The Stanford Diver I Wanted to Beat ... and Fuck
The Rival, Part 1: After three years of trading scores and snide remarks, one touch beneath the stands made me wonder if we’d been fighting the wrong thing this whole time.
The thing about hatred is you always know where you stand with it. That’s what I used to think, anyway… until last night, until this morning, until this.
It’s six a.m. in a hotel near the John C. Argue Swim Stadium, and I’m awake for the third time, counting the breaths of the person in bed beside me. The blackout curtains are failing at the top, so there’s this spectral glow fanning across the sheets, and Ethan’s face is all carved up by the shadows, his cheekbone a clean, classical line.
A version of me that belongs to the last several years, hell, to yesterday, would say he looks just as he always does: disciplined, unapproachable, prepared to break your fingers for a win. The version of me that belongs to right now is watching the pulse in his neck, thinking about how last night he bit that same spot when he came, how I watched his teeth break the skin and felt it days before it even happened.
This version of me memorizes every inch of him.
Flat on his back, head and chin tilted up slightly, with one arm draped overhead, the other tucked by his side, hand gently resting near his cock. Stachuesque is the only word for it … frustratingly beautiful even as he sleeps. There’s a deep crease between his brows, even now, as if some part of him is still locked in competition.
It’s the contrast that gets me.
Ethan’s all cool edges and efficiency, so when he’s undone, when he’s out of his depth and not quite sure where to put his hands or his breath, it’s fucking shocking. I didn’t realize, not until the last possible moment, that the attention he’d been giving me wasn’t designed to break me down, but to see if I’d ever notice he was building something.
There are a lot of ways to be obsessed with someone. I used to think rivalry was the most obvious; now I know it’s just the easiest to explain away.
As the sunlight edges higher, and the room is starting to feel more like real life and less like the perfect suspension you get underwater, where nothing exists but the burn in your lungs and the roar in your ears. I should get up. We have less than two hours before call time, and if we both oversleep, there will be hell to pay, first from the coaching staff and then from the universe, because we’ve already lost one meet to our own idiocy and neither of us is about to forfeit this one.
But Ethan’s hand is an inch from mine, and the weirdest part is that it isn’t accidental. He’s not a sleep-toucher, too coiled for that. He’s just left it there, on purpose, on the territory of the bed I clearly claimed, like he expects me to take it like the final challenge.
So I stare at the ceiling and wonder how many years I spent misinterpreting every look, every sideways comment, every laser-guided note about my form, my splits, my weaknesses. I wonder how many times I mistook being seen for being hated, and why I can’t decide which is scarier.
I guess the answer is always: as many times as it takes.
I already know how this ends, but I don’t care. The point isn’t the landing. It’s the air between takeoff and the surface, the split second when you don’t know if you’ll stick it or eat shit in front of the world.
That’s the only time I ever feel honest. I think that’s the whole story, right there.
24 hours earlier
The Opportunity I Missed
Warm-ups at invitationals are chaos: everyone jostles for boards, bodies drip chlorine, nerves fray. I step onto the three-meter, run my four steps: heel-ball-toe, gather, plant, shake out my hands. Two boards over, Ethan drills with surgical precision, arms folded, every move exact. We’re in team colors: cardinal and gold for me, white with a Stanford S for him, and yes, I notice how his Speedo fits; a detail that should barely register after years in the NCAA, but for some reason it lands like a sucker-punch right under my ribs.
It’s not that I haven’t clocked him before; in fact, the first time Ethan Mercer walked onto the deck at a dual meet, every guy in the lane lines did a triple-take and then pretended they hadn’t. But there’s something about the way he wears it now, like the uniform was designed around him, and he’s daring you to say anything about it.
His hips are the kind of sharp that can leave marks. The elastic rides a little higher over one hip than the other, and there’s a pale line where the suit must’ve been shifted in the locker room, a trace of what he’s been hiding under his clothes for the past three seasons.
He swings his arms overhead, shoulder blades flexing, and the movement is so practiced it’s almost robotic. Except it’s not, because then he glances my way. Eyes narrowed, jaw set. I have the sense he knows exactly how closely I’m watching. The way his lip lifts at the corner says, “Yeah, I see you.” It should piss me off, but it doesn’t. It makes my mouth go dry.
