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Michael was still waiting.
Ever since pre-London training, Ryan had been acting strange. Like really strange. He was into all this tv show stuff and he started acting like really stuck up. It was like being an Olympian had finally gotten to his head or something, cause he never really talked to Mike anymore, or did anything with the other guys. All he ever really talked about was swimming and his split times and what his new management had planned for him the next weekend. He blew Michael off at least like 7 times and Mike was actually starting to get tired of it a little bit. Whenever Mike asked to like hang out or talk or that he fly down to Gainesville or that Ryan come up to Baltimore, Ryan always said that he was busy. He said that he had to train. Or that he had a meeting with his coaches. Or that he had to do some ‘askLochte’ shit or whatever. Or that he had to call his sponsors for something.
It was almost like Ryan was slowly squeezing everything that wasn’t directly related to his professional career out of his life.
And that was weird, cause that wasn’t the Ryan Michael remembered. The Ryan he knew would never put his career above like 4th string in his life. He would never cancel on his friends for months straight—cause really, Ryan could easily bounce back from missing a couple practices. The Ryan that Michael knew would never have gotten so cocky that he’d boast on live television of his pledge to wipe the floor with Phelps and that this was ‘his time’ or whatever. The Ryan he knew would never say stuff like that cause, honestly, he didn’t so much care about the medals and the titles and the records—not as much as he cared about being there. In the Olympic Village with his friends. Making memories throwing water balloons and eating all the food (okay, with a slight attempt at being healthy) in the cafeteria. The Ryan he knew wouldn’t give a shit about swimming until he was actually on the deck, staring into the deep, blue pool.
The Ryan he knew wouldn’t have given him the smug grin when he had beaten him in that first race. He would have actually spoken to him on the stands. He wouldn’t have gotten a temper when he lost the next few races. The Ryan Michael knew wouldn’t have cared past like 5 seconds after the race.
At first, Michael thought that maybe, Ryan was doing this cause this was the last time he and Michael would actually race. The last time the two of them would go head to head against each other—the last time the world would ever see the two of them competing. And Michael supposed that, maybe, Ryan was a little tired of coming in second after Michael. After always playing 2nd fiddle. Of always being called the underdog. Of always being mentioned after Phelps when the commentators mentioned the Olympic hopefuls.
And Michael guessed that he kind of understood that. It was in both of their blood. The urge to compete—and to win. And maybe that’s why they had always avoided talking about swimming before. Cause no matter how chill they were or how carefree Reezy seemed or how much they loved spending time together, it was always there. The competition. The fact that they were rivals. They fact that, on deck, they hated each other.
So yeah, Michael got that. And if he were Ryan, he supposed he would’ve acted the same way. He would also probably tell people of his insane training regimen and the fact that London was his time to shine. He would also probably be pissed off when he didn’t win. He would probably also hold a grudge—especially since there was no way Lochte could redeem himself now. Cause no matter how well he did in Rio and stuff, he would never be able to say that he beat Michael Fred Phelps when both of them were in their prime.
Michael got it all. He understood. And he realized why Lochte was acting the way he was acting. He had been friends with him for so long—ever since they were immature, little 19-year olds—that he kind of knew what went through Ryan’s head. Ryan was upset. He was heartbroken that he couldn’t accomplish all that he had beaten himself up for. All that he had worked for. He was upset that he had blown off parties and time with his family and friends to train for something that he had failed at.
Michael understood. There were so many times in 2011, when Ryan was beating him left and right, and the entire swimming community was looking at him like they were wondering what had happened to the great Michael Phelps, that Michael had felt the same way. That maybe this whole thing was a waste of time. That maybe, he should’ve just stopped after Beijing and gotten out while he was still on top.
So Michael felt what Ryan was feeling. And he knew. That this wasn’t easy. He saw all the ‘askLochte’ tweets and the tv shows and the announcement that Ryan was going to have his own reality show, and, while everyone else was just throwing shit around that Lochte should just focus on his swimming or that Ryan was getting distracted, Michael knew why Ryan did all those things. He knew that Ryan just wanted a little bit of what he thought he would get from London. Fame and recognition and some of the glitz and glamour that Michael had gotten after Beijing.
