Stroked Hard Page 7

  Shammies are important.

  Also, when walking around on the pool deck near the base of the platforms, you might see divers standing in place, acting out their dives. Don’t worry; it’s normal even though it looks like we are trying to swat away a bee.

  That’s what I’m currently doing, practicing my take-off and pretending to twist, turn, and pike all the way into the water. I perform this routine five times before walking up the steps to the top platform.

  Yes, we have to walk up the steps. There is no elevator or escalator or lift. Nope, we hike it up. Practice is a lot of fun when all you’re doing is dive after dive. You become conditioned rather fast, hence my occasional indulgence in a little ice cream.

  Fuck, what I wouldn’t give for a cone right about now. Twist with rainbow sprinkles. Fuck chocolate jimmies, I want the colorful shit, not little sugar confections that will make my ice cream look like a spotted turd on a cone.

  I dip in the hot tub to warm up my body, do a quick run of my shammy over my body and start to make my way up the stairs, the whole time playing my dive over and over in my head. Muscle memory, that’s all it is. Clear my head and let my muscle memory do its job.

  Don’t let it be your worst.

  I’m not going to let her down. I’m not going to let my family down. And to hell if I will give Coach Ted the satisfaction of seeing me fail without him being around.

  Once I’m at the top, I focus on the platform in front of me, nothing else. I tune out the crowd chanting my name, wishing for the two-time Olympic gold medalist to once again secure another spot on the team. I run the green shammy Holly gave me when I was in college over my body, making sure everything is as dry as it can get, then I tie it in a knot, lean over the edge of the platform so I hover above the hot tubs and toss it to where I’ll pick it up after my dive.

  The announcer introduces me, my cue to move forward with my dive.

  Muscle memory. You’ve done this dive a thousand times, a front four-and-a-half tuck. In layman’s terms, I jump off the board, tuck my knees to my chest, and flip four times before parting the water with my hands. The most difficult dive to accomplish but well worth the payoff if done correctly.

  It’s been the dive that’s made me and also broken me.

  Walking up to position, I ignore the numbers calculating in my head, I ignore the announcer talking about my dive, and I ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head that keeps warning me about what failure of this dive means.

  Right then, I hear Coach Wilson’s deep voice in my head. Hollis, you know the dive. You own the dive. Perfect the dive. You. Can. And. You. Will.

  I focus on my movements.

  Taking a deep breath, I raise my arms in the air, poise my feet, count to three and go.

  One . . .

  Two . . .

  Three . . .

  With a giant leap into the air, I tuck my legs forward hold on tight and count my revolutions. Before I know it, I hit four, untuck, spot the water, take a deep breath and push down into the water with my hands flat, separating them to create a vortex so the water above me is sucked in rather than splashing out, a technique I’ve mastered.

  As soon as I hit the water, I know I’ve nailed it. If not from the feeling rushing through me but from the echoes of the crowd’s cheers chanting my name.

  I swim to the surface, yank on my speedo before exiting the pool, making sure everything is in place, and then look up at my family who is uncontrollably dancing up and down in their bedazzled Hollis Howlers shirts.

  I grab my shammy and quickly head for the hot tub where I warm up, shaking opponents’ hands on my way.

  It doesn’t take long for me to receive my score. Within seconds, I’m no longer in a bleak position on the scoreboard. Instead, I’m number two on the board with only one other person to go; the leader. I’m going to Rio.

  Fuck if that’s not a relief.

  It’s a whirlwind of getting some clothes on, fixing my hair somewhat, and running through interviews. The one thing going through my mind isn’t the fact that I’ve made my third Olympics, but how much I wish Melony was here so I could celebrate with her in person. Fuck how I wish she was here. Maybe I’ll give her another call tonight.

  ***

  “Hollis, Hollis, Hollis!” my mom cheers as I walk toward my family who is not only decked out in the gaudiest shirts I’ve ever seen but are holding blown-up pictures of my head on sticks. Just fucking great. I can only imagine what NBC thought of that.

