal, and the four-hundred men’s individual medley was one of the showcase races. The stands were packed. Hank’s crew was there, along with some of the big names. With the Olympic trials the following year, everyone was feeling out the competition.

  That Mike had made it to the finals was not surprising to Jessy, or to anyone who’d been following the kid, but he was the underdog, the unknown, the longshot in this crowd. And, so far, the kid had been nothing but cool under pressure, all his focus on the wall, ignoring the trappings, the press.

  And this was it. Almost start time for the big race. Mike had one of the outside lanes. He was going to have to step it up to win this one. But Jess knew the kid had been holding back some, careful to save his shoulder for the big race. The kid looked great, listening to his music, eyes focused on the pool. Jess was keeping his distance, not wanting his nerves to infect the kid.

  Those brown eyes met his, serious and focused, sure. When the call came, Mike put his gear down and headed to the deck, arms swinging in wide circles, trying to keep that shoulder loose. Jessy wasn’t much for prayers, but he said a little one for Mike’s arm. He’d never wanted to be wrong about something more than he wanted to be wrong about this injury.

  The swimmers settled up on the blocks—eight long, lean bodies, three of them Hank’s boys.

  The buzzer sounded and they were off, Mike starting strong, pushing toward the wall like a sprinter.

  Jessy bit his lip, watching intently, every muscle in his body tight, tense. Mike wasn’t going to break any records this time, but he and the top seed were neck and neck, Mike matching him stroke for stroke. When they hit the last turn, Mike opened it up, pushing hard, sliding through the water like a champ.

  Fucking Christ, the shoulder was holding. Mike was going to do it. And with the top seed in lane four and Mike in lane eight, Anderson wasn’t even going to know he was being challenged.

  “That’s it, kid,” he muttered. “Get to the wall, just focus on the fucking wall, and get there as fast as you fucking can.” He held his breath as his Mike dug deep again, the stubborn, beautiful asshole kid finding another burst of energy, and fucking drove it into the wall, the entire stadium on its feet.

  He roared, hands pumping in the air. Yes! Yes! Fucking beautiful! Fucking amazing!

  Mike turned, looking up at the boards, face lighting up like Christmas, arms up in the air. “Yes!”

  He met the kid’s eyes, pumping his hands in the air, sharing the joy as the crowd continued to go wild. He headed over, giving Hank a shit-eating grin as he passed the man.

  Mike pulled himself out of the pool and onto the coping, standing up and waving to the crowd, and then those dark eyes focused on him, mouthing, “We did it, Coach!”

  He grinned, mouthed back, “You did!” He’d never been so glad to be wrong before.

  Mike was waiting, watching, never even seeing Anderson as the man slammed right into him. It was like fucking slow motion as Mike spun and slid on the slick tile. Long arms windmilled as Mike went down, body hitting the deck with a dull crack before rolling limp into the water with a splash.

  “Mike!”

  Jessy was there in an instant, jumping into the water. Someone tossed him a collar, and he got it around Mike’s neck before turning him over, getting his face out of the water. “Mike!”

  His heart was pounding, stomach tight again, a fist of fear in his belly. His lover was out cold, eyes rolled back, just lying there. Jess could hear people calling for a body board, could hear the whine of the ambulance.

  Shit.

  Fuck.

  He bit back his worry and his fear, leaning in and listening for breath sounds. Okay. Yeah. Strong and steady, no whistling, no gurgling. Thank fuck.

  He relaxed marginally and started talking, voice low, mouth next to Mike’s ear. “Come on, baby. Come back to me now. You did it. You’re supposed to be celebrating.”

  He let the lifeguards get the board under Mike but kept talking, kept trying to reach Mike.

  Mike shuddered, eyelids fluttering. “Jess. Jessy? I hurt. Jessy?”

  “Sh. Sh. I know, Mike. I’m here. Don’t move, okay? You got hit. Fell. You’re on a board, and we’re gonna get you to the hospital. Just focus on my eyes, okay?”

  “We won, Coach.” Mike’s eyes were rolling a little, unfocused, confused. “We won.”

  “Yeah, baby. You owned the fuckin
g race.”

  “Yeah. I… I want my pizza and home now, ’kay? Just like always.”

  “Soon, Mike. You got knocked into the pool via the coping, hit your head pretty hard. Just need to check you out, ’kay? No moving, no fretting. Just focus on my eyes, baby.”

