Hollis
Six months later . . .
“Yes, Mom. I got you tickets.”
“I don’t see them in my inbox. Did you snail mail them? Your dad already made T-shirts, so he’ll be devastated if he doesn’t get a chance to show them off in public. You know how those announcers look forward to panning in on his creations.”
Don’t I fucking know it? My parents are almost more popular than I am. Ever since my first Olympic trials, they’ve been pegged as the most supportive yet entertaining parents to watch during competition, even more entertaining than the actual divers.
It isn’t just the shirts my dad creates, that I will get to in a second, it’s their theatrics. They are those parents standing in the crowd, tucking and twisting with every one of my moves while holding hands. And when I hit the water, they squat down and then leap into the air, hands still clasped. It’s the most absurd thing you’ll ever witness. They have their own memes for fuck’s sake.
And then their outfits. Christ. Want to talk about the love for America and a child, just look at my dad’s shirts. They are usually decked out in red, white, and blue stars and stripes across the chest as well as a blow-up of my face. Underneath: Hollis Howlers. It’s obnoxious, but for some insane reason, I secretly like it. Seeing my parents in the stands, flags in their hands, my face plastered across their chest, and smiles on their faces, it makes all the countless hours in the gym and on the platform worth it. To make them proud makes it all worth it.
“The tickets will be at Will Call, Mom. Don’t worry, Dad will be able to show off his shirts.”
“Thank Jesus.” She pauses and then whispers into the phone, “He asked to borrow my bedazzler. I’m not sure where he’s going with those expensive jewels he got at the craft store the other day but I’m a little thrilled to know I have a chance of sparkling under the lights this year. Your father is really stepping up his game.”
The bedazzler? Shit, all I can think of is that one Capital One baseball commercial where the mom bedazzles everything her son is wearing. I wouldn’t put it past my dad to do the same thing.
Bedazzled Speedo, sparkle crotch, jewel dick . . . sends a fucking chill down my spine just thinking about it.
“He didn’t make me anything, did he?”
“I don’t think so.” I hear the distinct sound of her covering the phone but she doesn’t do a very good job because I can still hear everything. “Al, did you make Hollis something with the bedazzler?” she shouts.
I can’t hear my dad but I hold my breath, praying he didn’t have enough “jewels” for me.
My mom comes back on the line. “He didn’t have enough jewels.” Thank fuck. “He can go grab some more if you want something.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly. “I won’t have time to wear it. I will just take pictures with you guys in your shirts.”
“What a wonderful idea. You make sure to wear your USA gear.”
“I didn’t make the team yet, Mom.”
“Oh pish. You’re the number-one diver in the world, so there is no doubt you won’t make the team.”
“I can be the number-one in every event, but one bad day could keep me from making the team.”
“What’s with the negativity? Do you need to talk to your father?”
Talking to my father on the phone would add another half hour to this already long conversation, so I avoid that scenario with a quick distraction. “Did you hear from Holly?”
“Yes, she’s doing quite well on her travels. Paris has revived her, I can hear the joy in her voice. Her break-up with Jimmy was hard. I’m glad she’s taking the time to find herself again.”
“Me too,” I respond, thinking of my twin. “Do you think if I make it to Rio, she’ll attend?”
“Not if, but when you make it to Rio. I bought non-refundable tickets, so either way your father and I are going to Brazil this summer, and yes, she’ll be there. She said she’d never miss it.”
The tension in my shoulders eases. Holly will be there. I hadn’t even realized I was carrying that tension, but it was there. All I really want is for Holly to be there. Deep breath, Hollis.
Ever since the accident, I’ve felt as though she doesn’t want to be a part of my diving career, like she resents me. I need her. Fuck, having her present—watching me, cheering me on—it’s what propels me to be better.
Voices start to travel down the hallway just outside the dressing room, indicating I’ll no longer be alone.
“Hey, I have to go, Mom. Tell Dad I can’t wait to see the shirts he comes up with this year and please make sure he doesn’t bedazzle the things too much. I don’t need light reflecting off your shirts and distracting me.”
“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll handle your father. I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up just as the door to the dressing room opens. Reese steps in wearing nothing but a leopard-print Speedo and holding a beach ball. His chest is oiled up to the point that I’m pretty sure if I opened up a Slip ’N Slide across his abdomen and charged women five bucks a slide, I’d be a millionaire in an hour. He looks like a total douche and being his dutiful best friend, I make it my business to point it out to him.
“Swimming not going so well? Decided to audition for the drag show It’s Raining Men? Because let me tell you, you’re nailing the part.” I give him a thumbs up as he retaliates with his middle finger.
Exhaling, he slouches in the seat next to me and takes a long sip from his water bottle. “Fuck, that was torture. Did you hear what she was complaining about today?”
“Who? Satan?” I ask, shooting a text off to the girl who keeps ignoring me.
Hollis: I’ve scoured the photo shoot for you. All I see is Reese in a leopard-print Speedo. Please come find me to wash that image out of my mind with your gorgeous lips.
“Yeah.” Reese doesn’t even correct my name-calling of Bellini; he knows the kind of person she is.
