Spencer only made it about twenty yards before turning around.
“You don’t have to—”
“Shut up.” He was sticking to Flynn because he wasn’t heartless, but he was still pissed. The Olympics were the pinnacle of his career. Even before he’d known they would happen, he’d been working toward them. There were hundreds of climbers who’d aspired to be here, thousands who could only dream of it. It was a fucking privilege, and Flynn was a fucking ingrate.
The other thing Flynn had said—about liking him—niggled weakly in the background of his anger. There’d been a minute there where he’d thought Flynn meant something more than a generic friendliness, something Spencer wanted more than he cared to admit. He was annoyed with himself for finding Flynn appealing. That careless confidence shouldn’t be appealing. Just because life was easy for Flynn—his sins always forgiven—didn’t mean Spencer had to go along with it.
Flynn had a chance to win, and since his sponsors had stuck with him through his ban, he owed them his best possible performance. More than that, he owed it to everyone who could’ve been in his place.
“Why even come then?” he challenged. He’d intended to walk Flynn back to his residence in silence as a purely decent thing to do, but he was too pissed to stay quiet. “If it means so little to you, you don’t have to be here.”
“You obviously don’t understand.”
“Because I worked hard to get here. I didn’t just fall into it.”
“If I struggled more, would you be less mad at me?” Flynn wasn’t hobbling, just walking very slowly and without his usual loping grace, a less casually confident version of himself than Spencer was accustomed to.
“You’re mocking me.”
“I’m not.” Flynn stopped. He looked tired, and Spencer had a momentary burst of regret for getting him up early, running him hard, and then yelling at him.
“Come on.” He put an arm around Flynn’s waist and led him over to a bench. “Rest it for a minute.”
Flynn slumped limply onto the bench. He scowled down at his ankle which was already starting to swell. As little as he claimed to care about the Olympics, he was in pain.
“I’m sorry about your ankle. I feel like it’s my fault.”
“I’m the one who fucked it up in the first place.” The original injury had happened on a boulder problem called The Ankle Eater. It was funny, but it wasn’t. “It’ll be okay. I reaggravate it all the time. Apparently, I should’ve given it time to heal back when I first injured it or some shit.”
“Doctors.” In most ways, Spencer was pretty good about following orders, but when it came to resting his injuries, he was as guilty as everyone else of ignoring them. If climbers rested every injury they got, they’d never climb anything.
They sat there for a bit, watching the bustle of people passing by, programs in hand. Something was going on at the aquatic center this morning, based on the direction the crowds were heading. The sun was all the way up now, and the day was getting warmer.
“I’m sorry if it seemed like I was mocking you,” Flynn said. “I really admire you. I’m just… not you.”
“Admittedly, I’m especially anal. But there are a limited number of spots for the Olympics, and you’re taking one up. If you don’t care about being here, you shouldn’t be.”
“I do care about being here. It’s special, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I get that.”
“Then why the attitude?”
“All the other stuff gets me down sometimes. Sponsors dictating where I should go and what I should climb, media coverage every time I fall on my ass or pick my nose. Not being able to smoke a joint with my bros now and then. Pot’s fucking legal in California, just not for me.”
“You need to get stoned that bad? Have a drink. They can’t ding you for that.”
Flynn just shook his head. “You don’t get it.”
“All right, well, we’re not ever going to see eye to eye on this, but let’s see if we can make it the rest of the way back. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.” And he still had a few miles to run once he got Flynn situated somewhere. He stood up and offered a hand to Flynn who didn’t take it. Spencer could fault him for laxness but not for a lack of courage. If you didn’t know how fast he normally walked, you’d never realize anything was wrong.
“So if we can’t see eye to eye on this, we can’t be friends?” Flynn asked.
“I didn’t say that. Anyway, I don’t want your Olympics to be over.”
“They’re not. I’ll compete. You know I’ll throw my whole self at it once I’m up there.”
Spencer did know that. Flynn was a monster on the wall, never giving up even when it might be strategically advisable to. Sometimes you had to admit a climb was beyond your ability and save your strength for the next thing, but Flynn climbed for the challenge of it, needing to solve the problem because he wanted to figure out how to solve it, not for the points involved.
They were going to find out which would win—talent and enthusiasm, or training and strategy. Probably the former. Probably Flynn.
“I meant it,” Flynn said. “I’ll train with you. I sucked at this running thing, but whatever you say for the rest of the week, I’ll do. I’ll show you I can be serious.” Flynn stopped his slow, steady stride and turned to him. “I meant that part about liking you, too.”
Spencer had to raise his chin to meet Flynn’s eyes. The position felt a lot like he was asking to be kissed, and the way Flynn was looking at him felt like Flynn wanted to do it. Spencer licked his lips, eyes going to Flynn’s lips which were thin and pink and curved slightly upward as though he might break into laughter at any moment. Was that what would happen if Spencer stretched up to bring their mouths together? Would Flynn throw his head back and laugh—another prank, another thing he didn’t take seriously?
“I like you too,” he said, trying not to mean anything more than friendship by it.
“So you’ll train me? I’m in your hands.” Flynn spread his arms wide, making his traps flare behind the neck of his t-shirt. Spencer could imagine throwing himself against Flynn’s chest and how Flynn would wrap those strong arms around him.
He looked away, into the middle distance past Flynn’s shoulder. “It’s probably too late to make any kind of difference.”
“Giving up on me already, coach?”
“I told you Pierre would help when he gets here.”
“I want you though. I’ve always wanted you, Spencer.”
What the hell did that mean? Not what it sounded like, obviously.
“I can help,” he said gruffly. He started toward the residences again, careful to keep his steps slow. He shouldn’t let Flynn charm him out of his anger, but that was Flynn. He could charm a goalie out of his mask.
By the time he dropped Flynn off at his residence, finished his miles, showered, changed, and ate breakfast, half the morning was gone, but Roddy was still in bed when he got back to the room again.
“Dude.” Roddy rolled over with a forearm to his face when Spencer flipped the light on.