This is a work of fiction, not based on any real events -- though I wish it was. All characters are at least 18 years old.
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I padded across the vinyl flooring past the rows of white lockers, searching for mine. I was still flushed with the afterglow of victory, my heart racing even now, an hour after the excitement ended.
I couldn't help it. Up until the last shot, the final release of the bowstring and the solid thud of my arrow meeting the bullseye, I doubted myself.
I doubted my ability to make it to Nationals, and told myself that I was lucky to be there -- not just privileged - but undeserving of the position I'd found myself in. But there was no denying it now, I was good, better than everyone in the stadium by a wide margin. I could tell my opponents didn't expect it.
They were waiting just like I was for me to make a mistake. The look on their faces when the competition was complete was one of perfect surprise. Ryan Lim, the runner up and two-time champion, looked at me like he was in the middle of a dream, trying to put a finger on what didn't fit with reality and waiting to wake up.
I reached my locker at the end of one of the many rows. Athletes get assigned lockers when they check in, and I was thankful this time I got a more secluded one, though at that moment it wouldn't have mattered. The room was empty, most competitors having finished well before my final match.
Most of them were already on shuttles to their various universities or the nearest airport. The only ones left are likely me and Ryan L--
I lost my train of thought when I heard a door open across the room. The sound of someone walking slowly, meandering almost, echoed across empty space.
"Is it him?" I wondered anxiously. Athletes can be a moody bunch and I had learned to avoid other competitors so soon after winning a match. We dedicate ourselves to one cause for much of our lives and then put it all on the line for the world to see our triumph or failure. It's no surprise emotions run high when we feel our efforts haven't been rewarded, like a prize and pedestal already paid for in sweat and tears have been stolen out from under us.
As the victor of today I didn't want to find out how forgiving this victim would be, so I hurried to change, peeling off my damp tee and shucking my pants. I was stuffing the clothes into the bottom of the locker when I the footsteps reached the open end of my row of lockers.
I couldn't help but look up. Just like I thought, it was Ryan. I silently cursed my luck and dropped my gaze before we could make eye-contact, praying that he wouldn't say anything to me. I faced my locker and was about to continue changing, but even without looking I could tell he was walking towards me.
"Congratulations" He called. He sounded melancholy but was doing his best to mask it, putting a cheerful upswing in his greeting.
"Thanks." I said, "You did amazing."
"As if." Ryan scoffed. "I couldn't even beat a rookie who picked up a bow for the first time two years ago."
There it was, I knew he wouldn't actually be cheerful after his loss.
"Oh uh yeah, sorry about that." I attempted an apologetic smile. He was closer now and still walking. I was on guard but trying my best to seem at ease. I wondered why he was still coming at me until I saw him pull out a locker key. He stopped at a locker a few to the right of mine and opened it.
Ryan sighed deeply, looking down and pondering how best to respond to my apology. Evidently it wasn't worth the effort to acknowledge, instead he changed the subject.
"What are the chances huh?" He asked. "They have this whole facility and they mange to put the two best archers almost side-by-side." He chuckled. "Maybe they know something we don't."
I smiled and nodded my assent. I was still tense. He was smiling and didn't seem to have taken my apology the wrong way, but there was an edge in his voice I couldn't place.
When he turned and began to undress, I sensed our conversation was over and continued changing myself - stripping of my boxer-briefs and pulling on my clean underwear. I was checking Ryan's progress out of the corner of my eye as I did -- wary of some attack or petty retribution.
As I did I couldn't help but notice that he didn't have a typical archer's build. Working to draw a bow and stabilize your stance tends to result in an overdeveloped back, arms, and shoulders along with atrophied core and chest muscles. Instead, he was evenly toned across what looked like his entire body.
His chest muscles stood out above well-defined abs and I could see the muscles ripple across his taught frame as he pulled off his shirt and bent to remove his shorts. Even his legs looked like they were carved from marble, each muscle not bulging out but clearly defined beneath tanned skin.
