March (17 months until the Olympics)
“No.”
Andrey doesn’t move.
“Hell no. Andrey, absolutely not.”
Val is perched on a couple of stacked boxes. Normally we use them to practice jumps from the floor to increasing heights; today she’s using them as a chair, her heels kicking against the wooden sides. At least, she was; now she’s utterly still, and she looks about as shocked as I feel.
“I understand that you are surprised.” Andrey is not usually such a master of understatement, and I’m not in the mood for whatever game he’s playing today. I open my mouth to start shouting, but he holds up his hand. This time when he speaks, his voice is laced with steel. “Sit down, Jeremy.”
There’s not a lot of equipment in the room, so I find a stack of wooden boxes next to Val and do as I’m told. I can’t remember the last time I saw Andrey in a mood like this, but I know when to shut up and pay attention.
I glance across the room. Even Brandon seems upset, though he’s also staring at the floor guiltily.
He knew. Now that I think about it, he’s been acting weird for the last week—more subdued, more focused. When Andrey told me that he’d placed second, I honestly hadn’t believed it. But he is getting better . . . and it feels like he’s improving with every passing day. Now I understand the motivation behind his sudden determination, though.
Andrey clears his throat. “I got word from another coach back in January that one of their divers was suffering from a severe shoulder injury and would be out six to eight weeks. This diver happened to be one half of the men’s synchronized team representing the United States in the ten-meter platform event at the World Series.”
I know both of the divers, though not well. They’re good, fierce competitors.
“I received notice two weeks ago that they were withdrawing from the synchro event, as the injury has not healed enough to allow him to compete. There are several synchronized teams in the US who could—and would—do better in competition. However, there is only one other American man who will be diving ten-meter.”
He’s looking directly at me. I swallow and stare back, defiantly. “So because I’m already going to be there, they’re just magically letting me and Brandon take the empty spot?”
Andrey nods. “FINA made the decision a few days ago, and granted an exception for the pair of you to compete in the other team’s place.”
Brandon mumbles something that I don’t make out, though Andrey clearly does because he shoots Brandon a sharp frown.
“No, I’m not doing this to humiliate either of you.” Andrey exhales. “This is an opportunity that few people get. The odds are against you as a team; most of the other pairs have been diving together for many years, and you’ve had only two months. But I know what you’re both capable of, and I do not think this will be the disaster either of you expect.”
The disaster that I’m imagining is pretty epic, actually.
None of us speak.
I glance over at Val, who stares back with one eyebrow raised. I’ve seen that look before; it’s the same I dare you expression she’s been giving me at competitions for a decade.
There is absolutely no chance that this will not end badly for both me and Brandon. But I don’t have a choice, do I?
Brandon is watching me with those blue, blue eyes when I finally turn back toward him. “All right, Evans. Let’s do it.”
We dive. We dive until we’re both aching, and then Val tapes us up and we dive some more. There’s a week before we fly to Russia, and we have to pack years of training into seven days. Thank goodness for Val, who only has her individual event and isn’t nearly as stressed—or worn out—as we are. She even brings us lunch some days, when we’re too tired to get our own.
Mornings are dryland training, standing shoulder to shoulder on the mats, jumping off springboards into the foam pit, and working on the trampoline. Somehow we still go to classes, though I’m not as focused as I normally am. The profs understand, even if they’re not all happy about it, and we have waivers to do most of our assignments online when we’re traveling for competitions.
Afternoons are in the pool. I’m only supposed to be on the ten-meter platform once a week, but now we’re alternating between the ten and five, plus the springboards, getting in as much time as we possibly can.
Seven days isn’t nearly enough. But . . .
Maybe it’s a start.
Because something clicks around the third day. I glance over at Brandon when we’re standing with our toes on the edge of the platform, heels up, backs to the pool. We never discussed it, but it’s me who does the counting every time.
So I turn to him, and he looks back.
“Back two and a half somersaults, piked.” I’ve started saying the dives aloud too, because I’ve noticed that Brandon likes the reminder. He doesn’t think ahead much, so this reminds him what’s coming next. “One, two, three, go.”
The whole thing about synchronized diving is that you’re supposed to focus only on your own dive, and know your partner well enough to line up with them. And I’m starting to know Brandon. I know that he pushes out too far, like he’s afraid he’ll hit the board. He still comes out of his pike a bit too late, though he’s getting better. So I can adjust accordingly. And obviously he’s been paying attention to me, because he points his toes, and he’s figuring out his timing.
