Just before the hallway that led to the restrooms ran a small climbing wall. For warming up on, not tiring yourself out on. Flynn never warmed up for the speed round—he considered the speed round itself a warm-up—but there were several men traversing the wall now, moving left to right in an orderly fashion, keeping their feet close to the ground and staying out of each other’s way to avoid any crash-and-burn collisions. This definitely wasn’t the time for a dramatic fall.
Spencer was on a yoga mat, standing bent in half with his head against his kneecaps and his forearms wrapped around his calves, leaving his ass perfectly positioned for whatever lewdness Flynn wanted to imagine. He wandered over that way, steadfastly keeping his hands to himself even when he got close enough to slide one right up Spencer’s taut thigh into the cleft of his ass. Instead, he crouched down to put his face in line with the top of Spencer’s dark head.
“Did you think of me?”
Spencer jerked his head up so fast he nearly caused a collision. Flynn rocked back on his heels with a laugh, ending up cross-legged and about even with Spencer’s bright red face. Spencer’s face was probably red from being upside down, but Flynn liked to think that was how he would look after certain other activities too. Flushed and tousled and maybe a little surprised.
Spencer shifted into a sideways lunge. He rubbed his inner thigh as if testing the tendons in his groin, but Flynn was pretty sure it was a deliberate taunt. “Did you think of me?” he countered.
“Twice.”
“Lots of energy to burn, huh?”
“I wish we could burn some right now.” Of all the things he hated about competing, he hated this the most—the endless waiting, the cattle-call feeling of being trapped with too many other restless people who were just as trapped as he was. Fresh air, warm rock, Spencer. That was what he wanted. Not plastic and buzzers and the dank smell of anticipation.
“Almost time,” Spencer said, as if he knew Flynn was about to burst through the roof. “And yes, I thought of you.” He lunged to the other side and did that thing with his hand again. It made Flynn want to nibble along every muscle in Spencer’s thighs until he reached the spot where they met.
“Maybe tonight?”
Spencer hesitated.
“There’s no competition tomorrow,” he tried, using his most cajoling tone.
“I might not be in the mood though.”
Damn it. He really wanted Spencer to be in the mood—wanted him to climb well today and for the two of them to share a really good time in his otherwise-empty room tonight.
“Try for me,” he pleaded. “Your first burn, just go for it.” In the preliminary round, each competitor got two runs on the speed wall—one up the left side, one up the right—with only your best time counting. Flynn’s strategy was to go hog-wild on the first run. If it went badly, there was always another, so why not throw everything you had at the first?
“Pierre—”
“Fuck Pierre.”
“I know.”
“You do?” He tilted his head at Spencer who plonked down on the mat in front of him.
“He’s the one who got me here though. Who’s to say someone else could’ve done it better? I’m at the Olympics. No one would’ve expected me to be here.”
“Not true. You’ve been a world class climber since you were fourteen. There’s never been a year since I met you that your name wouldn’t have been on a shortlist to be here. Why do you sell yourself so short?”
“I know my limitations, that’s all.”
“Climb without your limitations today. Please? One burn. For me.” He picked up Spencer’s hand. It felt perfect in his. Dry, callused, rough. Potential vibrated through it.
Spencer’s fingers curled tight around his. “For you. And for me too. It’s worth a try.”
A bell rang, giving them their warning call, and the two of them separated to find their gear. All around Flynn, guys were pulling on their harnesses and lacing up their shoes, giving the soles a quick brush to freshen up the rubber. Another bell meant it was time to troop out on the stage. They were introduced one at a time, each given a chance to wave for the crowd. Strong arc lights illuminated the speed wall in a bright blaze, as if the sun weren’t hot enough, but the lights made the red holds stand out starkly against the white wooden structure and blurred the crowd beyond them into a homogenous mass of color and sound.
They formed a line in the reverse order of their qualifying positions, which meant Janco was up first along with a Russian Flynn didn’t know very well. The two clipped into the cables and took their spots with two hands and one foot on the wall, the other foot pressed firmly into the mat that would record a false start if they jumped before the signal. A series of tones rising in pitch sounded, and they were off—the first contestants in the first event of the first-ever Olympic climbing contest.
The line moved steadily forward, with each climber returning to the end after their first run. Spencer was a few climbers ahead because he’d qualified later. When his turn came, he took his position at the bottom of the wall, poised for his first move with his eyes focused overhead. Flynn held his breath, almost unable to watch as Spencer swung up the wall with the exact confidence he wanted to see, not wasting any time on proper foot placement, just gunning for the next hold as if he could fly.
He was making excellent time, even better than Flynn had hoped for, and then a few feet from the top, he jittered as if something had distracted him and his right foot slipped. For a heart-stopping nano-second, Flynn thought he might actually fall, but he caught himself one-handed, got his feet under him, and started climbing again. The slip had cost him precious seconds, though. In a single bobble, his time had gone from much better than usual to much worse than usual.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Flynn cut his eyes away from Spencer being lowered to find Pierre glowering at him. Pierre wasn’t going to forgive him for this, but the important question was: would Spencer? He grabbed for Spencer as he walked dispiritedly by to take his place at the back of the line. Spencer tried to jerk free, but Flynn refused to let him go.
“You blinked.”
“What?”
“I saw you second guess yourself there at the top. Try again. Without the second guessing this time. You had that.”
“One run your way. That was the deal.”
“What have you got to lose, Spencer?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the Olympics?” This time when Spencer tried to get free, Flynn let him go. It was his turn to climb, as if he gave a fuck. He let himself be clipped into the cable, giving Dai who was getting clipped in next to him a half-hearted smile.
“Climb fast,” Dai urged. Dai didn’t speak as much English as Shino or Mika, but he knew that much.
“Ganbatte,” Flynn said in return, which meant something like “do your best” and was how the Japanese wished each other luck. When you did your best, your luck tended to be good.
They got into their starting positions, and when the signal came, they both launched upward. Flynn climbed the way he’d told Spencer to—he’d be a hypocrite if he didn’t—but his heart wasn’t fully in it. It didn’t matter. His time was good enough.