The Mountain
(NOAH)
The door to the narrow bunk room hissed shut behind me, and the world shrank to the thrumming of the rig in my bones and the frantic beating of my own heart.
Okay, Evans. You’re here. You’re actually here.
With a loud sigh, I dropped my duffel bag onto the empty, stripped mattress. My hands were trembling. I balled them into fists, pressing them against my thighs. Stop it. This was what I wanted. This was the farthest place from everything I knew. No more parallel bars, no more chalk dust, no more sympathetic looks from teammates who knew about Liam and our coach. Just steel, salt, and work.
But my God, that man. Richardson.
My mind replayed the moment I’d stepped off the helicopter. The sheer, immovable mass of him. He wasn't just tall; he was a geological feature. A cliff face in coveralls. He was the biggest man I’d ever seen, in both height and muscle. And I knew muscle. His voice—it wasn’t loud, but it had a density to it, a low rumble that cut through the industrial noise and vibrated in my chest. Deep baritone. Manly. Alluring.
Richardson’s quick inspection left me woozy, something I wasn’t expecting as soon as I stepped onto the rig. I figured it’d be rough, with all these guys around, but I wasn’t expecting the first guy I’d meet to leave such an impression. I mean the helicopter pilot didn’t catch my attention, nor did the three other guys travelling with me. Back at the base, no one caught my eye there either. I was focused on getting here. I was trying to escape all that, forget the hunger and the lust and the need. But I could almost feel his eyes judging me: my height, my youthful looks, my build that’s all compact muscle and zero brute bulk, the newness of my gear. I saw the quick dismissal in his gaze.
I’ve seen it my whole life: too small; too young, too new, not good enough.
But I also saw something else as I met those light grey eyes. Those eyes that reminded me of a husky, and like a dog, he seemed to sense it right away. As if he knew something by the way I looked at him. And I wondered if there was a hint of a story there, something more beneath the macho stance and massive body if he could see through me that quickly.
“You might last the rotation,” he said.
Challenge accepted asshole. My stupid, stubborn pride flared up immediately, taking his words as an almost threat for me to prove. I understood right away what I needed to do, I just didn’t expect it to hit me so fast.
I took a deep breath in, tasting the rig’s metal and filtered fake oxygen, and steadied myself. I was running, yes, but I wasn't here to pretend I was someone I was not. I was here to prove something, mostly to myself. That I wasn't just the gymnast with a broken heart and a traumatic past, unable to perform. That this body, built for precision and flight, built for gold medals in competitions, could be repurposed for endurance and grit.
I unzipped my duffel bag and looked on top of my clothes to see the small, zippered pouch. I didn’t need to open it to see the photo inside. I don’t know why I kept it and brought it with me. The team. The gold. With Coach Roberts and Liam and me all in one fucking photo. But I love that photo of Liam, with his big smile and oblivious face right beside mine. One of the last photos I have of him.
I closed my eyes to push it away. It felt like a lifetime ago now.
And yet the flashes still came in a wave, unable to control the memories as they flooded my brain. Of Liam: my teammate, my best friend, my best kept secret. His smooth, perfect body. His shy looks. The sounds he made when he orgasmed. The way he kissed me in secret, as if he could never get enough of me. Hiding another secret from him about the coach. Never guessing he had the same one.
As I felt the sway of the rig slightly, Liam took over my thoughts as was typical, drifting to that last hotel room we stayed at, my best and worst memory of him. The last time he fucked me. The night session bleeding into the morning, as if he didn’t want to stop. Nor did I let him. The words “I love you” coming out of his mouth for the first time to me that night. The way we slept, unguarded, naked, wrapped up in each other. To the morning light peeking in through the curtains of the hotel room and his body moving into mine again, in a desperation I didn’t understand until after.
It played out in my head like a movie reel. His hands clasped in mine, tighter than ever, our fingers entwined in our final grasp. The way he kissed me that morning makes me hard, even now, just thinking about it. It was our secret. The need was intense. The hunger insatiable. We had found each other. We were in love.