“No, fortunately I got here only a few minutes ago and was just talking to my mom on the phone. What did Princess Shithead want this time?”
“An African blackwood bench.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“Hell if I know.” Reese runs his hand through his hair. “Seriously, the last few months have been an absolute nightmare. Why did I think this was going to be a good idea?”
“Because who doesn’t want to be attached at the hip to a placebo-pill-popping narcissist with a holy dog?” Leaning forward, I say, “I’m not kidding, I had a headache when I got here. I ran into the dog briefly in the hallway, it licked my shoe, and now my headache is gone. I know you’re going to call bullshit, but I might believe in that dog’s powers.”
My phone dings. Ignoring Reese for a second, I take a look at it.
Melony: Called in sick.
Hollis: That sucks. Are you all right? I heard my penis cures some of the worst diseases. Want me to stick it in you to make you feel better? At the least, to feel your temperature? I don’t mind taking one for the team.
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Reese says, referring to my belief in Pope Francis actually having healing powers.
Turning back to Reese, I look him up and down. “Coming from the douche romantically involved with an ass wart and wearing a leopard-print Speedo.”
“Why can I picture an ass wart with perfect clarity?”
“Because you’re all kinds of fucked up.” I clench my stomach and ask, “Are you going to get changed? Christ, dude, I’m starving.”
“You’re starving?” He stares at the table next to me. “And that Pop-Tart wrapper. That’s not yours?”
The silver foil shines in the lights and I know I’ve been caught but I still try to deny it. “Nope, not mine.”
“Really? Because it’s not fucking mine and you’re the only person I know who has at least two boxes of Pop-Tarts in their car at all times.”
“They’re a great post-workout snack. Simple carbs to replenish the loss of my glycogen stores so I can repair my muscles. It’s bro-science, dude.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Want to grab a burrito?”
“Sounds good, but hurry the fuck up. I just got done with three hours of dryland training, my fucking metabolism is eating my stomach lining.”
Turning back to my phone, I smile. Yes.
Melony: Pretty sure if you stuck your penis in me, I would receive more diseases.
Ha, little does she know I’ve been fucking celibate for too damn long. I’m not a one-and-done man. I like being in a relationship.
Hollis: Fun fact, I don’t sleep around.
Melony: That seems hard to believe.
Hollis: Because of the abs, right? Or is it my giant dick? Or my infamous charm?
Melony: Definitely not the charm.
Hollis: Ask me to come over.
Melony: Goodbye, Hollis.
Damn, and here I thought I was making progress.
***
“It’s a few weeks before trials, does your dad have his shirts made yet?” Reese asks, mouthful of Burrito.
I take a sip of my drink and nod my head. “Yeah, apparently he got his hands on a fucking bedazzler.”
Choking back a laugh, Reese smiles. “That’s fucking awesome. Please tell me he bedazzled earrings on the giant head of you he plasters to every one of his shirts.”
“I sure as fuck hope not.” But that is something my dad would actually do, which makes me nervous as hell.
“They are some of my favorite people,” Reese admits.
“Mine too.” Changing the subject, I say, “They were asking about you the other day, wondering if you’re still dating Bellini.”
Reese rolls his eyes. “Can we not talk about her? Christ. I had to deal with her shit all day; I would prefer not to have to rehash it.”
“You can still back out.”
“Not really.” He takes another big bite of his burrito. “It’s a solidified deal. She needs me just as much as I need her. How fucked up is that?”
“Pretty fucked up. Seems like you got yourself into a little pickle.”
Reese gives me a knowing look. I can already tell what’s going to come out of his mouth. It happens every time I harp on him about Bellini. “How’s your pursuit of Melony coming along?” His smirk reads jackass. I wouldn’t expect anything less from my best friend.
Lying, I answer, “On the edge of mounting my dick any day.”
Apparently I’m not a good liar from the way Reese throws his head back and laughs, drawing attention from people around us. “Oh, you’re such a shitty liar. That girl wants nothing to do with you.”
Yeah, didn’t I fucking know it? It’s been six months since I first met her and never in my life have I met anyone as persistent at saying no as she is. Granted, I don’t hang out with her a lot, never actually. I only see her when I meet Reese at one of his many production obligations, and of course my text messages, but those little stolen moments with her have turned into absolutely nothing. Yup . . . nothing.
I tell jokes. Nothing.
I dirty talk. Nothing.
I talk in general. Nothing.
Reese isn’t kidding when he says she wants nothing to do with me. And what’s a real twist of the head on my dick is how every time I see her, I grow more attached, despite the repulsed look she gives me. Every. Time.
Yeah, repulsed.
Kind of stabs a man’s ego. But apparently I’m a masochist because hell if I can stop hitting on her.
“She just doesn’t know what she wants yet. She doesn’t know that one day I’ll fucking marry her.”
Reese’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. “That’s fucking bold.”
Bold. I don’t think it’s bold, because for some reason I think it’s fact. I barely know the girl. I’ve barely spoken to the girl. I’ve only seen her smile in the distance and never at me. But I’m so incredibly drawn to her. Only to her. I want her. Just her. I want her in my future.
I bite into my burrito and lean back in my chair. “It’s fucking true.”