OnlyFans Olympian

A/N:

This is my other submission for the Yay Team 2025 writing challenge! It's based on the story of a real person, reported in the news. But of course I've taken artistic license to change various details.

This is a slow-burn erotic romance. If you really don't like longer stories, you should probably skip. (I promise the payoff is worth it though!)

The narrator's voice is unflinchingly British. There might be some minor confusion for those of you living across the pond. Sorry about that in advance X)

Thanks very much to @Kumquatqueen for beta-reading and giving some very helpful suggestions!

- Z

============

I contemplated manslaughter, not for the first time that day.

Standing in Cameron's small studio--bare chest out, jeans slung low--I tried not to feel like a right muppet. A voice in my mind kept screaming that I'd wandered onto the set of a dodgy calendar shoot. Cameron was doing his thing with the lens, head tilted, fingers fiddling with some little dial like it mattered.

I hated this. Not in the I feel silly way. No--this was proper, bone-deep hate. I hated the lighting, too soft and too warm. I hated how the denim stuck to my thighs. Hated the way I felt like a preened boytoy, posing for the camera like a cheap tart in a Topman ad.

Cameron sighed, finally lifting his head. "Could you, I don't know... smile a little?"

Christ, it got on my nerves how he pronounced every syllable down to a tee. He sounded like a posh grammar school wanker who drank too much chamomile tea.

"You've got that look like you're about to chew someone's ear off," he continued.

"Maybe I am," I muttered. "No promises."

He sighed again, letting it drop, thin lips pressed to a line. His gaze returned to the screen of the tripod-mounted camera as he adjusted the lens for the umpteenth time. I watched him, not bothering to hide my glower.

OnlyFans hadn't been my first idea. It hadn't been my tenth, either. It hadn't been on the bloody list at all, until some friend-of-a-friend had mentioned how their younger sister was raking in ten thousand quid a month. All for a few bloody feet pics a day. Christ knew I could use that kind of cash flow--I'd been off the Olympic roster for more than two years, and at thirty-four, I wasn't pulling sponsors like I used to. For a while I'd scraped by on contract renewals and old royalties--until some fresh-faced lad with abs like polished marble came along and dazzled the cameras with a smile.

That was it for me. Chucked aside like expired milk.

I'd had to take decisive action. Having dropped out of uni to do diving full-time, I had no marketable skills to speak of. All I had to offer was the body I'd spent honing six days a week for the past decade and a half. It might not be as smooth or cut as it used to, but underneath the rough parts, I could still pass for a Greek god.

When I first reached out to Cameron to set up this whole harebrained scheme, I'd thought the idea was tolerable, if not ideal. I'd modelled before. And a photo was what it was, didn't matter if you were selling to Calvin Klein or... others. But now, standing before the camera, I found the notion unbearable. Like I was nothing more than sleazy tabloid fodder.

"Try relaxing the brow a bit," Cameron said, eyes still on the screen. "You've got a good face. No need to strangle it."

I scowled at him briefly as the camera clicked one, twice, thrice. I felt like a hairy sausage on display at the local butcher.

"I'll bloody strangle something alright," I muttered, loud enough for him to hear.

Unfortunately he didn't take the bait. Merely twisted his mouth in a small frown, eyes unreadable, as he pressed a button on the side of the camera.

Bloody insufferable man. For the last half an hour I'd been spoiling to wipe that placid look off his face. Make him stop talking for a second like bloody Queen Elizabeth. Make him say something--anything--just so I could snap and let out the snarl I'd been holding back all day. Instead he just pointed toward the backdrop again, infuriatingly calm, leaving my murderous thoughts to stew unspoken.

"Chin up. Eyes on me."

I shifted, jaw clenched, feeling every bit a complete twat. Christ, this was torture. It felt like I'd been standing for hours. My stomach was doing that thing it does right before a meet--organs turned inside out, breath caught somewhere behind the ribs. Every part of me itched to move. To do. Dive. Train. Leg it back to the tube station.