  The paramedics didn’t want to let Jessy ride with them, but he growled and blustered and just simply refused to be parted from his swimmer, and they finally relented.

  Mike shifted from scared to dopey to hurting and back to scared, answering the paramedics’ questions for the most part, only a little screwy. “My back hurts, man, right beneath my shoulders.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Funny, only not, how you went from worrying about a shoulder injury taking your boy out for more than a season to worrying about whether or not he was going to be able to walk.

  “Soon as we’re at the hospital, the doc’s gonna check you out, Mike. We’re almost there.” He couldn’t bring himself to say Mike was going to be fine, because it just might not be true and he wasn’t going to lie.

  “’Kay, Coach.” Mike closed his eyes, and the paramedic frowned.

  “Oh, no. You need to stay awake, guy. Come on, now. Open those eyes. No sleeping.”

  That familiar, stubborn line appeared between Mike’s eyebrows.

  “His name’s Mike,” Jess told the paramedic, and then he turned his growl back onto Mike. “I said focus on my eyes, Mike. You’re not focusing.”

  “I thought I was taking a break from the wall, Coach.”

  “Since when were my eyes ever the wall?” That’s it, kid, keep sassing me.

  “You know how long it took me to learn to focus on the fucking wall, Coach. I try to switch now? I’ll be at the big games before I switch back.”

  The paramedic chuckled as they pulled into the hospital. “Sir? You’ll need to fill out paperwork at the main desk.”

  He shook his head. “Either bring it to me or I’ll fill it out after. I’m not leaving him.”

  Mike’s hand held on to his, and they headed into the emergency room. A nurse grabbed him before he could go into the room.

  “There’s no room for you in there right this second. Let’s get him stable, get him checked in and x-rayed. You know if he’s allergic to anything?”

  “No allergies. He’s going to freak out without me there—I thought the idea was to keep him from moving.” He tried to push past her.

  “He’ll be okay. They’ve got him strapped on a body board. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Yeah. Anderson shoved him hard, and he slipped on the coping, fell onto his back and into the fucking water.” He was going to find that little pissant and beat him into a fucking pulp, and that asshole Hank too.

  “Coping?” The nurse looked confused. “Was he conscious when he hit the water?”

  “The deck near the pool, and I don’t think so. He wasn’t when I got him collared and turned over.” He looked past her, trying to see what they were doing to Mike.

  One doctor was shining a light into Mike’s eyes, the other listening to his chest.

  “Was he coherent when he woke up? Any vomiting? Any loss of motion?”

  “A little out of it. No vomiting. And he was strapped to the fucking backboard and told not to move.” He growled at her. “He complained about his back hurting, below his shoulders.”

  She nodded. “If it’s any comfort, that’s not a bad sign. If he was numb? Then you’d have a serious problem. You said he was shoved. Will you need the police?”

  Would he need the police? He considered it. Considered saying fuck the police and going over there and making good on the plan to beat the shit out of the kid who’d done this. The police were maybe a better idea. If it had been deliberate, and he fucking believed it had, he’d get Anderson and his coach, Hank, banned. That wouldn’t happen if he got physically involved.

  He nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

  “Okay, I’ll help arrange that. My name’s Anita, by the way. I’m your liaison. Everybody in critical care gets one, Mr.…”

  “Turner, but you can call me Jessy.” He shook her hand. “Listen, Anita, he’s going to be frantic. Is there any way I can get in there, give him something besides the hospital and being strapped to a board to focus on?”

  “Let me go find out. I’ll do my best.” She patted his arm and hurried away, speaking to the doctors spinning around Mike.

  Over and over he heard people saying, “Wake up, Mike. Come on. No sleeping.”

  He pushed in, not caring if it was allowed and ignoring everyone to get to Mike’s head. “Come on, baby. You stay with me, you hear me. No fucking sleeping. Not until I say you can.”

  Mike’s dark eyes were steadier now, but still a little dazed. “’M sleepy, Coach. Tired in my bones.”

  “I know, Mike, but you can’t sleep, not yet, okay? I gave in on the race today—you let me have this one and stay awake.”

  He got a grin. “Yeah. I promised to be good… what? Six months? A year?”

  One of the doctors chuckled, then met Jessy’s eyes. “I need to get him into X-ray so we can take a look.”