I had flipped him onto his back that morning, straddling his waist, my smooth ripped body climbing over his like always. Two naked gymnasts, getting full use of the hotel room after our competition. His slightly beefier, inch taller body under mine, shaved smooth, chiseled and ripped. I loved his body as much as he loved mine. We appreciated each other. We knew the hard work and dedication that went into our physiques. Just made the sex hotter.
He had fed his hard, curved cock into my hole again that morning, me wincing slightly at the depth I took him as I slammed myself backwards onto his thick thighs. My hands planted themselves on his light skin, those pink nipples hard under my palms as his own hands caressed the sides of me. When I looked down at him, moaning like I usually did when he pushed himself all the way into me, he was smiling. His eyes were wide open, and the grin he had made me smile back. He looked so fucking handsome. I never took my eyes off him as I rode him, not knowing then it would be the last time he would ever fuck me.
I mistook the look in his eyes that morning as we came together, catching our breath and thinking it was a shared love for one another. I didn’t see the sorrow. I didn’t understand the pain he was feeling. Or what he was planning to do.
Then, like always when I think of that last morning, my minds drifts angrily to Coach Roberts. His deep voice in my ear as his beefy body entered the shower behind me, naked, hard, the first time he surprised me. “You know you want it.” He whispered as his hands pinned mine to the wall. I remember the hiss of my breath echoing in the shower as the pain in my ass stunned me to silence. His hot breath in my ear, his hushing sounds, along with the splashing of the water around us.
Over and over. Shower after shower. Secret meetings in his office. Special training exercises. Surprises in the hotel rooms. And the constant looks from him during competitions, my coach, my secret lover. The confusion of it all. The pain, followed by the pleasure. The unwanted attacks, followed by the submission and enjoyment. I hated him for taking my virginity at such a young age, but was drawn to him because of the grip he seemed to have on me and the way he made me feel. The way he looked at me. Whispered secretly to me. How hungry he was for me. Told me how proud he was of me. Told me I was his best boy.
Until I found out after Liam was gone that he was doing it to Liam too. And I was more confused than ever.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, trying to rid my body of the anxiety that was daring to unleash. The clash between that last moment with Liam versus the rage I felt to our coach.
The sounds of the shower still running fill my ears again, and I can still see the water pouring over Liam’s muscular body lying at the bottom of the tub. His lifeless body, the razor, the cuts, his eyes looking upward and all the blood….
I still know every word of his suicide note to me. “I can’t do this anymore. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m no good. I’m not perfect. And I can’t get away from him.”
And the one Coach Roberts also left to me, just a few years later, just for me with my name on it, before his trial. His was just a few words: “I’m sorry.”
I squeezed my eyes tighter to rid the scenes and the emotions. “Not here.” I mumbled out loud. Not anymore. That’s why I came out here. No more performances. No more hiding.
At only 28, I was here for a different kind of performance. Time to be a man and do something different. Time to move on.
I shoved the pouch to the bottom of the bag, trying to hide the picture, but knowing I’d look at it again later. But for now, I was here to go on with my life. Forget the team. Forget gymnastics. Forget the courtroom. Forget the accusations. Forget the suicides. Forget them. Forget him.
My twenty minutes were ticking down. Back to Richardson, the mountain of a man, with his gruff weathered face and squint lines, back to the drill floor, where I was certain to be given the worst, most punishing job as a test. As a roustabout, or basic floorhand, I didn’t have much experience, nor did I need any. A familiar knot of pre-competition nerves tightened in my stomach. Instinctively, I took a slow, measured breath, and a low hum started in my chest, a barely audible vibration of the song I used. I held back a tear at the memory of Liam once again. It was an old trick, a way to find a pocket of calm in the middle of chaos. His trick. He taught it to me. It had steadied me on the beam, steadied me on the rings, steadied me on the bar. Now it would have to steady me here. As much as I wanted to forget him, I knew deep in my heart I still needed him.
I straightened my shoulders, looked at my reflection in the dark glass of the porthole. A pale, determined face stared back, surrounded by a raging sea.
Alright, Richardson. Let’s see what you’ve got.
I turned and walked out, ready to face the mountain.
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