I can’t even hide it, because he holds the look for a full second before moving on, turning his back and hopping in place, thighs tensing.
My first three approaches go fine, though my left quad is tight. As I stretch, Ethan steps off his board and says, “You rush your hurdle when you’re nervous.” He’s right, which pisses me off. I’ve been early on my hurdle for weeks, but I force nonchalance. I slow my next run, count steps, nail the dive with just a minor splash. Coaches barely blink, but I know I fixed it.
Finals loom.
I warm up with clean sevens and eights, taste the ritual calm. Then the reverse two-and-a-half pike: the hurdle comes too soon, the rotation too fast, and I slap the water, pain blooming across my ribs. My score? The worst I’ve ever seen. I surface coolly, but my chest burns.
Ethan’s next.
He approaches perfectly. Textbook hurdle, silent entry, and scores nines. The crowd erupts.
Meet over; he wins.
Alone With Loss, or So I Thought
The only place lonelier than the bottom of the scoreboard is the cinderblock cavern under the stands, where the noise of the meet is just percussion above your head, and everything smells like rust, ancient sweat, and the slow leak of damp concrete. I found an equipment crate and planted myself on it, towel hanging like a surrender flag as I wait for the adrenaline to decay.
I’d already written the script for when my teammates found me: the slouch, the shrug, the joke about how the judges must’ve had a group chat roasting my entry angles. No one could call me out if I did it first.
Instead, the footsteps that break the static are heavier, and slower, and don’t belong to anyone from USC. I know it before I look up, which should make it easier, but it just makes my hands clench tighter around the towel with anticipation.
Ethan stops about four feet away, right on the edge of the shadow, backlit by the cracks in the bleacher slats. He stands like he’s still on the board with his arms loose, posture military, jaw set.
For a second, in a standoff.
I break first. “Didn’t peg you for the type to gloat. Or maybe you just came for the post-mortem?” His face doesn’t move as he responds with a matter-of-fact retort, “I don’t have to gloat. You know exactly what went wrong.”
“Yeah, well. You were right. I rushed it,” I quip back.
He nods once, but it’s not satisfaction; it’s acknowledgment, like he’s checked off a box only he can see. The light through the bleachers stripes his face, accentuating a faint white scar over his eyebrow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this close without water between us, and the details are weirdly electric. The pressure when he clenches his jaw. The half-moon crescents under his fingernails I notice as he tugs on his waistband. The way his thighs fill the Stanford Speedo, taut as cables, and the tiny muscle fibers that pull between his insanely toned chest as he wipes at residual sweat from the race.
If I’m being honest, the moment is so tense with other possibilities that I almost want to laugh. But I don’t. He speaks first this time, voice lower. “You’re convincing when you pretend not to care. But not convincing enough.”
I let out a breath, then stand, closing the space by a step. “What do you want me to say? You beat me. You always do. Enjoy it.”
Ethan doesn’t move. His gaze is flat, but I can feel it pinning me, evaluating me.
“It’s not about that,” he says. “It’s about whether you even want it anymore.” My eyes dart right back to meet his gaze before sharply yelling back, “Of course I want it. I want it so bad it makes me fucking sick.”
He licks his lips, not in a nervous way, but like he’s about to call bullshit and wants to savor it. “Then why did you stop fighting for it?”
The accusation burns, because it’s not the slap I was expecting. It’s the soft, almost concerned tone underneath it. For a second, I see another side of him before looking away, unable to come up with a witty reply. Or an honest one even.
Silence again. It stretches long enough that I think he might leave. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he shifts his weight and comes closer. The space between us is suddenly charged. I become acutely aware of every square inch of skin exposed to the air. My arms, my chest, my thighs still humming from the effort and the cold. I feel the urge to close the gap and grab him by the stupid, perfect seam of his Speedo and see if he’d let me. But I don’t move.
He watches me with that same intensity, but now it’s less clinical and more… searching.
Like he’s daring me to be honest, for once. Honest about the race, honest about what I want.
I don’t know why, but the only thing I can mutter in that moment is, “You hate me.” Quietly, but clearly. He shakes his head. “You’re the only one I don’t hate.” I don’t know what to do with that, so I laugh, “You’ve got a weird way of showing it.”
He shrugs. “So do you.”
