Potential

Which apparently includes checking out Ethan's ass as he walks away.

Just as I was making peace with my new-found ogling tendency around Ethan I saw him greet a young woman dressed-out for the track in UW colors. I heard Ethan say, "Hey baby doll!" as he pulled her into a big bear hug. He lifted her off her feet easily. She planted a kiss on his cheek and I watched covertly as they conversed in whispers, their heads bent intimately together.

There's one checkmark in the straight column. But the bedroom eyes he flashed me at the gas station definitely puts a checkmark in the gay column. The verdict is still out…

~*~*~*~*~

I checked my bag to make sure I had everything I needed: notepad, pen, mini-recorder, contacts case, glasses, music player and ear buds, loose change, gum. That looks about right. Sheesh, I guess Anya has a point when she calls this thing my man-purse.

On my way over to the sidelines, I stopped by a small "press" table and snagged a program that listed the events by time and the participants by name and tag number. I ran my finger down the page looking for 144. That was the number that had been pinned to the chest and back of the blonde athlete I had seen Ethan greet with such enthusiasm. Rachel Harris. Now I had a name to put with the face of my competition.

Whoa, what? I shook off the stirrings of jealousy with chagrin. Had I really flipped a complete 180 in my view of Ethan Doyle in less than four hours? The idea left me feeling uncertain and off-kilter. And Anya thought this would be good for me?

While I was waiting I scratched out some notes on the pre-meet atmosphere and the weather, stubbing out a couple of paragraphs for my article. Ethan's first event was the 100 meter sprint. Athletes began to appear from the rec building and clumped in groups of like colors as they warmed and stretched their muscles. They looked like herds of antelope distinguished by their markings.

I saw Ethan in the crowd and when I caught his eye from my spot in the stands I nodded and flicked him a thumbs-up. His answering grin resurrected my own. A sense of anticipation built inside my chest as I saw him line up along the painted lines with several other runners. Each racer crouched, waiting for the gun. I focused on Ethan's form while keeping some awareness on the remaining competitors with my peripheral vision.

The gun sounded. Ethan was not first off the mark and I guessed that would cost him. The sprint was, by nature, over quickly. A mere 10.33 seconds passed before the first runner breached the finish line.

Emmet was neither the first nor the last to cross. He finished in 3^rd place with a respectable 10.47 seconds and I watched as he took time to slap backs or shake hands with each man like a brother or a friend. I took time to compare Ethan to the others. While all of them were muscular, Ethan was broader by far than most of the others. His size was impressive even from afar.

The rest of the day was a mix of adrenalin highs and long waits.

When Ethan came off the mark for the long jump, his feet pounded a strong measured beat as he approached the sand pit. I watched in fascination as he propelled himself into the air at the last possible moment, arms wind-milling for momentum, legs still cycling. Frankly I was amazed by the sight of his large frame hurtling through space in a way that appeared to be tightly controlled chaos. I couldn't imagine throwing my own body that far and I knew my eyes were wide with disbelief.

There was a look of dissatisfaction evident on Ethan's face, though, as he noted the distance he'd achieved and I wondered why.

I continued to follow Ethan with my eyes until I noticed a familiar form walk up to him. It was Ben, another reporter from The Daily. He was one of the regular sports news guys, attending every home event and riding with the team to meets away from home. He would cover the whole track team while my assignment was more of a personal interest piece. I watched as Ben and Ethan chatted with ease, gesturing at the marks in the sand. Ben patted Ethan on the back before he turned away.

My gaze lingered on Ethan as he downed most of a bottle of water and splashed the rest on his face and hair. He scrubbed his hands across his face and the back of his neck. It was such a little thing, so normal, and yet I felt a tiny ball of warmth bubbling up in my chest. Imagining what disappointment he might be feeling made me cringe.

On impulse I jumped down from the bleachers and headed over towards Ethan on the pretext of snagging my own water bottle. "Hey man."

"Hey." He seemed tense, rolling his neck and shoulders. The little bubble in my chest grew at seeing him so subdued and I needed to do something to bring back that grin of excitement I'd seen in the truck when we'd first arrived.

"So… shot put next, right?" He only nodded. "I, uh, hear you're pretty good at that," I said, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"I'm alright, I guess," he shrugged not really meeting my eye. Fuck it. Time to pull out the big guns.