But Michael also knew that his Reezy was still buried somewhere underneath all that arrogant attitude and the flashy reality show and the way he ignored him all the time.
In the beginning, after London, Michael had honestly gotten a bit fed up with Ryan. Cause, really, it had been like a good month or something and Ryan was still acting like a dick. And so, he hooked up with Megan. Because he thought that she would piss Ryan off the most. Ryan had never liked her and her pretty face and her model body and the way she was always draped over Michael. He didn’t like how she could easily fit into Michael’s life and the way that they actually looked like a cute couple in pictures—even back when they were still friends. He didn’t like that they could actually get married and have kids, with no trouble at all.
So yeah, he brought Megan along and introduced her, and watched, with a sort of sick satisfaction, as Ryan’s grin dropped.
And then he kept her around cause Ryan was still being a douche and, in any case, he and Megan got along well. He brought her to the Golden Goggles and on trips and took cute Instagram pictures with her, and it was all very quaint and homey.
But Michael still waited. For Ryan to come around. Cause he knew he would.
Michael still remembered back after Beijing in 2008, when it was Michael who had gotten that cocky tilt to his chin. When it was Michael that acted all arrogant and blew Ryan off cause he thought he was too good for him.
Ryan had been patient with him then. He hadn’t gotten pissed off when Michael ignored him for days. He hadn’t gotten hurt when Michael rubbed his gold medals in his face or even when Michael started bringing random girls to their room in the Village.
Ryan had been great. He just nodded at Michael like he understood and waited.
After about a month after Beijing, Michael had started to get tired of it. He was tired of the fame and the spotlight and the pizzazz that, really, wasn’t even that great. He was tired of waking up with hangovers and he was tired of missing practices. He was tired of girls whose names he couldn’t even remember. More than anything, he missed Ryan. Ryan who had tight curls and freckles lining his nose. Ryan who could make him feel like nothing—not even swimming—really even mattered. Nothing except that moment when it was just them and they were just there, in the moment. When there was nothing but love.
That night, he flew down to Gainesville. He didn’t call or anything, he just kind of showed up. He rang the doorbell and waited for Reezy.
Ryan opened the door and his face sort of exploded in a grin. He pulled Michael in and wrapped him in a huge hug, clinging to his neck.
“Hey, you,” Ryan said against his lips. “I’m glad you showed up, Mpeezy.”
“Yeah?” Michael stared down at Ryan’s lips. “Sorry about, you know, the way I’ve been acting. I don’t know what comes over me sometimes. It was just like—the whole thing was so new and so different and I don’t know. I’m sorry, I acted like a dick to you and you didn’t deserve that. I can’t—I hope you like forgive me. Cause the past month sucked a lot more that it probably should’ve, considering I’m like a superstar and all.” Michael winked at Ryan. “I want you back. If you’ll like take me.”
Ryan nuzzled his head in the crook of Michael’s neck and then reached up to kiss him, long and hard. “Of course I’ll take you back. I’ve been waiting. I knew my Phelps was still in there somewhere.”
Michael pulled him closer to his body. “I’ll always come back to you.”
* * *
In December, Michael finally broke up with Megan. It was just taking more effort than it was worth to pretend to be in a relationship with her. Plus, the whole point of it was to get a reaction out of Ryan—and Ryan had basically stopped talking to him altogether so the whole thing wasn’t even really working to begin with.
Michael had recorded the Austin Grand Prix on his DVR to watch later. Because, even though Ryan seemed to be pretty much done with him, he still cared about Lochte. He still cared how he swam and how he was doing. Michael hated that part of himself. The part that still cared.
He watched the races and tried to ease the pounding of his heart when he saw Ryan smile at the cameras or when he saw the little moments when the cameras would just span over the crowd and he could just see Ryan and Conor and the gang just chilling somewhere. Just as the first of Ryan’s races were about to start, Michael heard the doorbell ring.
Michael groaned and checked his watch. Who would come by at 11 at night?