So we both jump, and dive, and . . . well, it’s not perfect, but it’s not bad, either.
Brandon must know it too, because he comes up for air with a whoop. “That was awesome!”
Awesome isn’t the word I’d use. “It was adequate.”
Instead of getting upset, Brandon rolls his eyes and splashes me.
It takes me a second to realize that the sound coming out of me is a laugh. Brandon’s eyes go wide as he treads water. I catch myself, ducking back under the water to swim for the steps and pull myself out of the pool.
“No, no, Jeremy.” Brandon paddles to catch up. For all his grace while diving, he swims like a kid. “I saw that. You can’t pretend like I didn’t. You laughed.”
I ignore him and wring out my shammy, drying my face and scrubbing through my hair while Brandon climbs out as well.
Andrey meets us a few feet later. He’s smiling as widely as Brandon. “Excellent. Yes, more of this.”
Brandon is still watching me with surprise when I turn to climb the platform stairs again. His eyes are so blue that it hurts, and all of that ink on display appears even bolder when it’s wet. And he’s smiling . . . not his usual smile, but one that’s a bit mischievous, lips quirked up.
“What?”
His smile widens. “Nothing, Jeremy.”
“Whatever.” I force myself to turn away and start climbing.
He huffs out a laugh behind me.
We keep diving. Normally we break around six for dinner, but these days we’re pushing until eight. It’s probably not healthy, but we’ll have time to rest on the plane and before the competition, so for now it’s a race until the end.
I’m more tape than skin these days. Wrists and thumbs protected against the ripped entry, shoulder and back to keep the muscles from protesting as much. Brandon’s better off in some ways—he hasn’t been diving as long, so he doesn’t have the same injuries that a lot of divers end up with—but I can tell his thumbs hurt because he’s still not used to the hand-grab we use for entry into the water.
On the day before we fly to Moscow, Andrey puts us through a lighter workout. Springboards in the morning, weights in the afternoon, and an early night. We’re meeting back at the pool before sunrise tomorrow to head to the airport together, and he doesn’t want us sore on the long plane rides.
I find myself watching Brandon for almost half an hour while he’s working one-on-one with Andrey. The second Andrey takes a break to answer his cell phone, Brandon’s seriousness vanishes and he’s the same excitable, loud kid that I met back in August. He glances at me across the pool, winks, and then takes a flying leap off the springboard, cannonballing into the water.
By the time he surfaces, any trace of my laughter is gone, but my cheeks ache from the smile that I can’t restrain.
He finds me in the locker room at the end of the day.
“Are you ready?” He’s just come out of the shower, towel hanging low on his hips, and he’s watching me instead of getting dressed.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say. “Are you?”
Brandon shrugs. “Nervous.”
“Don’t be.”
“Easy for you to say.” Brandon crosses his arms. The tree tattoo on his shoulder seems alive over the ripple of muscles, and I focus on tying my shoes instead of looking at it—at him.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “You don’t need be nervous. You’re going to go in there, you’ll dive, and yeah, probably you won’t win.” I fumble with my shoelace and have to start again. “But no one’s going to say a damn word, because it’ll take about five minutes before everyone knows that you’ve only been diving for two and a half years. They’re going to be terrified of you, because no one’s this good after just a few years.”
When I glance back up, Brandon’s standing a foot away. I didn’t hear him move.
“Do I terrify you?”
I don’t respond, but the answer must be clear on my face. My gaze drops to the cursive lines of ink on his chest. I hadn’t read them before, but now the words make my chest ache and my breath catch in my throat.
Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose. I wonder what he’s lost. I wonder if he still cares about that loss.
“Do you want to win?” My words are soft.
Brandon shrugs.
“You have to want it. You’ll never win if you don’t want it with every fiber of your being.”
“What do I get if I win?” Brandon is watching me, and when I meet his gaze, I have to catch myself before I fall into those intense blue eyes and drown. The words are innocent enough, but the way he’s staring at me says more, and I shiver even though the locker room is warm and heavy with steam from the showers.
“What do you want?” I swallow again. “I mean, as a prize. What do you want as a prize?”
He takes a step forward, and I can smell him, the soap he uses and the faintest trace of chlorine that sticks to everything we own. He takes another step, and now he’s in my space, pressed against me, and I’m not sure where all of the oxygen in the room has gone.
When Brandon speaks, his words are breaths against my cheek, and I can feel them where we touch, vibrations from his chest to my arm. “You,” he says. “If I compete and win, I want you as my prize.”
Holy shit.