"Yo, Ethan," I said pointedly. I waited until he looked up before I continued, allowing a slow, flirty smile to form on my lips. I looked him straight in the eye. "Show me what you've got." He gaped at me and I let my words hang heavy in the air between us for a moment before I sauntered back to my seat. When I turned back to look in his direction he was still staring my way and I could have sworn I saw his eyes snap up to mine. Busted! Checking out my ass puts another mark in the gay column…

Even from my seat in the stands I could see a hint of grin on Ethan's face as I watched him warming up for the shot put event. He was the last man up. When it was his turn in the white circle I scribbled my impressions on my notepad. I was writing without looking at the paper so that I didn't have to take my eyes off Ethan; I didn't want to miss a thing. I tried to imagine the feel of the smooth talc on his neck where the sixteen pound metal ball was nestled as he took his stance. Was the ball cold to the touch or had it heated in the sun? Ethan stepped off the mark and his gyroscopic spin gained speed and momentum. He whipped the shot down the field.

It streaked through the air for a breath, then hit the grass and rolled to a stop. The ref called the score – 68 feet 9 inches – and the crowd that had so far responded to each event with quiet cheers and golf-claps burst into sound. Ethan's distance had topped all the others by more than 4 feet.

After accepting a round of congratulations and back-slapping from his teammates and the other decathlon athletes, Ethan jogged over to where I was sitting. He was carrying two wrapped sandwiches and two bottles of water. He tossed me one of each with a giddy grin and I smirked back, holding out my fist. He bumped it with his own and we ate side-by-side in a silence that was punctuated by sidewise glances and muffled chuckles.

The rest of the afternoon held two more events for Ethan – the high jump and the 400 meter dash. Despite his imposing size, Ethan loped with a natural grace towards the high jump bar suspended over the thick mat. It was bewildering to me how that confident stride morphed into leap, twist, arch. The flex and spring of his spine seemed a trick of the light, a bit of magic, as his feet cleared the bar.

The 400 meter race was much like the 100 in form but required more stamina and a sustained speed, a controlled blaze rather than the incendiary flare of a struck match. I moved closer to the track for a better view. It was truly a marvel to watch him move, stride for stride, with much leaner guys. He placed well and seemed satisfied, relaxed. Through the whole experience I was gaining an appreciation for the dedication, skill and grace of these sportsmen and women but more than that I was in awe of the mechanics of the human body in a way that was entirely new to me.

~*~*~*~*~

Ethan walked off the field towards me, guzzling water from a bottle. The light sheen of sweat that covered him seemed to highlight the lines and curves of his muscled body. He emptied the bottle, crushed it, and lobbed it underhand to the nearby trash.

I cuffed his shoulder lightly. "Haven't you ever heard of recycling?"

He grinned at me and whipped off his shirt, using it to wipe the sweat off his face and chest. I tried not to stare. The smell of his fresh sweat made me think of sex. Not helping.

"I gotta hit the showers."

"Yeah you do, you stink," I lied.

He just laughed and his grin got bigger. "You're coming out to eat with me and the team tonight. I'll meet you at the Chevy in twenty." At that he walked away, pausing once to grab his plastic bottle from the trash and wink at me, and then continued to the locker rooms. I think I heard him whistling.

At dinner I sat with Ben. The restaurant had pushed tables together to make one long enough for the whole team. We were a few chairs down the table from Ethan and I, ever the observer, watched him interact with his team. He was genuinely likable. He bantered easily and had a good word for everyone. He delivered advice with respect and received it with aplomb. But when one of the smaller-framed runners started teasing Ethan about his bulky size I thought I saw his cheeks get pink as he shrugged it off with a muttered, "Whatever." It was a difficult concept for me to reconcile. Ethan was a paragon of confidence on the track, master of his skeleton, muscles, nerves, reflexes. He drew the eye like a statue of Adonis. And yet, off the field, when someone remarked on his physique he was… shy?

Rachel sat next to Ethan and it seemed that every time I looked up she was scooting her chair a little closer to his. More than once I caught sight of him turned towards her whispering, his arm on the back of her chair, her hand in the curls at the nape of his neck. When she noticed me watching, her eyes twinkled like she knew a secret. I wanted desperately to know what they were whispering about but I thought it might make me sick if I had to listen to them coo at each other.

