Disclaimer: I apologize, but I just can't resist a guy with talent and drive. I'll probably never meet him, so this is probably the next best thing...fanfiction.
"Intense focus" are the two words which first come to mind when seeing Michael Phelps's eyes on the television screen right before an Olympic event. "Incredibly gorgeous" would be two more words which come to mind.
I should know better. Honestly, I'm 19, in college and full of my own ambitions. As a writer, I should know better than to use weak adverbs, but when I see those intense eyes and a body which would make any Classical marble statue jealous, all I can be is weak. I am no longer a rational adult. I am a 16-year-old girl with an adolescent crush all over again.
Or, am I just a 19-year-old girl reminiscing about the days when she used to sit in the bleachers cheering for her boyfriend at high school swim meets? Then again, if I was still with my ex, I would probably feel guilty being around him now since at the exact moment when I would close my eyes and kiss him, Michael Phelps would be on my mind.
Now, boyfriendless, I suppose I am seeking other diversions before school starts again. I never played sports, and I was never into spectating quietly on the sidelines. Yet, I would be there with pen and pad in hand, ready to record the results of the swim meet for my high school newspaper. I still find it hard to believe that it has been more than a year since I had last covered a swim meet.
Now I'm at home, cheering on Michael Phelps as if he could hear me all the way in Athens. My mother is afraid of what she considers to be "unhealthy" behavior. I guess she doesn't want me to be one of those groupies or celebrity stalkers.
Yet as famous as Michael Phelps could be, he seems like any other guy, but at the same time, he is extraordinary. His smile glows, genuine and all-American as they come.
I find it amusing that he drives a tricked out Escalade and listens to rap music to get him psyched and ready to compete.
It just reminds me that if I actually did know him personally, I would have nothing in common with him. I'm a nerd, and proud of it, listening to emo music and scribbling bad poetry in my journals. Then there's the faint hope that perhaps opposites really do attract after all.
This is usually when I realize how ridiculous I am. I tricked myself into thinking that I grew up when in all truth, I am still the shy girl with glasses and a book full of lovesick poetry.
Yet there is nothing wrong with the occasional impossible fantasy. It's just that this one happens to be mine.
I watch him from the bleachers, feeling out of place spectating a swim practice, wondering if someone is going to come over and ask me to leave. Michael cuts through the water, white foam fleeing his path. He is the only one in the pool since the others are already in the showers. His coach is making him do a few extra laps for showing up to practice late again. Even before that, as far as I was concerned, he was the only one in the pool. Perhaps to himself, he thinks that he is always alone in the pool. I have a vague taste as to what it's like to have people expect a lot from me, but nowhere near the weight placed on his capable shoulders. The sports critics seem to find it easy to forget that he is a 19-year-old.
I find it easy to forget as well, but in an entirely different way. Michael has the appearance of one who has always belonged in the water. He reminds me of all of the Latin translations I did about the mythological beings who lived in the water, eternally youthful and beautiful. Years from now, he will still be the same virile 19-year-old, if only in my memory. I follow every breath of air, every stroke of his arm, full of intent. The droplets of water appear to hover in the air before floating down, long behind his wake. I gaze at the O of his mouth as he takes in a breath, wondering what it would be like to trace my fingers around his lips, going so far as to dare to dream of licking those same lips.
I blush as if he can read my thoughts, but know that I could never be on his mind when he's in the water. I wonder if he dreams of swimming the way I used to dream of playing my piano Concertos in high school. Michael reaches the end of the pool and takes off his reflective swim goggles. I find myself in the direct path of his piercing eyes, always so determined, even when laughing. I remember my heart racing the first time I saw him look directly into a camera at the Olympics, feeling like he could see me all the way from Athens. Now those burning eyes were fixed on me.
My throat goes dry as I watch him get out of the pool, eyes still locked on mine. The stoic look is still on his face, as if still striving for his prize. In my head, I know I am more than just a prize, but part of me wants to be desired in the same way as a hard-earned trophy. I am afraid to break the gaze except that my curiosity always gets the better of me. My eyes wander, rolling down the same paths that the water droplets fall along the chisled grooves and ridges of his body.
Then my eyes ended up somewhere where they probably shouldn't have been, but there they remained momentarily before they began wandering again. There may not be such thing as the perfect man, but Michael Phelps is physically perfect as far as I am concerned.
Names of Greek myths of beauty come to mind. Adonis. Hyacinthus. Eros. Apollo. Even Aphrodite rising from the waves comes to mind, but in this case, in male form. I wonder if Michael knows about the legends. He had spent time in Greece, but probably didn't have time to see all of the sights. The Parthenon, which once held the most stunning statue of Athena in gold and ivory. The great temple of Zeus in Olympia. I had been to Greece and had fallen in love with the combination of old ways and modern development. What I wanted to do was to take him there, show him everything, and then sail off to some remote island where I could have him all to myself. Yet like Calypso from The Odyssey, I would live with the fear that he would someday swim or sail away from me. I saw myself standing on the sandy shore, watching him slowly disappear into the wine-dark sea.
Yet now, he was standing right in front of me, catching me in my reverie. His eyes had the same glint in them, but his smile was different from any other smile I had seen in press photographs. It was a smile which suggested that he knew exactly where I was looking and knew full well that I liked what I saw. I'm pretty sure that my jaw was on the floor, silly girl that I am. Silence occupied the few feet between us until he spoke.
"Who are you and what are you doing here?"
"I'm sorry, you probably get this a lot, but I'm a huge fan, and..." I stopped babbling, looking down at the floor.
"Well?" he smiled, egging me on.
"I don't know, I supposed that I just wanted to show my appreciation...personally," I blushed, just realizing how terrible that sounded.
"Thanks," he smiled, "But I'd like to know who I'm thanking."
"Oh, I'm Jane," I said, extending my hand to meet his.
"Excuse me, but my hands are all wet," he looked around sheepishly.
