All the characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.
The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author who can be contacted at:
pjalexander1753@gmail.com
PJ
D'n'M Part 3
From Chapter 19:
What a question. How could he possibly go along with such a mad plan? They'd both be lucky to come out of it with all their body parts intact and attached.
"I must be totally barking mad but, yes, I'm in." Where the fu ... where did that come from? Had he just had a complete common sense transplant? The idea of defying the coach, swapping places with Dods and swimming the last leg of the last event of the competition, with the prospect of being thrown out of the team, maybe even the school, was a total mind-blast. And yet he'd just agreed to do it. Crap!
Chapter 20:
The two boys returned to poolside where the atmosphere was approaching mass hysteria. Greenside High and Brookfield College had been slugging it out for dominance all afternoon, with Harper Smith providing spirited but mostly unsuccessful competition. (Although it hadn't passed Milo by that the black Adonis had won his event by a mile.)
Dods turned to make his way to the start for his individual race but turned back to face Milo, high-fived him and whispered, "No chickening-out CB!" And with that he walked away, leaving Milo to think over what he had agreed to. He knew exactly how Ms. Boyeda was going to react and it wouldn't be pretty. He felt sick. Just then he looked up into the crowd, something he'd been trying to avoid doing all afternoon for fear of seeing the expectation on the faces of D and his parents. Yes, there they were, right by the finish and two rows back, shouting and waving along with the rest of the crowd. Wait a minute, who was that standing with them? It was Tom. Wow! He'd come all this way to see him swim? WOW!! No pressure then.
Dods event was announced so Milo hurried over to join the rest of the team. They all knew there was a chance Dods might break the school record for the fifty metres freestyle and there was no way Milo was going to so miss that. Until his no-show at Thursday's practice, Milo had been hoping to swim back-up, instead his place was being taken by a kid named Creon who would be leaving school at the end of the year. Try as he might, Milo couldn't really begrudge his team-mate a last chance at glory. The two of them, Dods and Creon, were expected to come in first and third at worst, maybe first and second. The starting hooter sounded.
Along with the hundreds of supporters, Milo shouted himself hoarse for the next half minute. All the way up the first leg of the 25 metre pool it was neck-and-neck between Dods and an amazingly tall kid from Brookfield College, with Creon comfortably settled in third. Dods came out of the turn with a half metre advantage and all the way up the second and final leg he relentlessly pulled away from the opposition. The crowd was going mad, shrieking and screaming in support of their favoured swimmers, including, Milo noticed when he glanced up, Tom, whose record it was that was about to be broken -- maybe. Inside the final five metres there was no doubt that Dods was going to win, but would it be enough to break Tom's record? Three metres ... two metres ... one metre ... contact. Dods was home and, well, not dry obviously, but certainly in first place. Almost as one the whole team, including Ms. Boyeda, along with most of the crowd, looked up at the scoreboard. Had he? Had he broken the record? No! He'd missed it by less than half a second. Crap! That wasn't much longer than it took to blink. What a bummer. And when attention turned back to the pool it was to see that Creon had somehow slipped to fourth place, losing the team two valuable points in the process. Milo couldn't help thinking that he wouldn't have lost those points.
Dods pulled himself out of the pool and was swallowed up by his team-mates who weren't sure whether to congratulate him on the win or commiserate with him for not breaking the record. "Next time, man. Next time," Milo could hear him repeat over and over. It was almost as if he was trying to console them rather than the other way round. It looked like the coach had chosen well for next season's captain, what a shame he wasn't likely to get a chance to prove himself once the planned swap stunt was enacted. Milo was feeling worse and worse. Surely he wasn't really going to go along with it, was he? No, of course he wasn't, there was too much at stake and he needed to find an opportunity to tell Dods exactly that.