It all felt so... fake. Posing, preening. Standing there with my tits out like I was auditioning for Love Island: Washed-Up Edition. I wasn't built for this rubbish. I was a diver. I knew precision. Grit. Pain. I'd thrown myself off platforms in winter rain, cracked ribs in training, puked from nerves in locker rooms. I'd shed blood, sweat, and tears to be a proud member of Team GB. Not some whore with a ring light and a selfie stick.

Cameron set the camera down on a nearby desk with a soft thud. Belatedly I realised he hadn't taken any photos in the last couple of minutes. I shifted uneasily as he looked at me properly now, calm, expressionless, piercing.

"Why'd you ask me to help with this, Ed?"

I hadn't expected to hear the soft edge of steel in his voice. That, at least, pierced my foul mood a little. Letting out a breath, I forced myself to meet his gaze, staring deep into vivid blue eyes.

If I was going to do this, I'd reasoned, I needed someone I could trust. Not a creeper who was going to get artsy with my arse. Cameron, at least, was someone I vaguely remembered from uni. Back then, he'd seemed decent enough. Kept to himself. We'd never been best mates, but I'd clocked him as a proper bloke--good and honest, if somewhat aloof and eccentric.

I'd come across him on LinkedIn a couple weeks ago, as I sat searching for leads. In the years since we'd last spoken, he'd done well for himself, making a name as a freelance photographer. Looking at the portfolio on his site, I'd decided he had the chops to do the job clean. And when I'd reached out, he'd agreed to an initial consultation, free of charge.

Still, I didn't say any of that. I just shrugged, not quite meeting his eye. "Figured you'd make it look less like wank fodder. More like... I don't know. A portrait or something."

He nodded slowly. "Then let me do that. Stop trying to fight it. Just be."

I rolled my eyes. But I followed the instruction. More out of stubbornness than faith.

---

It felt like hours later when he finally lowered the lens for good. He'd put me through more poses than I could count. I sat down heavily, touching a hand to my neck. Although I'd spent most of the session standing still, I'd ended it surprisingly sweaty. I towelled off and put on a clean tee.

"You've got a good look, when you're not scowling," he said, tone flat and clinical, like he was dissecting a corpse. "The beard and chest hair work well with the physique."

I raised a brow. "You trying to pull me, or sell me?"

Cameron didn't blink. "Just saying. I can work with that." He turned away, stowing his camera.

We moved to Cameron's tiny kitchenette, where he flipped open a laptop and pulled up a series of thumbnails--photos of men in every variety of seductive mood. I thought we'd been adventurous today, but I quickly realized Cameron had kept things extremely vanilla. Some of the photos were artful, studio-lit, barely suggestive. Others were sweat-drenched, lip-bitten, all abs and oil and come-hither smirks that made my hackles rise.

"We should talk tone," he said calmly. "For future sessions. What kind of image are you comfortable selling?"

I crossed my arms, gripping my shirt, the fabric balled in one fist. "Not that," I said, pointing at a photo of some bloke sprawled across silk sheets like a bloody centrefold.

"Too theatrical?"

"Too wank bank."

Cameron gave a neutral nod. "Right. No wank bank."

I tried to lean casually against the wall, but it came off more like I was bracing for a punch. "Let's make a list, yeah? No full nudity. No bending over. No baby-oil glisten. No fuck-me eyes." I paused, thinking. "No kinks." I spat that last word with venom.

Cameron scribbled notes on a pad. "Tasteful and stylish, got it. What about implied nudity?" He pulled up a picture of a man wrapped in a towel, standing at a fogged-up window. Bare chest. Hips just hidden. The kind of image you'd see in a perfume ad--moody, masculine, intentionally vague.

My eyes narrowed. "That depends. Is he about to step out of the shower, or is he waiting for his next client?"