After dinner, Ethan and I took his Chevy to the motel where the team had accommodations for the night. We checked in at the front desk at the same time. I was sharing a double with the other reporter Ben, and Ethan was bunking with a teammate. We walked together and got to my room first. Ben hadn't yet arrived. Ethan followed me in and we traded phones so we could exchange cell numbers. Afterwards, I began unpacking.

He was standing there, leaning against the wall in that rakish, confident way again just watching me as I unpacked. I felt hyper-aware of his presence suddenly and it unnerved me. Finally I turned around and threw him a questioning glance, "What?"

"Just watching you," he laughed. "You got to watch me all day, right? Turnabout is fair play and all that."

"I watched you because that's my job. Whatever, you can look all you want but I'm just unpacking." I was babbling and I knew it but was powerless to stop myself. "It's not like you're going to see something exciting. I'm not going to hurl heavy metal objects or leap over high jump bars. The longest jump you'll ever see me make is the one that gets me into this bed." Damn, that did not come out right! I fumbled the bag of toiletries I was holding.

My cheeks were burning in embarrassment. So I did what any nervous person might do in this situation. I deflected.

"So… Rachel Harris, huh?" I tried to waggle my eyebrows at Ethan in implication.

His eyes widened slightly and he raised his own eyebrows at me. "What about her?"

I cleared my throat. Ethan was still leaning against the wall next to the bathroom door. I would have to walk past him to take out my contacts. I stalled, staying safely on the other side of the room. "She's, you know… hot."

"You think so?" He stared at me with an incredulous look on his face that pissed me off.

"Well, yeah," I huffed. Did he think because I was gay that I couldn't determine whether or not a girl would be considered hot by straight guy standards? A lick of anger tingled up the back of my neck and got my feet moving again. I walked past Ethan and into the bathroom, leaving the door ajar. "Blonde, long legs, big rack, pretty face… dream babe, right? Track and Field Barbie."

He turned to follow me, reaching up to grab the top of the door frame he filled. His t-shirt was stretched taut across his broad chest and rode up a bit at his belly. I could see a swatch of downy black hair there that hinted, invited the eye and mind to wander.

"Rachel's the best, don't get me wrong," he started. "I just didn't think she was your type, that you'd be interested in her." He was watching my face closely. I tried not to let it give too much away.

"I'm not interested in her, you ass. I was asking about her because I thought you were into her. Mystery love interest," I reminded, pointing at him. "Reporter," I pointed at myself. The room felt too small but he stepped in anyway.

"No, I'm not into her." He stepped closer. I swallowed tightly.

"Reporter," he pointed at me, so close now that his index finger hovered over my chest. Anticipation curled in my belly. "Gay," he continued to point. It wasn't a question but I looked him in the eye and nodded.

He tapped his own chest lightly. "Gay," he repeated. He was so close I could feel his breath on my face as he spoke.

Then his signature grin came out in full force and I was blinded like there were fucking stars in my eyes or some shit. "Guess you still have a mystery to solve." He walked out calling Later as the door to my room clicked shut.

~*~*~*~*~

The next day everything seemed to be on fast-forward. Ethan called my cell and we checked out of our rooms, rushing to meet up for breakfast with the team again. This time we were at a diner and shared a booth with Rachel. Ethan sat next to me and Rachel sat across from us both, batting Ethan's hand away playfully when he tried to steal food off her plate. She was surprisingly cool and had good taste in film. When Ethan told me that Rachel had dressed as Hedwig from Hedwig and the Angry Inch last Halloween, I gaped in awe. The two of them laughed happily when I offered her my fist to bump with a geeky but reverent, "Word!" Yeah, I'm old school like that.

Back at the field, Ethan was keyed up and buzzing with excitement. "Pole vaulting today," he sing-songed and the skin around his eyes crinkled, his grin was so big. Ethan's first event was the 110 meter hurdles and then discus after that. His enthusiasm had infected me and by the time Ethan lined up behind the chalk for the pole vault I felt the double thrill of excitement and dread.