When he opened the door, Michael felt like he had a heart attack. There was Ryan, hair wet like he’d just gone swimming and sweatshirt gripped to his chest. He had his hand on his neck and he was looking up at Michael like he didn’t know how he should be acting just then.
“Ryan?”
Ryan nodded and shivered. “Uh, hey Mike. Can I come in?”
Michael moved aside, still staring and gaping at Lochte, as Ryan slid into the room. He looked over at the paused television screen, and a grin lit up his face. “Oh hey, you’re watching it?”
Michael didn’t respond—he was still staring at Ryan like he’d seen a ghost. Cause like what. Lochte doesn’t talk to him for months—he ignored him at the Golden Goggles, he never texts him back, he never calls, he never shows up spontaneously at Baltimore like he used to, he never really even acknowledges Michael or his golfing or his retirement or his poker, and then, suddenly, Ryan’s there. In Michael’s living room. Standing next to the couch and staring at the tv like he’d never left. Like nothing had changed. Like they were just picking up where they’d left off 6 months ago.
Michael wasn’t having it. He wasn’t just going to lay down and let Ryan walk all over him. “Ryan. What are you doing here?”
Ryan looked away from the screen and his grin dropped. He stared at the floor and kicked at the couch. “I just—I was in Austin and like the other guys and I wanted to like party and stuff, but then I was in the club and it just like hit me that you weren’t there. And I don’t know, I just really missed you. So I’m here.”
Phelps studied Lochte, as if he was measuring up whether Ryan was telling the truth or not. “Yeah, well. I’ve always been here. And you’ve never missed me before.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not like you missed me either.” Ryan shot back, eyes narrowed. “You were always with Megan. Or like out golfing or playing poker with your new retirement best friends. You never came down to Gainesville either or to watch at Istanbul or for New Years in Vegas.”
Michael frowned. Ryan was not going to pin this on him. “That’s not the point. The point is that you’ve been fucking ignoring me since London and you’ve been acting like nothing had ever happened between us and that I meant nothing to you. So yeah, what the fuck are you doing here, Lochte?”
“Shut up, I just—I don’t know I got caught up with shit and you were retiring and you were done and so—I just thought—”
“That you could finally have all the medals to yourself? That you could finally be king of the pool or something?”
“No! Just like—” Ryan looked up at Michael, as if pleading for him to understand. “People finally started to notice me, you know? I mean, you’re still the swimming G.O.A.T. or whatever—but now people know me too. And I don’t know, it was nice. And I sort of forgot stuff that I should’ve remembered. Like why I joined swimming to begin with. And why I loved racing so much. And why I always came back to your room afterwards.”
Michael pressed his lips together and stared down at Ryan. Ryan’s blue-green eyes were locked on him, and Michael finally saw the glimmer there. The glimmer that Ryan always had when he was skateboarding, or when he first dived into the pool in the mornings, or when he was laying on Michael’s bed after a race—the glimmer that Michael didn’t remember seeing for months and months. The glimmer that had somehow been missing in tv interviews and award shows and press conferences.
Phelps leaned forward and wrapped Ryan in a hug, his hand going into Ryan’s hair.
“Okay.”
“No, just like—I’m sorry, man.” Ryan’s voice was muffled in his shirt and Michael felt the vibrations shudder his body. “I was such a fucking asshole. I got so caught up in things that weren’t important and I forgot the one person that made me feel whole. And I treated you like shit, and all these things that I thought I wanted—it turned out that I didn’t and I fucking wasted the last few months of my life doing pointless things. When, really, all I wanted to do was come home to you. Every night.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay.”
Ryan pulled back and stared at Michael, a slight frown on his face. His eyes were all squinty, as if he was trying to decipher what Michael meant by that. Michael looked down at Ryan and grinned. He reached out and touched the wisps of hair behind Ryan’s ear.
Lochte was still frowning and Michael thought that maybe he didn’t get it. So he leaned down and kissed him, and when Ryan kissed him back, he knew that Ryan understood.
That Michael had been waiting for his Doggy to return.
Because nothing else had ever mattered.