Feelings

Athlete. Olympian. Swimmer. Gold medalist. Famous. Human. Those are all words describing the man standing in front of me, grinning proudly with his gold medal, gleaming brightly across his chest, the ribbon around his neck, while most of the cameras are away. He's wet, yes, but that doesn't stop him from hugging his friends, family, and teammates.

I'm amazed by his truly good-natured spirit, a breath of fresh air from the usual douchey, cocky and unknown athletes I interview on a daily basis. Douchefuck McFucktard, high school freshman, takes gold in Happy Fish swim competition! But this: Ryan Lochte, on team USA, taking the gold and beating Michael Phelps, who was once the fastest swimmer in the world. This could be my big break.

By now, Ryan was crowded by reporters from all different places. Reporters with their big, fancy film cameras and their big, fancy film crews. I was here alone with a pencil and notepad, the youngest of all, feeling outdated as ever. As I looked ahead, there were at least twenty other reporters who had already pushed their way in front of me, trying to get a quote from the American swimmer who beat Michael Phelps.

Giving up, I turned my back on a world famous athlete and walked away. Maybe I could interview someone who lost to Ryan. Maybe I could interview Michael Phelps. As I pondered all the swimmers I could have interviewed, a hand comes down on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. I cautiously turn around, because all surrounding reporters have fallen silent. Reporter lesson number one? Reporters are never silent. Once I'm facing forward, my eyes are immediately trained on a bare chest. Not because I find it impressive or drool-worthy (which they are, of course), but just because I'm short or he's tall or both and they're all my eyes can meet. Once I look up, I am lost in the dazzling eyes of Ryan Lochte. For a moment, I'm rendered speechless, because Ryan Lochte's hand is on my shoulder and we're staring deeply into each other's eyes like star-crossed lovers destined to die. Once I shake off my speechlessness and finally muster the strength to mumble coherent words, I want to hit myself with an Olympic torch.

"Can I help you?" Seriously? Who says that to a world-class athlete? Me, apparently. But Ryan Lochte appears unaffected by my moment of absolute, complete daftness and dismisses it as if those words, put together as a phrase, never existed, making me feel even worse about myself.

"Uh, I was thinking I could help you," is his response, accompanied by a subtle half smile that is endearingly crooked. Forget what I said about him not being arrogant.

"I don't know what you mean by that," I say haughtily, and some other reporters laugh. Mock me, even. Turning beet red, I'm thinking about drowning myself in the Olympic pool. Fuck this shit.

"An interview or quote or something?" Ryan says, then shrugs.

"Don't you have other reporters to tend to, Mr. Lochte?" I say curtly, and he grins, making me swoon at the sight of his pearly whites. Is there anything Ryan Lochte has that doesn't dazzle people to the point of stupidity?

"Sure, but I don't think I'll like them very much," he says lowly so they can't hear. But in all honesty, i think they'd be just fine without a Ryan Lochte interview because they are jus soaking up Ryan and my's playful banter. Reporters gotta love some fucking gossip.

"What makes you think you'll like me?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, for one, you don't look like a pretentious asshole with a nosy film crew," Okay. I love this guy.



"Mr. Lochte, how does it feel, beating Michael Phelps?" I ask. We're now sitting in some room in the stadium, away fom other reporters, locked up in solitude. Ryan is stretched up on a couch, now clad in a t-shirt an basketball shirts rather than just a speedo.

"First off, just call me Ryan," he says, giving me another billion dollar smile. "And I'm sure you have more interesting questions than that to ask," he says. It's true, I do, but his interview must remain professional. The last thing I want it to be is personal.

"Nope," I say robotically. Ryan grins once more. "Come on, I know you do!" he says, smiling playfully.

"Nope," I say once more, and he sighs as his shoulders sag. I know he's sick of people asking the same, generic questions.

"What can I say?" he says, and the smile on his face is no longer present, replaced by a long face. "It feels amazing, I mean, Michael and I are teammates and all, but it really makes me feel on top of the world." I bite my lip, Ryan looks so sad and disappointed.

"What's your favorite color?" I ask, and for a moment, I catch him surprised and flustered and off-guard.

"What?" he asks, flabbergasted.

"What's your favorite color?" I ask once more.

"I don't even know your name!" he responds with a chuckle, and I can't help but grin.

"Tamina Flince," I say.

"Tamina Flince, I like the sound of that," he says, the grin plastered back on Ryan's face.

"Ryan Lochte, I like the sound of my own name, too, but you still haven't answered my question," his face goes blank, and all I want to do is take him back home and keep him forever.

"I need to know your favorite colour," I say, dead serious, as if it's the most important thing in the world. After a while, he offers a flattering response.

"Green," he says, staring beyond me. "Like the colour of your eyes, but a little bit mossier, 'cause yours are hazel, right?" I feel myself burn bright red, and Ryan laughs, and it's this marvelous sound, which only makes me blush even harder.

"Hey," he says once his chuckle has receded into a mere smile that I find myself falling deeper in love with.

"What?" I ask, confused, because he actually sounds seriously.

"If you're American in the living room, what are you in the bathroom?" He's grinning from ear to ear, and my thoughts are all jumbled like this: akljsdhc;lkjWR;LFJC;lwkje ;lfkjW ;LKRJGLKAHSCKJBLAKEJHRFL;kwjl;ekjt;flajksd. Yeah, pretty much a keyboard slam. But I digress.