He must have spent a lot of time and effort training his whole body -- not just what's most useful for drawing a bow. I respected that -- it shows that an athlete is dedicated to more than just winning a game, they are dedicated to pushing their body to its limits and realizing its ultimate form.
I was like that too, though my results were lackluster compared to his. No matter how much I trained or ate I couldn't seem to put on the sort of muscle he had. People would describe me as "slim" or maybe "lean," plenty of muscle but spread out over too tall a frame. Ryan, on the other hand, was statuesque.
"You know you could always take a picture -- it'll last longer." He said, turning and looking directly at me, as if he could feel my eyes on him.
"Dammit." I thought. I had been changing too slowly, so caught up making sure I wasn't about to be pounced on that I hadn't put on any more clothes besides my underwear. "Sorry I was, uh, just a bit nervous." I decided to be honest. "Some guys get really upset right after a loss, especially to someone like me."
Ryan blushed inexplicably. He seemed caught off guard by my explanation, stammering "Oh, I ehm- I didn't mean to make you nervous." He looked me up and down, as if reevaluating whatever impression he had of me before. "Sorry I used that cheesy line on you."
I had never seen Ryan like this. In competitions he always looked so self-assured, walking with the sort of masculine grace that oozed confidence. He always gave the impression of powers held in reserve, of someone just waiting for a challenge that would demand his full attention.
"Wait what line is he talking about?" I thought. "The picture thing? Is that something people say? Is he flirting with me?" Now it was my turn to blush.
We stood facing each other, caught in the awkward uncertainty of each other's misunderstandings and unsure how to move on.
My mind raced: one half trying to convince myself that I had misinterpreted -- he wasn't flirting, I was just full of it. The infusion of confidence from winning had clearly inflated my ego beyond reasonable limits. The other half wondered if it was possible that Ryan was interested in me. He didn't give the impression of being gay -- and even if he was why would he flirt with someone like me?
My mind was still wheeling when Ryan began to move towards me, and I took my first close look at his face. He was about my height, maybe a couple inches shorter, had an angular face and high cheekbones below dark eyes. I thought his hair was black, like mine, but from this distance I could see it was tinged auburn at the tips, a reddish-brown so dark you could only see it in the hairs set against the pale background of the lockers.
I remember when I saw him the first time, I thought his severe features suited his lofty position as champion, but now he didn't look haughty or severe at all, somehow he looked anxious but also determined, an unknown question set across his lips.
He was close now, our bare skin separated by nothing but a few inches of air. He paused and I could feel the heat of his body and hear him take a deep breath, a gulp of air taken as if preparing to plunge underwater.
I didn't move even as I sensed his hand against my jaw, his thigh brush against mine, and saw him tilt his head up to me. And then his lips were on mine.
He kissed me with gentle insistence, unsure what my response would be but knowing that half-measures would not answer his question. I stood rigid, still too dismayed to respond, wondering what I was supposed to do. When he sensed I was not reciprocating he pulled broke the kiss and stepped back quickly, racing back to his locker.
"Sorry." He mumbled without looking up. "I don't know what I was thinking. Please don't tell anyone."
He was already pulling on his day-clothes, tugging shorts on while I stood rooted to the spot, trying to process what had just happened. My heart hammered in my chest as I watched him hurriedly shove dirty clothes into a duffle bag.
Two years of being in and out of locker rooms almost every day had desensitized me to being naked in front of other men. But somewhere I remembered the subtle bloom of excitement in my chest when I first started acclimating to this strange environment -- the nerves and the warmth in my crotch I felt when I saw one of the chiseled athletes walking unabashedly across the room.
I thought about how even today I let my eyes linger on his lithe beauty and part of me wondered if I was just using wariness as a pretense to keep looking. The image of my body pressed against his suddenly flared in my mind, shaking me from my stupor with ridiculous urgency.