What is happening here? As my mind races, we just stand there, shadows and skin, still soaking, and now I am trying to catch my breath … again. Suddenly, I can hear the crowd above, a distant, steady thud, and for a second, I think he might actually kiss me.
But he reaches out, closes a hand around my wrist. His grip is gentle, but it carries all the weight of the last several years. Every time we eyed each other at a meet, every time I told myself it was just rivalry.
He lets go, steps back, then walks away.
It’s only after he’s gone that I realize I’m still staring at the space where he was, eyes level with nothing, and my mouth feels weirdly hot. Insatiable. And for the first time in a long time, I want it. I want all of it.
And I finally know who I’m supposed to fight for.
The Empty Locker Room
After the electricity of our interaction on the pool deck, the locker room feels particularly sterile. No one speaks above a murmur. Benches are strewn with towels, heavy with the overwhelming stench of bleach. I stand at my locker, padlock dangling, head against metal.
Feeling defeated in every conceivable sense.
Ethan’s voice ringing in my ears, “You rush your hurdle when you’re nervous,” looped with “You’re the only one I don’t hate.” I shake my head to quiet his voice and bring myself back to reality, an act I thought was reversed for scenes in movies, yet here I was, so overwhelmed, it was all I could do to try to recalibrate.
Luckily, the team has scattered, so it’s just me and my thoughts left in the locker room to replay and reassess my loss. I rehearse the dive again, picturing Ethan in the stands, eyes narrowed, reading my body before I even move.
I thought I was immune.
In high school, you learn to lock away feelings beneath performance. But today he pried one open when he called me out privately. I didn’t like feeling exposed that way. Especially in front of him.
I peel off my suit, the elastic snapping free, leaving a red indentation at my waist. As I towel off, I look down, feeling a phantom grip around my wrist, pulsating where his hand had been. My body suddenly comes alive. My ribs ache where I hit the water, and I press on the bruise, hoping it will distract me from my other bodily sensations.
As my eyes refocus, I stare at my season-best list taped inside my locker, and I trace the metal seam to ground myself. Wishing away the reminder of Ethan’s touch, currently growing under my towel.
I sit, eyes clenched shut, trying to distract myself by thinking about mechanics.
The approach, hurdle, takeoff … but instead I see Ethan’s body blocking the light, his eyes locked on me. Aggressively shaking my head again, like an Etch-A-Sketch, to erase his image. I am feeling every emotion. Anger, confusion, disbelief, sadness, and on top of all that, I am unbearably horny.
I wonder what might’ve happened if I’d moved closer when he grabbed me. But I didn’t, and now his hand on my wrist echoes with “what if.” I see his face: that scar, that half-smile.
I’m not sure what to do with that.
The Shower Fantasy
The only place more honest than a locker room is a locker room shower.
Everything is stripped down: bodies, pretenses, the last trace of sunscreen. The tile is cold and slick, every shower head still dripping from the earlier stampede of swimmers. Echoing with each drop as it meets the floor.
I walk in, a towel in a fist at my side, no need for modesty when I’m the last one here.
I take the farthest stall, the only one with the sketchy half-curtain providing any sense of privacy. I turn the handle and watch as the scalding water flows, adding fog coverage to the space immediately in front of me. I step in.
After letting the water run over my face and drench my chest, I turn my back to the spray and let it cut a hot line down my spine. I close my eyes and immediately see him.
I can’t believe I still care what he thinks.
The fact that he seems to live rent-free in my head after years of pretending I was immune to him is infuriating. And why now? My body can’t even tell the difference between anger and hunger when it comes to him.
My fingers work the shampoo into a lather, rough at first, then slow. I let my head fall forward, chin to chest, eyes closed. It feels good to scrub away the film of chlorine, not to mention the memory of my most recent failure.
It’s supposed to be routine: get in, wash off, get out.
But the water burns hotter, and my hands can’t keep to their assigned tasks. They drift, finding familiar routes over my chest, mapping the shape of every muscle I earned in the pool and each bruise the board gifted in return. The ache in my ribs throbs in time with my pulse.
I let my hands explore the shallow valleys down my stomach, beads of water catching the soap suds trailing down my body. I can’t stop thinking about the way Ethan looked at me.
