So I feed him scrambled eggs while he sits at the table. I try not to stare at the gap in the towel that rides up his right thigh and instead focus my attention on his apartment.
It’s small in and of itself, but it’s cramped with so much clutter that it feels like you’re in a closet. Not the type of small clutter like unwashed cups left on tables, but rather his mudroom has at least four pairs of ski boots shoved under a bench along with a pair of snowshoes in the corner and puffy ski pants and coats hanging on hooks on the wall. In his living room, two corners have various skis and poles leaning in causal stacks. A bookcase holds trophies and glass-encased medals I briefly noticed last night as he was making up the couch. So many, in fact, they appear just haphazardly jammed on the shelves, not to display but merely to just put them somewhere out of the way.
I was so exhausted last night I didn’t take a very close look, but while Rand was getting my luggage out of my car, I went to the bathroom and my attention was caught by a framed photo. It was pushed into the back corner of the second shelf from the top. It caught my attention because of one of the most recognizable logos in the world displaying prominently in the background.
Five circles.
Three on top. Two on the bottom. All interlinked.
Each a different color. Blue, black, red, yellow, and green.
I halted as I recognized the Olympic rings, but more importantly, I recognized Rand standing on a tiered podium, right in the middle and on the highest dais. Both arms were raised high in the air in victory, with one hand clutching a bouquet of flowers and the other raising his index finger pointed upward to the sky.
Around his neck, a large, round gold medal hung on a thick white ribbon.
I was stunned.
Rand was an Olympic medalist?
My eyes roamed around his small living room again, taking in the ski equipment. Back to the photo where he was wearing a heavy, puffed overcoat on the stand done in pristine white with the American flag patched over his left breast.
Holy fuck. Rand won an Olympic gold medal.
I didn’t say anything when he came back in as he dropped my luggage next to the couch and said he had to jump in the shower and head to work. So I made eggs, my gaze flicking periodically to the shelves of trophies and medals, wondering what else was in there.
Now I look over Rand’s shoulder as he hunches over his plate, shoveling the food in, which makes me suspect he might be late for work. My eyes come to rest on the photo I studied earlier.
“You won an Olympic gold medal?” I blurt out, dying to know more about him. I mean… he’s always just been Rand. A gorgeous, sexy man who’s tremendously talented with his cock, mouth, and fingers, but past that, I know nothing about him.
His eyes rise up to meet mine as he finishes chewing the eggs in his mouth. After he swallows, he swipes his lips with the paper towel I laid next to his plate and gives me a wolfish smile. “That was five years ago in Vancouver. Won the gold in the Super Combined as well as two silvers in the Super G and Downhill.”
My mouth hangs slightly open in astonishment. “Three medals?”
He nods, gives me a wink, and takes another bite of his eggs, seemingly not interested in touting his accomplishments to me. But I’m amazed I didn’t know this about him. “Did you compete in last year’s Olympics?”
I can’t say he gives me a look of sadness. It’s not even bitterness. Maybe just a fondness for what will never be again, but he lays his fork on his plate, wipes his mouth again, and says, “I was going to. Made the U.S. Ski Team, but about a year prior to the start of the Games, I took a bad fall at an event in San Sicario. Injured my right knee pretty badly. Tore three of the four major ligaments in my knee.”
“They couldn’t repair it before the Olympics started?” I ask, feeling terrible he lost such an amazing opportunity.
Rand shakes his head and stands from the table. I get a flash of the golden skin covered in coarse hair on his thigh with rippling muscle, and for the first time, I notice scars on his right knee.
“Wasn’t the first time I injured that knee. I competed in the 2006 Games when I was nineteen. Took a bad spill on my first run on the Super G. Knocked me out completely. So I had surgery to repair the damage and built myself up for the 2010 Games. Luckily, my knee held strong and I picked up a few medals along the way.”
I stand up from the table as well, taking my plate and following Rand to the kitchen sink. Before he can start to rinse his own, I take it from his hands and say, “I’ll clean up. You go get ready for work.”
Our fingers touch as he gives up the plate and I swear I can feel the touch down to my toes. So innocent yet so powerful. When Rand turns toward his bedroom, I can’t help but ask, “You don’t seem all that bitter about losing out on those opportunities.”