  “Hi, Mom.” I wrap the little five-foot-six woman in my arms and kiss the top of her head, being sure to stay away from the visor she’s had ever since my first Olympics. It’s supposed to be like an American flag wrapped around your head, that’s at least how my mom describes it.

  “You did so great,” she coos while hugging me with all the gusto she has, which means she’s swaying me back and forth, or at least trying to.

  “Not really, but thanks, Mom.”

  My dad points, wiggles his finger at me as he approaches. “You had us sweating there for a second.” My mom releases me just as my dad grabs the back of my neck and kisses me on the forehead before pulling me into a giant bear hug. I’m two inches taller than his six-foot stature but he has a few more pounds on me, making his bear hug effective.

  “Just trying to keep things interesting,” I joke and look around. “Where’s Holly?”

  “She took off for the bathroom—”

  “I’m right here,” her voice rings outs.

  Turning around, I look down to see my sister roll right up behind me. She looks just the same, long dirty-blonde hair in waves, the same vivid blue eyes as mine, toned arms from having been in a wheelchair, and her muscle deteriorated legs strapped to the bottom of her wheelchair. Even though it’s been years since the accident, I still get nausea from seeing her. She could have been in the trials this week; she could be going to Rio.

  Fuck, who am I kidding? If she were able to walk, she most definitely would be going to Rio. She was the best female diver in the country. Hell, she put me to shame when she was at the top of her game, and I’ve been the best in the world for the past eight years.

  “Are you just going to stare at me or are you going to come down here and give me a hug?”

  “Sorry,” I say shyly, leaning down to hug her. Fuck, will I ever get used to her in a chair? Will I ever lose this all-consuming guilt when I’m around her? “How are you, Holls?”

  “Could be better. I spent the last hour agonizing over you and your idiotic dives. What the hell was with you today?”

  “Holly,” my mom chimes in, “he made it to Rio.” The way my mom says that makes it seem like Holly wasn’t there for the entire competition, which I know she was. I got the angry texts.

  “I’m aware, Mom. What I want to know is where’s your coach, and why the hell did you wait until the last dive, your hardest dive, to finally claim a spot?”

  I wrack my brain and then shrug my shoulders in question. “For the drama of it all?” I tack on my most charming smile but it fades quickly when I see Holly is about to rip me a new one.

  “Bullshit, where is Coach Ted?”

  Knowing she won’t give up until I tell the story, I give in. “Coach Ted and I got into it before the competition. We’ve been clashing ever since we started working together. I asked him to try to cater toward me as an athlete and apparently he wanted nothing to do with that, so he left right before competition. Pretty sure that threw off my entire dive.”

  “Pretty sure?” Holly questions. “No, it most definitely did. You looked like shit out there.”

  “Gee, thanks, Holly. You’re so kind.”

  “Just telling you how I saw it. You’re so much better than that, Hollis, diving wise and mentally as well. He should be sacked.”

  “I know.” Looking around, I see a lot of bystanders. I need to sign some autographs and take pictures, and then later we can talk in private, so I ask my family to meet me in my hotel room. I would
rather not air my dirty laundry in front of the public eye, who can easily record us given smart technology.

  After half an hour of sticking around the venue, I make my way back to the hotel, my stomach growling. On the way up to my room, I bust open my cherry Pop-Tart as an appetizer before dinner.

  Opening the door to my hotel room, I half expect my mom and dad to throw streamers at me out of celebration but instead of happy faces, I’m greeted by an angry one.

  Holly.

  Shit, she’s not going to let this go.

  “Wow, you’re a lovely sight to come home to,” I say sarcastically, taking a bite out of my Pop-Tart and shutting the door.

  “Why don’t you take a seat, we have some talking to do.”

  I sit across from her on the couch, my mouth full of Pop-Tart, with zero desire to talk about today.

  “I don’t want to talk, Holly. I dove horribly, case closed.”

  “I don’t care about your dives today.”