But it was more than a look. It was a stare. And his voice. The way it was pitched, so I never knew if he was mocking or inviting me in. I still don’t know for sure, and it’s killing me.
My hand closes around myself, fingers tight, and for a moment, I grip hard enough to hurt.
I’m shaking, hips starting to rock forward against my grip, forehead braced to the tile. I don’t care about the noise. Every stroke and breath bouncing between the walls. The team is long gone, after all.
I want to release the tension from the day.
Each second pounding through me, each thrust in my hand a little closer to forgetting everything but this. I wish he were here, wish I could turn around and see him with water traveling down his back, grinning that dangerous grin. Instead, I hold tight and imagine it: him pressing me into the shower wall, hands everywhere, breath on my ear.
I know there’s no one here to see, but I jerk off fast at first, because I don’t want to get caught. And because I want to get it over with, I can’t contain it anymore. But then I can’t help slowing down, almost overwhelmed by the fantasy, so I draw it out a bit longer. It feels so good.
As the scene continues to play out in my head, Ethan has his stetched, reaching around my neck. But it’s not violent, not really; it’s just him not pretending anymore. He’s taking control, for both of us.
In the fantasy, I let him. I don’t joke, don’t deflect. I let him look, let him touch, let him see me. All of me. He’d be relentless, I know that much. He’d make me say what I want out loud, then say it back.
I’ve been so distracted by the pleasure pulsating in my hand, I almost didn’t recognize how unbearably hot the water had gotten. But I keep going, hand slick with suds and precum. I grip the base hard, thumb dragging over the head in little circles, a sensation that almost causes the immediate release from this fantasy. My breath comes faster, sharper, until my legs go weak, and I brace myself with the other hand.
I’ve lost track of my tempo.
Stopping feels impossible now, my whole body narrowed to a single point of pressure.
I shift my grip, fingers spreading, and the change in angle pulls a sound out of me I’m glad no one’s around to hear. My free arm hooks around the shower pipe to have something to hold. The steam is so dense it sits in my throat, making it difficult to breathe.
Ethan’s voice in my head is steady. His metaphorical grip controls every stroke. “You ever going to stop hiding?” I stroke harder, faster, eyes clenched shut, and my whole body knots up with the urge to finish.
The fantasy overtook me, and I lost control, hips driving forward, hand clenched so tight I left marks. I couldn’t tell if I was angry or desperate. My head slammed back, and I bit down a groan, but it escaped anyway. “Ethan,” I whimpered breathlessly.
The world stuttered and then snapped back into full, blinding color. My hand jerked, and I came hard, rope after rope splattering the tile and then my own stomach as I aimed my cock upwards. Nine in total.
For a second, I was gone, nerves shrieking with the shock of it.
My orgasm: a full-body reset.
My legs nearly buckled, and I scrabbled for the little soap dish, reaching for anything that could keep me upright. Distantly, I registered the sting in my ribs, the hot-red ache in my palm, and the boneless exhaustion setting in everywhere else.
After more than a few seconds, the heartbeat pounding in my ears gave way to the water hitting aggressively as it made contact with the tile.
The post cum clarity sets in almost immediately. Is it a sense of relief, sure, but also a feeling resembling something like embarrassment. I want to pretend it was just about the adrenaline, the need to reset my brain, but that would be a lie.
The truth is, I wanted more than just to beat him. I wanted him to want me, maybe not in the same way, but with the same urgency, the same inability to compartmentalize.
As I towel off, I’m careful not to look at my own reflection in the mirror. I don’t recognize this side of myself. My skin is blotched red from the water and jerk session that went on for what feels like an hour. I put on my post-meet outfit. Always the same thing: mesh shorts from Nice Laundry, a white tank top, USC sweatshirt, and some Birkenstocks. No underwear. I’m constricted enough wearing a Speedo all the time.
I stand there for a minute, waiting for my heart rate to even out.
I convince myself I’ll avoid Ethan for the rest of the night. That I can go to the team party, have a few drinks, and forget this ever happened. But even as I think it, I know I’ll lose the battle, just like I lost the race.
Denial
Just outside of the locker room, I linger by the vending machine, famished either from my race or the calories I just burned in the shower stall. My heart racing as I feverishly tried to get the thought of Ethan off my mind and out of my body.