I stood, gripping the metal rail in front of me as Ethan sprinted down the runway, the pole raised like a lance before him. He gathered speed and I felt my heart accelerate with him. While the arc and twist of the high jump had happened so fast it seemed like a trick of the light, this vault flickered before my eyes like a silent slide show of still frames.

Ethan lowering the pole to plant the tip in the box.

Ethan swinging up, feet over head, as the pole bent nearly in half.

Ethan harnessing the recoil potential in the pole, his body an arrow shooting up, up.

Ethan rolling, curling, arching - like a high dive in reverse.

There was a pounding in my ears and it sounded like this: Ethan. Ethan. Ethan.

~*~*~*~*

I spent the next two hours crashing from the adrenalin high of witnessing Ethan's vault. I honestly could never remember ever getting this caught up in actions and events so outside my control. It was boggling. Rachel had finished her events for the weekend and led me under the stands for a covert cigarette. I was too amped to eat any lunch and though I didn't smoke very often, the ritual of it calmed me somewhat.

She and I returned in time to see Ethan throw the javelin. When he finished, I grabbed two bottles of water and walked onto the field where he was stretching. I wanted an excuse to talk to him, to be near enough to him to remind myself that he was still real, but I didn't want him to see how affected I had been by the pole vaulting. So I asked him about the javelin instead. He told me that he only came in sixth out of ten, but he was pleased to have beaten his own previous record by several feet. I shook his hand in congratulations and I didn't want to let go.

Eventually I walked back to the stands so Ethan could prepare for his last event. Sitting there staring down at my notepad, I didn't know how I was going to manage to write this article. I had pages of notes on Ethan's background, his stats, and his philosophies on decathlon and on life. I had pages more on his strength, agility, speed, on his god damn grace on the field. There was more than enough material; that was not the issue. The problem was this: I was feeling… something… for Ethan. But was that just the nature of the assignment? After shadowing any half-decent person for two days – watching their every move, immersed in their element – wouldn't I naturally become attached to my subject? Was it natural for me to dread the end of our time together? And how was I going to sort out a theme for my article when I couldn't even sort out my own feelings?

I was too caught up. I needed to pull back and gain some perspective and some objectivity. I needed distance.

I had been so lost in my thoughts that I looked up in surprise when I noticed Ethan standing in front of me. I had missed his 1500 meter race completely and while I noticed the crease of disappointment furrowing Ethan's brow, I was still too preoccupied to adjust the way I was behaving towards him. I felt a pang of guilt for being such a jerk, though truly, wasn't it better this way? Wouldn't it be better to put some space between us? Wasn't I already too attached to his feelings, to his reactions to me, to him?

I heard Ethan ask me to meet him at the truck in half an hour for dinner and I must have answered him though I don't remember what I said. There was this fog in my head that was noisy with my thoughts and I felt desperate to clear it. I gathered my things numbly and dropped them off at the Chevy. Standing outside its closed door I wondered what to do with myself while I waited. I needed to find some silence, some room to breathe. I needed to walk.

My hands stuffed in my jean pockets and my eyes on the ground, I stalked off to the far end of the parking lot. It was nearly empty here and I hoped the quiet of my surroundings might help to quiet my mind.

I was walking, pacing really, trying to get my head screwed back on right. Everything about Ethan was so… Well I just didn't know how to believe in it because it was so different from what I was expecting. My head felt inside out and upside down. Two guys walked by me then. They looked like freshmen, youthful and callow.

"Did you see that really huge guy from UW? Doyle? I don't know how a guy that big can get that much air. I thought the fucking pole was gonna break in half." His tone was admiring. I smiled because that was something I had wondered too.

"Dude, you like that queer?" I felt my body tense involuntarily.

"What? I thought he did pretty good out there?"

"No man, I mean he's queer. A faggot. He takes it up the ass." Crude gestures. Laughter.

It was stupid. It was the same juvenile bullshit I'd heard and ignored a hundred times. It's the kind of posturing tough-talk that you hear in the hallways at school, in the movies, on the street and I'd learned to shrug it off. The times when comments like that had been more than talk and directed at me had taught me to be fast, to duck, and to block blows to my face and groin because those were the most humiliating. And because no matter how fast I was he always found a way to corner me and I couldn't block every punch. Bobby Patterson taught me that.