  “You don’t?” I look around and then ask, “Where’s Mom and Dad?”

  “I told them to wait patiently in their room so I could talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  She takes a deep breath and says, “Ever since the accident, you’ve been treating me differently.”

  “That’s not—”

  “Don’t say anything, Hollis. Don’t lie to me. You know it’s true. You’re different. You don’t talk to me like you used to, and when you do, you always skim the surface of our conversation. You never dig deep. You rarely talk to me about diving, a sport we both love, and when you do talk to me on the phone, it’s brief. I’m sick of it.”

  I take a second before I answer her. What does someone really say to that? You’re right, I’ve been avoiding talking to you about anything serious because I feel guilty as fuck that you were the one injured in the car accident even though I was the one driving.

  I fucking ended her diving career with one glance down. That’s all it takes, once glance away from the road, and you can end up running into a tree, ending your sister’s future career.

  To this day I can still here the crunch of metal, the screech of Holly’s voice, the sirens in the distance, the Jaws of Life trying to extract my sister from the car. It’s still all there, at the forefront of my memory, despite being three years ago. She was looking to get her third gold, just like me, but now, she can’t . . . because of me.

  “Hollis, talk to me.”

  I shake my head, unable to pull together a sentence. “I just . . . fuck, Holls. I still hear, smell, and taste it all. Every damn day I hear your scream. It haunts me. I don’t avoid you because I don’t love you, I avoid you because I can’t handle seeing what I did to you.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to get used to it, because as of today, I’m your new diving coach.”

  My mind is still reeling about the accident until Holly’s words start to process in my brain.

  “Wait, what?”

  “I’m your new coach. I talked to Kelly with USA Diving; it’s all set. I took my education and certification two years ago. I just have to update my CPR card but I should be good.”

  “But you’ve never coached anyone before.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I know the ins and outs of elite diving, I know what it takes to be an Olympian, and I’m ready to continue to move you forward. Plus, I know what makes you tick. You not only need me, but you will want me as well.”

  Not wanting to offend her, but seriously concerned about her well-being, I ask, “Do you think this is a good idea? You will be surrounded by diving.”

  “I need to be surrounded by diving,” she says with passion in her voice, true conviction. “I’ve tried to move on, I’ve tried to say goodbye to the sport, but I can’t seem to let go. I keep coming back, I keep thinking of ways for me to be involved. This couldn’t be more perfect. I want to be a part of this, I need to be a part of this, and I want to do it with you.”

  “I don’t know, Holls.”

  “Too late, you don’t get to make the decision, it’s already been made for you. My whistle is coming for you, Hollis.”

  I sit back on the couch and run my hand through my hair, my fingers sticking up the thickness of my faux hawk. “You’re serious.”

  “Dead serious, Hollis. I’m not just doing this for me, or for you, but I’m doing this for us. We need to reconnect; we need to get back to where we were. I miss you. I miss being simple with you; everything is so complicated.” She holds out her hand for me, which I grab instantly. “Be simple with me, Hollis. Eat, train, sleep. Be simple.”

  “I can do that.” I smile at her, loving the light shining in her eyes from excitement. I would pretty much do anything to see that light burn in her eyes for as long as I know her.

  Eat. Train. Sleep.

  Seems so simple, but what Holly doesn’t know is that I will be adding one more factor into that routine.

  Eat. Train. Sleep. Melony.

  Seems like a damn good line-up if you ask me.

  “When we get back to LA, I’m burning your ass. Get ready to be smoked.”

  I wouldn’t put it past my sister to have me training until I pass out so I make a friendly reminder.

  “Don’t forget, I need to be able to perform the dives. If you run me ragged I’ll be too sore. Now you don’t want that, do you?”

  “If you’ve been conditioning like you said you have, then you won’t have a problem with any of my practices.” She rubs her hands together like an evil genius. “Damn, this is going to be so much fun.”

  Well, fuck, despite her threat, for the first time since Coach Wilson passed, I feel invigorated to dive again. I’m not doing this for me; I’m doing it for them.