I attempt to compare the nutritional value of Snickers versus trail mix. A useless exercise when my mind’s still in the shower stall. I can’t make eye contact with anyone walking by, offering their condolences on my performance, without worrying that my face will telegraph a full highlight reel of what I was just up to.
There’s a kind of hangover after you jerk off, especially in a public place.
The body feels lighter, less desperate, but the shame is stickier, especially when it’s not really about sex so much as wanting to be wanted. I check my phone for messages, knowing full well no one’s texted me except maybe the group chat for the afterparty.
Exactly as I thought, just a string of increasingly unhinged GIFs and reminders that there will be beer pong, someone’s cousin is DJing, and the first twenty minutes are “Speedo Only” for photo ops.
Do I skip it?
I have homework, which really means I’ll end up binging something on Netflix, but I tell myself that sounds better than running into Ethan tonight, especially after how our awkward encounter ended.
He’ll be there, obviously. There was always crossover with the visiting teams.
A little cult of beautiful Stanford people. Assessing, dissecting, and sizing up their literal and metaphorical competition. Exchanging commentary on our performances at the meet and how we look with clothes on and off.
But one thing is for sure: I don’t have the capacity to overhear words like “potential” and “tragic” regarding my race earlier. I’m already halfway down the hall, Snickers in hand, contemplating every possible scenario for the party when I hear “Dawson, you’re not ghosting, are you?”
It’s Jeremy, our team’s co-captain, wearing a vintage USC shirt with the sleeves cut to the armpit and small tears in the thin fabric that stretch across his chest, grey sweatshorts, and his somehow perfectly wavy hair held back by a pair of sunglasses propped on his head.
The effortlessly cool few people ever achieve.
I keep pace, pretending I don’t hear him call for me. He slaps his palm on the vending machine for emphasis, and when my footsteps stutter, he knows I’ve been caught.
“What, you think I’m gonna let you cry into a protein shake all night?” he says as he runs up behind me. “Get in the car. We’re getting tacos first, then the party. You need salt, and you need socialization, in that order.”
Jeremy isn’t the type of person you say no to. And honestly, you don’t even want to. He has undeniable charisma and charm that extend to men and women, which makes him very difficult to figure out. In fact, there was a situation last semester between us on the bus back to campus, but that’s a story for another time.
He’s already got a grip on my backpack, steering me toward the parking lot. I begin to mutter, “dude, I’m not really …”
And before I can even finish, he shrugs. “Yeah, but that’s why you should,” drawing out should as he nods his head repeatedly toward the exit.
I raise my eyebrow as I groan, but let myself get herded anyway.
The night is muggy, sun bleeding out from behind the stadium, and my head is full of static.
On the drive, Jeremy keeps up a running commentary about the meet. How the judges were blind, how no one noticed the Texan guy’s balk on the forward three-and-a-half, how I still “looked hot” in my entry, which, okay, thanks, but not helping.
He doesn’t ask what’s actually bothering me, which is both a relief and a disappointment. He cranks the music, and when we get to the taco place, he buys me a horchata and two carne asada crunch tacos because “that’s what a champion deserves, even if the world doesn’t recognize it yet.”
By the time we pull up to the party, I’ve come down a bit from the events earlier in the day, and I can almost pretend I’m just a normal college guy, headed to a normal post-meet bash, instead of someone who just had an emotional crisis in a public shower.
The house is already roaring.
I hear the thump of bass, the spatter of laughter, and the war cry of someone doing a keg stand on the front porch. Lights are strung haphazardly along the eaves, giving everything a Fyre Festival vibe.
I stand at the curb for a second, looking at the blur of bodies inside; the front windows are fogged with heat and breath. I feel like if I step inside, something irreversible will happen, but I can’t say what. Jeremy shoves me forward, grinning like an idiot. “Come on, man. At least fake it for the photos.”
I exhale, square my shoulders, and walk up the steps. The door swings open, and the heat of bodies and the scent of spilled beer hit us like a wave as I immediately start scanning the crowd, searching for anyone but the one person I can’t stop picturing, even now.
But the thing about avoiding your problems: they always seem to find you first.
Ethan in the Kitchen
People crowd the living room, bumping cups, shouting over each other, everyone high on the post-meet exhaustion that makes you want to devour or be devoured, doesn’t matter which.