  “I’m staying with him. I can keep him awake.” He was brooking no arguments. They wanted him gone that badly, they could call fucking security.

  “Okay, stay out of the way. Let’s go.”

  He held on to Mike’s hand, as the stretcher glided down the hall.

  JESS WOULDN’T leave Mike’s side. Not for the cop who came to talk to him, not for the nurses and doctors doing their thing to get Mike settled into a bed in a private room. Jessy sat and held Mike’s hand, growling at all comers and talking to Mike any time the kid looked like he was starting to drift off.

  Anita had told him the doctor would be in shortly to tell him what was what with Mike, and he waited anxiously. They’d taken the kid off the board and removed the collar, so he was hoping for the best.

  “You want the TV on, Mike?”

  “Sure. Cool.” Mike blinked slow, shifting his head, and winced. “Shit, my head hurts.”

  “That, young man, is what happens when one whacks it on concrete.” This tiny, gray-haired, round doctor bustled in, smiling. “Good evening, I am Dr. Manat. You must be Michael Gauliet? And you, sir? His swimming coach, yes?”

  Jessy nodded and let go of Mike’s hand to shake hers. “Jessy Turner. What’s the news, Doc?”

  “Well, the skull is fine. There is a bad concussion, so no sleeping for another….” She checked the chart. “Three hours, please, and we’ll keep him overnight, just to watch. The X-ray shows a herniated disc—it is bruised, yes? And a torn rotator cuff on the left side. I would visit with a sports physician as soon as possible. There will be some pain, some swelling. I will prescribe muscle relaxants for a week, a regimen of heat and ice. Then your orthopedist will arrange therapy.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief, not realizing how much he’d been worried about Mike’s back.

  “We’ve got a sports specialist in Austin. When do you think we can fly home?” He’d fly Jackson out here if he had to, but Mike would be more comfortable at home. They both would.

  “When can I start training again?” Christ, the kid never quit.

  “If there is no unusual swelling? You can fly tomorrow, although I would much recommend first class.” The doctor smiled at Mike, the look sympathetic. “You will have to be very careful. Six weeks before you ease into things. Minimum. If the disc ruptures? You will have the surgery, and there will be no more races.”

  “We’ll do everything we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He took Mike’s hand again, giving the kid his support. “We’re going to follow doctor’s orders, aren’t we, Mike?”

  “Whatever you say, Coach. I’ll be good.” Yeah, for ten or twenty minutes, tops.

  “You’d better be.” He gave Mike his best growl, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was just so fucking relieved things weren’t worse than they were.

  “Mr. Turner, if I could have a word
with you? Just some basics in case another physician checks you out.”

  He raised an eyebrow. She wanted to talk to him without Mike? That was never good. “Sure. Here’s the remote, Mike. You call out if you need me before I get back, and don’t play the music too loud. I won’t be long.”

  Mike nodded, already flipping channels, and the doctor led him into the hallway. “It does look very good, and I don’t want to alarm you, but there’s a bit of swelling at his brain stem. It will ease in a day or two, but he might be seriously off-balance for up to a week, and if you do allow him back into the water early—which I seriously, seriously recommend you don’t—his breath control may be affected.”

  “I’m taking him to our doctor in Austin as soon as we get off the plane. He won’t be in the water as long as it takes. Even if I have to tie him down.”

  She chuckled. “Athletes are the worst. If your physician needs my notes, have him contact my office. For tonight, he can eat, but please alert a nurse immediately if he gets nauseated. We don’t want that stress on him.”

  “I don’t suppose he can have pizza?” What he wouldn’t give for the shoulder being their biggest problem.

  “If he wants it, I don’t see why not. You can buy it in the cafeteria.”

  He made a face. “Is it real pizza, Doc? Or should I order some in?”

  The doctor’s eyes twinkled. “There’s a phone book in the drawer beside the bed.”

  “Thank you. It’s a tradition, you know? Pizza after a winning meet.”

  He looked into the room, making sure Mike’s eyes were open. “There’s been a lot of pizza.”

  “There will be more. He’s young, strong.” The doctor nodded. “If I don’t see you again, good luck.”

  “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate your honesty.” He shook her hand again.

  A group of people started gathering at the nurses’ station—all boys and coaches he knew. “Coach! Coach Turner! We gotta see Mike!”

  One kid who was Mike’s shadow at the UT pool held up a gold medal, waved it.