"Uh, what?" I reply with an intelligent answer.

"European!" He shouts, and just starts cracking up while I'm sitting right next to him, dazed, confused, and looking like an idiot.

"What?" I ask slowly. He stops laughing and just looks at me weirdly, and I turn away, embarrassed.

"You seriously didn't get the punch line?" God dammit.

"It sounds like, 'you're a-peein'?'"

"Oh!" I exclaim loudly, bursting into fits of horribly obnoxious giggles. I even snort two or three times, then cover my face. But Ryan laughs along with me, and I smile because I'm starting to feel less awkward and shy and embarrassed around him.

"I like your laugh," he says while smiling softly, making me blush and look down like a lovesick fool. And that's when I feel it: the low, bubbling flurry of birds and butterflies taking off, deep in the pit of my stomach. The last time I felt those feelings, I was stupid and naïve. I was young and dumb and in love. And when everything ended, I regretted all those feelings of stupid giddiness and all those butterflies and birds that flew around. So now, I try to push them down. But those stupid birds and butterflies seem to have gotten stronger.

"Stop that!" I say to Ryan, even though I know it's not his fault that he's extremely attractive and charming. And funny. And kind. And sweet. And every other quality that's in the perfect guy.

"Stop what?" He says with a goofy face, and I can't stop laughing. I can't stop the feelings that are threatening to come up and out. But then I remember that if I let those feelings out and let the walls crash down, my heart will be broken all over again, because that's just how it works. That's just how it works with me. So I go quiet, and so does Ryan.

"Please stop," I say once more, whispering, and Ryan looks at me with his eyes, so blue and sad and confused that I just let everything spill out. I let all my feelings, all my emotions, my scars and my stories spill out to an Olympian who's almost a complete stranger. I tell him about past heartbreaks. I tell him about my first love. I tell him about everyone who's left me, about disappointments that just seem to pop up all over in my life and how I honestly have no family. I spill the beans, I let the cat out of the bag, whatever. But I let everything out, and by the time I'm done, I'm near tears, but I'm so, so god damn relieved because no one has ever listened as attentively and intently as Ryan has. And it makes me want to cry even more, but I can't let tears spill out after my story already has. Ryan's just silent, and I'm worried I've scared him with my craziness that has been dying to be released for the last fifteen years of my life, all the stories and frustrations that started at the tender age of ten.

"Wow," is all he says, and I can't tell whether it's a good wow or a bad wow. So I panic, and I cry. And I hate myself more than I already do.

Ryan's body immediately moves all the way across the couch and his arms wrap tightly around me, and there I am, just sobbing into his chest because yet again, my face can't quite reach his broad shoulders.

"Hey, hey, it's all right," he says quietly, his forehead leaning on the top of my head, his paw-like hands rubbing my small back.

"I've never let out my feelings like that before," I mumble quietly once I've calmed myself down. Much less to a near stranger, I say in my head, embarrassed that Ryan Lochte, internationally known Olympian, had to see my at my worst. Ryan pries my left hand away from the pen that's been locked tightly in my grip for the past hour and takes the tear-stained notebook lying on my lap and tears out a page, scribbling ten, black numbers across the lines.

"Call me anytime you need to let anything out," he says seriously, staring deeply into my eyes. It's like he sees right into me. "Hell, call me anytime. I don't care if it's two in the morning or eleven at night, call me, I'll be there."

Right when I'm just about to smash my lips onto his for being such a hot sweetheart, his phone rings, ruining the fucking moment. He looks at me apologetically, and maybe it's just my imagination, his eyes seem to flash down to my lips. But who knows, really?

"Hello?" he says, and his voice is all deep and husky and throaty. In other words, fucking sexy. He clears his throat and the tips of his ears turn all pink, the most endearing thing I've seen in a while. "Hello?" he says once more, his voice back to normal.

"Yeah," he replies. "Seriously? Come on, it's only been an hour-- fine," is his final reply, and he sighs defeatedly as he hangs up.

"I have to go," he says, standing up, looking sad and lonely and lost. I want to stay with him forever. I stand up with him and really notice the height difference.

"It's fine," I say, sniffing and wiping at my eyes for any stray tears.

"But hey," he says, and I have to look up at him. "I'm serious. Call me anytime and I promise I'll pick up." That makes me smile, and I'm so lost in thought that I'm so caught off-guard when Ryan leans down and presses and chaste kiss on my lips. His eyes widen, and his mouth forms a small 'o' shape.

"I-I'm sorry, that was out of line, a-and uh, it won't happen again. S-sorry," he stutters, and he's just looking too cute for words that I reach my hands behind his neck and pull him down for another kiss, this time longer and sweeter. After a series of Fourth-of-July-worthy fireworks that went on for about ten days, we break away, foreheads touching, when I push him towards the door.

"Go," I say, smiling, thinking about how ugly I must look with red eyes, crazy-looking hair, and a tear-stained face. Ryan grins right back and turns towards the door. He starts to turn the handle when he stops and turns back around.

"Now you have to promise that you'll call me," he says cockily with a sly smirk. I roll my eyes.

"All right, superstar, I promise." He never took his eyes off me as he left, and I never felt so happy that those feelings came out.