I weave through a sea of sweaty bodies and booze-filled solo cups, smile locked in place, slapping hands and ducking the kind of bro-hugs that end with your drink getting knocked all over you.
I let myself be piloted to the beer pong table by my girlfriend, Hailey, who immediately spotted me upon entry. I pause for a quick team selfie, forcing a smile. Jeremy put his arm around my neck and called out “the pride of USC diving,” even though I definitely shamed the whole university today. This brings an actual smile to my face as the camera clicks and we start our walk again.
I do all the right things.
I laugh, I make fun of myself, I pose for the requisite “shotgun a beer in a speedo” photo even though my abs are still sore from impact. I almost convince myself I’m having fun, which is actually really nice even for a moment.
But under all of it, I’m scanning for Ethan.
It takes a while to find him. He’s not in the living room, not in the backyard where some Stanford kids are soaking in a sad inflatable pool. For a second, I wonder if he bailed. Maybe he’s smarter than the rest of us; maybe he knew better than to show up to enemy territory with a target painted on his chest.
But as I turn the corner into the kitchen, there he is.
Leaning against a beercan-covered countertop, he’s changed into jeans and a white t-shirt, looking completely normal, unfazed, and so off-duty that I almost don’t recognize him.
He’s talking to a girl in Stanford gear, but his eyes are drifting, bored in whatever conversation they’re having. Suddenly, his gaze is very focused on me. I attempt to retreat, but it’s too late. He sees me see him, straightens up, and beckons, “Dawson!”
The girl looks from him to me and back again, realizing his attention has been diverted, and their conversation is over. She grabs her drink and pushes past me to the backyard.
For a second, neither of us moves. I want to say something witty, something that puts him back on his heels, but the words won’t come. Instead, I stand there, probably looking like I’ve forgotten how to talk. Ethan breaks the silence first, referencing the meet and completely avoiding a tense exchange under the stands. He says, “Could’ve been worse. Saw a guy DQ’d last year for throwing up on the deck.”
That gets a laugh out of me, sharp and unexpected. “Yeah, well, the night is young.”
He smiles, not wide, but real. He eyes me for a second, then tips his head toward the side door. “Want some air?” But before I can respond, he’s moving away, and without pause, I follow behind him.
We step outside, past the noise and the crush of bodies, into a little patch of dark at the edge of the yard that had just been mowed, next to a wooden fence covered in jasmine. I remember thinking, this is the type of smell that can transport you back to a memory.
We stand side by side, not touching, not looking at each other. I want to say something profound, or at least honest, but Ethan interrupts my thought process. “I was an asshole today.” I blink, caught off guard. “What?”
He sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, almost as if they’re armor for any insults or accusations I’m about to make. “I shouldn’t have diagnosed whatever you’re dealing with or going through. Or questioned how bad you want it, for that matter.”
He looks at me, and there’s no rivalry in his face now. He continues, “You know that feeling when you want something so bad it almost scares the shit out of you …”
For a second, the only sound is the fizz of a beer cans opening and the chorus of bugs around us. He lets out a breath, shaky, then finally turns to face me. He’s so close, it’s like I can feel his heartbeat increasing.
I want to reach for him, but I wait to see what he’ll do.
He doesn’t move, but his eyes don’t leave mine. He leans in toward me as the party soundtrack all around us amplifies in volume, and I watch his mouth to make out what he says, “Next time …” We’re interrupted by yells at the door. It’s Hailey.
I stand there for a moment, not realizing one of his hands had reached for my hip as he spoke his last words. He pulls it back, straightens up, and gives me a look I still cannot decipher. Takes a sip of his drink again as Hailey bursts through the door, prompting Ethan to start back toward the house.
As he walks away, I call out in question, “Next time?” He turns but continues walking backward and casually calls back, “Next time.”
I don’t want to watch him leave, but I do. As soon as he’s gone, there is an ache in my chest as I replay the way he looked at me, the way his voice dropped on that last sentence.
I can’t let it go, can’t let him go. Not this time. I breeze past Hailey and turn my head to give her a scowl on my way, which she can immediately interpret. Throwing her hands up, she embarrassingly mouths “I’m sorry,” as I follow in Ethan’s direction.
Well that was hot. Thanks.
Can’t wait for part two!