For the next fifteen minutes the ratcheting-up of the atmosphere in the room went into overdrive as the various relays took place. The whole building felt as if it was pulsating and the noise threatened to do serious damage to a thousand pairs of eardrums. Every time Milo managed to get close enough to Dods to tell him the deal was off the boy seemed to magically move out of reach. Eventually Milo gave up trying and gave himself over to the excitement and adrenalin-hit of the racing. With one race to go, his race, the four by 50 metres freestyle relay, Milo was more pumped than he had ever been. He moved to the start line to join the other three swimmers -- Dods, Creon and a boy called Grey who Milo had often admired, and not altogether for his swimming ability.
Looking up at the scoreboard he realised, for the first time, just how close the contest had become. The points totals for each of the three schools were Brookfield 148, Greenside 146 and Harper Smith 130. With eight points for a win, five for second and three for third, the only way Greenside could guarantee an overall victory would be by winning this final race. Assuming Brookfield came second that would give Milo's team the win by a single point. If, on the very unlikely other hand, Harper Smith were to win with Greenside second and Brookfield third, the result would be a tie with the winners decided on a count-back of the number of first places achieved. That was just too big a risk. With Dods swimming the last leg there was a better than even chance of securing the necessary points, with Milo swimming last there was no such certainty.
As the teams were being marshalled into order and with just a couple of minutes before the start of the race, Milo finally managed to corner Dods. He had to shout to be heard. "We can't do this Dods. You've gotta think again. There's too much at stake to mess with the team plan and I don't just mean the continued safety of our balls. If you swim last we've got a good shot at the win, with me ..."
Dods turned to fully face Milo and put a hand on each of his shoulders. "Listen to me, partner. I believe in you Milo. This is your moment, your chance to prove that the faggot tag means nothing and that your scumbag cousin is exactly that, a scumbag." The trade-mark grin was gone, replaced by a piercing gaze that held Milo's attention like it was magnetised. "You're bigger and better than any insult, and who you want to fuck or get fucked by has nothing to do with your talent as a swimmer or your quality as a human being. You can do it M. You need to do it. So stop stressing and do it!"
Dods dropped his hands and moved back to his place in the line leaving Milo in a mild state of shock. He'd never heard Dods talk like that before, not to anyone, and it really had an impact on him. Suddenly he thought back to the reflection of himself in the mirror in D's bedroom. In that moment of self-awareness he had, for the first time, recognised himself as a person in his own right, as someone who deserved to occupy a space in the world, a unique and special individual. Here and now, in the pool, in the race, was the time and place to prove that Milo de Beer was special.
The hooter sounded, the first leg swimmers dived into the pool and the noise level, somehow, managed to go up another notch. Grey was swimming first for Greenside. He had a smooth and efficient action and he was definitely holding his own against Harper Smith. After the turn the gap with Brookfield steadily widened as Grey tired. By the hand-over Creon had inherited a three body-length deficit and it never looked as if he was going to be able to reduce it by more than half a length, no matter how much encouragement rained down on him from his team-mates and the crowd. Milo watched him approaching the hand-over. He didn't see that the gap had widened - it was now nearer to five lengths than four -- or the level of frenzied commotion all around, all he could see were the uncomfortable consequences of disobeying team orders and, most likely, losing the entire competition. Dods' encouraging words were all very well but they belonged in some romanticised Hollywood buddy movie, and this was real life. No, he'd make Dods understand that the team's best hope was for him to swim last and ... Oh crap! Too late. Dods was already in the water and several metres up his first length.
Milo could feel the eyes of his team-mates on him, especially Grey and Creon. He could also hear their bafflement.
"What the fuck?"
"Why's Dods in the water?"
"Whose shitty idea is this?"
"Is this some crappy joke?"
All perfectly reasonable and justified questions to which Milo was unable to provide reasonable or justified answers. Instead he shrugged and turned back to the pool and began to yell encouragement at Dods as if his life depended on it. (His swimming life probably did.) Quickly the rest of the team joined in and, along with the noise of the crowd, they created a barrage of sound to speed the boy on. Gradually, up the first 25 metres, the gap between Dods and the Brookfield swimmer began to shrink. By the turn it had reduced to no more than three body-lengths.
"Come on Dods! Come on. You can do it. You've got to do it. Swim! Think of your balls!!"
