“Swimmers to your places.”
He adjusted his cap and then his dick. He squatted and rose, stretching and lolling his head side to side. I considered blowing the race as my eyes were transfixed by his motion and his body, his determination and—fuck—his grand gesture in Eric Spidderman’s hotel room and his leafy undershorts. I would have to come in third at best, in order to assure Mathias a second-place finish and a spot on the roster for the 1,500-meter in Rio. A poor flip at the far wall, a slower kick, a shorter reach, I could easily take a dive.
My thoughts surprised me. I hadn’t come in third place since fifth fucking grade. This surely wasn’t my best race. I might actually not have to.
Shit. Who was I kidding? I’d kicked ass in the 1,500-meter freestyle a hundred times or more. Fuck that shit about not being a long-distance swimmer. There was no doubt I liked the quick ones better, but I was just as good at this one.