Page 62 of Stroked Long
My stomach drops and my entire body heats up. I can feel my cheeks blazing with embarrassment as I swallow the notion of Reese texting Bodi about my idiocy.Shit. No. Shit!
“Are you kidding me? Oh my God! What did he say? I feel like puking.”
A low chuckle starts on the other end of the phone, but it’s so low I almost don’t hear it.
“Bodi? What did he say? Did he call me a freak? He did, didn’t he? I’m very colorful today. Oh God, he thought I was some kind of clown practicing their soda whizzing act, didn’t he? Was he waiting for me to pull a bouquet of flowers out of my sleeve after? Maybe do a card trick?”
“None of those.” Bodi laughs some more. “I was only kidding; he didn’t text me.”
“What? Bodi Banks, that’s not even funny.” From his laughter—that sweet, sweet sound—I can tellhethinks it’s funny.
“Pretty sure it was funny.”
“Pretty sure that was really low of you, Mr. Banks.”
“Pretty sure you’re going to forgive me.”
“Pretty sure you’re going to owe me big time.”
“We will see about that,” he answers. Even though I can’t see him, I know there is a smirk on his face. And how I wish I was by his side right now. Just talking to him, having fun with him, being laughedatby him . . . it makes me yearn for him.More than I already have.
Chapter Twelve
BODI
I’ve never felt like this before, like I’m missing something. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s day two out of six of the Olympic trials and I’m lying in my hotel room, staring up at the ceiling, trying to pinpoint the empty feeling that’s coursing through my stomach.
Coach and I did some stretching and massage this morning in preparation for my heats; my muscles are feeling loose and ready for my upcoming races. Eva called this morning, letting me know she and Lauren would arrive tomorrow, and to let me know how proud she is of me. Despite my sordid past, she’s still proud of me for being the goal-driven man I am today.
Goal-driven doesn’t seem like the right word to describe me. More like obsessive compulsive.
I need to swim.
I need to win.
I need to feel the thick ribbon of a medal wrapped around my neck.
Without those in my life, I would feel more than empty. I would feel absolutely worthless. The least I can do for my family is paint them in their deserved shining light with my athletic abilities.
The cool rush of water floats down my throat as I sip from my water bottle, trying to stay as relaxed and hydrated as possible. Pre-race rituals, I’m damn good at them because they’re rituals. I fucking rock at doing the same thing over and over again. It’s why I excel at swimming. Muscle memory has become my best friend, one of the factors keeping me sane all these years.
Still . . . despite checking everything off my list of pre-race to-dos, I can’t pinpoint why I feel off. Why I feel like I’m missing something.
Then, Ruby sends me a text.
My heart rate starts to pick up, my breathing hitches, and just from the sight of her name on my phone, I feel at ease.
Ruby: Taco or burrito?
A smile crosses my face. Typical Ruby text. It’s rare I get a “Hey, how are you?” from her anymore. She’s always asking questions, giving me scenarios to answer, trying to put me on the spot.
I fucking love it.
Bodi: Tacos.
Ruby: Reasoning? And don’t say something perverted that refers to a lady’s vagina. I will disown you.
A sharp laugh pops out of me as I relax in my bed some more.
