Page 26 of Dickathlon

It took me a few minutes, but I explained how he caught me at the pool.

“I can’t believe you climbed onto that chair. You could’ve hurt yourself!”

“How could I have known with my teeny, tiny brain?”

“So did your dick just bust through your swimsuit and claim his body for Planet Declan?”

“I do not wanna know what you’ve been reading lately.” I glanced over at him. He was scratching his face with…his middle finger, which made me laugh. “But we talked a little after that and I gave him my number.”

“And I’m guessing you haven’t heard from him.”

I shook my head. “And I’ve messaged him on Instagram.”

“And nothing? Damn. How are you still getting out of bed in the morning? Guys throwing themselves at you? Muscles for days? The perfectly symmetrical face of a biracial Apollo? Just give up on life now. It’s over.”

“Shut up. I know it’s silly, but I thought there was a connection.”

“You never know, Declan. There might be a reasonable explanation.”

“That doesn’t involve him dating someone else?”

Freddie shrugged and gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Anything is possible.”

* * *

I wiped the sweat off my brow and started pumping my arms faster. Running on my toes, I covered half the track in less than twenty-five seconds. I was in the middle of a speed workout, alternating jogging with sprints.

Last year, I had scaled back my training before the Olympics. After qualifying, of course. It was still early in the season, so I was essentially getting my body ready for all the training that was to come. In effect, training for training.

I still watched what I ate and went to the track and the gym. Every week, I rotated through each of the decathlon events, making sure to get my hands on the discus, shot put and javelin when I could. Most of the events were sprint-based, so that was always my priority.

As a former student, UCLA had worked out an agreement with my coach that I could use their facilities pretty much whenever I wanted. The only ask on my part was that I had to mentor a few of their track athletes occasionally. It was really just advice and training questions and I was happy to do it. It would’ve been tough finding a venue in LA that wasn’t swarming with people. Just trying to run on the Santa Monica Pier felt like bumper cars sometimes.

My smart watch interrupted my music. A text from Freddie.

Freddie: You home?

I called him as I kept running. “Not home. What’s up?”

“Just…seeing what you were up to. You wanna hang tonight?”

“Sure. I’m in the middle of a workout. You good to stay in? I’m gonna be wiped.”

“That’s fine. I’m at your place already.”

Of course he was. “Sounds good. See you in a bit.”

I ended the call and refocused on the track. I had missed a sprint. Or at least I thought I did, so I ran two in a row. I jogged a mile to cool down and did some light stretching, including a few things I had incorporated from a yoga class I took a few weeks back. Before I could get to my Wrangler, some guys roped me into a conversation about their workouts, so I gave them some pointers before leaving.

I didn’t live too far away, so I never showered at the track. And despite years of locker rooms and public nudity, it somehow felt weird to shower with kids younger than me. I grabbed a towel from the back and laid it on the driver’s seat before getting in. My clothes were soaked and I wasn’t about to have my car smell like a sweaty jock.

Traffic on the 10 wasn’t too bad and I made it home in less than fifteen minutes. Practically a record.

“Hey, Freddie!”

“'Sup?”

He was on the couch. He seemed nervous. “You good?”