  Chapter Eight

  MELONY

  “I don’t know why Pocket puts up with Bellini’s crap. Do you think she gets pleasure out of it?” I ask, opening up yet another can of tomato juice only to pour it into one of those plastic kiddie pool, sans slide, which is a shame.

  I shouldn’t have expected anything else fromm this trip to Omaha for the Olympic swimming trials, and I don’t know why I feel stunned right now. We attended the trials today and after one of Reese’s races, we left, without even being able to put up a fight. Bellini was done, therefore we were as well.

  Before we left, Bellini demanded Paisley buy enough cans of tomato juice to fill a kiddie tub for Pocket, Bellini’s “henchman.” Why you ask? Oh because, Pocket was slightly sweaty today, which apparently is an abhorrent trait to possess. Bellini was so disgusted that she is now forcing Pocket to take a bath in tomato juice to get the smell out, as if she’s a dog who just got sprayed by a skunk. And the worst part, Pocket is willing and ready to jump right in.

  Note to self: don’t perspire near Bellini.

  The evil wench also told us to book a stand-by flight to get home. The only thing we could find was a red-eye. Lucky us. Meanwhile she’s already home thanks to her private jet.

  The paycheck I receive every two weeks is the only thing that keeps me going. The paycheck that helps me maintain the lifestyle I’ve been dreaming of, which isn’t much—just a nice apartment by the beach and enough money set to the side for my lip-stain line.

  Paisley glances up at me and then looks toward the bathroom where Pocket has been hiding out while we fill the pool. “I have no clue. I think she likes the negative attention. She’s just . . . weird.”

  “Nailed that one on the head. Do you ever get the suspicion that she’s staring at you from behind bushes, and what not?”

  Paisley leans forward and whispers, “All the damn time. She has such beady eyes; it’s hard to miss her. She has no stealth.”

  “No. Maybe we should both pitch in and get her stalking lessons, you know, just so she can feel better about herself.”

  Paisley shakes her head in defeat, a smile on her lips. “What’s the point? If we boost her self-confidence, Bellini is only going to drop her a peg or two. There is no hope.”

&nbs
p; “You never know,” I joke just as we finish pouring in the last of the tomato juice. “There is always hope for Pocket.”

  Paisley tosses the can with the others and calls out, “Okay, Pocket, your bath is ready.”

  The bathroom door flings open and a very naked and scary-looking Pocket charges toward the pool, bush out and about, hair sticking in every direction, and crazy-as-fuck eyes staring seductively at the tomato-juice pool. I can’t unsee that. I can’t unsee that.

  I’ve never been more terrified and sickened at the same time. And what’s with her nipples?

  The sight scars me in the matter of seconds.

  “Pocket, where are your clothes?” Paisley asks, covering her eyes.

  “In the bathroom. Can you hand me a loofa?” Pocket is now rolling around in the pool, spread eagle, tomato juice oozing into her cracks and crevices.

  Oh hell, that’s her clit, right there, her clit is out and about and . . . oh God! Why is it dangling out of the bun? Her deli meat is dangling. It’s fucking dangling!

  “I need to leave . . . now.” Standing up straight, as if someone just picked me up by the head, I grab my luggage and head for the door. Time to go to the airport early. Anything is better than watching Pocket roll around in tomato juice while her nasty-ass pussy flaps around for the world to see.

  Why does it look like that? And what’s with her nipples?

  “I’m coming with you.” Paisley moves just as quickly, Pocket completely oblivious to the awkward tension she spread throughout the room.

  “Before you leave, pass me the loofa. I really want to make sure to scrub my pits.”

  “Yup,” Paisley responds awkwardly. I’m halfway out the door so I don’t hear what else she says. I just need to get the hell out of there.

  The minute Paisley shuts the door, we both look at each other in horror. “What the fuck just happened?” I ask in shock.

  Paisley tries to shake the images out of her head. “I think Pocket just showed us her pussy.”