Brookfield was ahead, Greenside was closing and Harper Smith was way out of it. Everything was coming down to the last two laps of the pool. Everything was coming down to Milo.
As he hit the water a strange sense of calm seemed to wash over him. He knew what he had to do, knew how much depended on it, knew that it was all down to him. Instead of freaking him out, this knowledge somehow simplified his task down to three basic essentials -- stay focused, swim fast and win. Simple! As he momentarily lifted his head out of the water for his first breath he saw the Brookside swimmer ahead, probably by three body-lengths he estimated. A lot. Too much? Time would tell. Milo's stroke was long and economical and his rhythm was strong and once into the pattern of `arm forward, pull back, repeat; arm forward, pull back, repeat' his mind went off on a journey of its own.
Everyone on poolside and those shouting from the stands would think he was swimming for the team and for the school. In part, that was true, but mostly he was swimming for himself, him, Milo de Beer. He was swimming because he was good at it, because his crappy home life couldn't spoil it, because he was young and strong. He was also swimming because of that label Dods had mentioned -- FAGGOT! Well, he wasn't a fa ... one of those. Okay so he was gay. Gay, not diseased, not evil, not a pervert, just gay. Deal with it!
Second breath, just before the turn, less than two body lengths behind. Milo could sense that he was in the slip-stream of the Brookfield lead swimmer.
Yes, deal with it. Milo de Beer was gay and strong and sexy and ready to stop hiding. He was sick of being scared and tired of worrying what other people would think, say or do. And it wasn't as if it was that much of a secret. D knew (of course) and Tom and Mrs. R (he must tell Mr. R asap). Tye knew, and Zephan (he didn't count) and it was 99% certain that Dods and Ms. Boyeda knew. His mum and his sister knew (he didn't want to think about them). So the next step, of just not pretending any more, had to be pretty easy. Right? Hmm.
Next breath. Half way down the final 25 metres and time to get serious. Either he was getting faster of the Brookfield guy was tiring because the gap now was less than two body lengths. His shoulders were burning but his mind, suddenly, was on fire. He could do this. He could really do this. Last breath coming up and, as he lifted his head, Milo was hit by a rock-face of sound. No, not a rock-face, a magic carpet that seemed to lift and carry him towards the finish. He was going to win, he knew it. Yes! He was going to win. THE GAY BOY WAS GOING TO WIN THE RACE AND WIN THE COMPETITION! WOWWWW!!!
Hands were grabbing him, dragging him from the water, pulling him up and out. They were all over him, slapping his back, rubbing his head, holding his shoulders. The noise was so loud it was almost quiet. Faces came and went, in and out of focus, but all were smiling, all were saying words of congratulation that he couldn't distinguish. Then one voice broke through, one voice that he'd been aching to hear, one voice saying his name over and over, one voice made blurry with tears. His dad. His dad behind him. His dad saying his name.
Milo turned and fell into his father's open arms. It didn't matter that he was soaking wet. It didn't matter that he'd been left to deal alone with his mother and sister for so long. It didn't matter that the boy hadn't realised until this moment just how much he'd missed being hugged by his dad, missed being close to his dad, missed his dad. He became aware of something being repeated over and over into his ear.
"I'm so sorry. So sorry. So sorry." Time and again. Over and over. "So sorry."
And then another repeated sound but much louder and being carried by so many voices.
"Mi-lo!" "Mi-lo!" "Mi-lo!" The whole team, in a circle around the weeping father and the victorious son, chanting his name. He looked up and there they all were, and not just the team. A smiling Coach Boyeda was there (why wasn't she angry with him for the clandestine substitution?), Tom was there (his record still unbroken), Mrs. and Mr. R were there (what would he do without them?). And D (such a cliché, but his rock) was there. Could life get any better than this?
Milo felt his dad's arms drop away and he heard him tell him to go with his team-mates to celebrate his stunning victory and that the two of them, father and son, would speak later.
Thanks to all those who have taken the time and trouble to write to tell me how they feel about this story. As ever I am very grateful for all feedback and promise to respond.
To keep this amazing resource open and freely available to readers everywhere, please consider donating to:
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html