Cameron's lips quirked--barely. "So you're open to implication, but not performance."

"I'm open to not looking like a tart."

He nodded again, unphased. "What about movement? Athletic shots? Stretching, diving poses, action blur?"

That gave me pause. I could already picture it--something halfway between a Nike ad and an old training montage. Me in motion, muscles taut, captured mid-kick or twist. That... didn't feel humiliating. That felt real.

"Yeah. That's more my speed."

Cameron wrote it down with a thoughtful nod.

Over the next hour, we gradually sorted through the assortment of photos and styles. Narrowing down exactly what I would and wouldn't do. By the end, we'd settled on a strategy. Rugged, masculine, physical. Hearing him describe it to me, in that quiet voice, I felt myself coming around to the idea once again. I'd present myself as an athlete--relentless, unyielding. A celebration of who I was, rather than a shaming.

It sounded almost too good to be true.

---

Before I left, Cameron stopped me with a touch to my shoulder.

"I know today wasn't easy for you, Ed." He seemed especially serious, even for him. "But I'm excited to work with you going forward."

His sincerity threw me for a loop. Even then I'd been entertaining thoughts of writing the whole thing off. But something in his eyes stirred my resolve for this whole crackpot idea.

And... he had been professional. Quiet. Focused. No lingering stares, no weird comments, no taking the piss out of me. Just the job. Most of all, I knew--deep down, under the piss and vinegar--that he was doing me a favour. That this whole shoot was a lifeline. Even if I felt like a cock-up for even considering it.

Reluctantly, I swallowed the lump in my throat, and tried for cordial. "Right," I said. "Grand. When's our next session, then?"

---

I showed up again to his studio the following Monday afternoon, shortly after lunch. As I kicked off my shoes, Cameron pulled me aside to show me the photos he'd printed out.

I didn't expect much. Bit of awkward posing, maybe a few shots that looked halfway decent if you squinted. At best, something I could stomach putting behind a paywall. I braced myself for that familiar kick of shame.

Instead, I found myself quietly impressed.

There was one where I looked off to the side, jaw set, beard catching the light. Another where my back was half-turned, muscles taut under shadow, like something out of a bloody cologne ad. Printed properly. On glossy, heavyweight paper. Like it belonged in a fine art gallery.

No, they weren't just not-bad. They were... striking. They made me look like someone else. Like a man I hadn't thought I was in a long, long time. I felt something twist in my gut. Pride? Grief? I couldn't tell. Last week, Cameron had promised me he'd make it tasteful, stylish. I reckoned he'd delivered in full.

As my fingertips brushed the photos, I felt Cameron's gaze on me. Thoughtful, considering.

"What do you think?" he asked.

I swallowed. "They're alright," I said.

"They're a start, Ed. I know you can do better."

That jolted me. I let out a breath, more scoff than laugh. Bold words, I thought. Somehow he'd said exactly the right thing to set off my competitive streak. Now I wanted to make him eat those words.

"You want me to swoon, is that it?" I said. "Let a single tear roll down my cheek?"

"I want you to follow my lead," he said. "Can you trust me?"

His eyes seemed to see straight into my depths. I grimaced. My jaw worked. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was giving up some part of myself I wouldn't be able to get back. On the other hand, I was clearly out of my depth, and I'd need his help in order to make this successful.

"Fine," I said.

Cameron sealed the photos in a manila envelope, labelled clearly in his neat handwriting. We returned to the studio floor shortly after.

"Top off again?" I called, half-joking. He looked over his shoulder, where he was adjusting the tripod. "Not yet. Let's try something else."

I raised an eyebrow. "What, you want to frame my arse first?"

He didn't even crack a smile. Bloody infuriating man. One of these days I was going to find a way to wipe that placid look off his face.

Cameron just nodded toward the stool in the centre of the space. "Sit. Relax. I want you to think about something for me." I eyed him suspiciously but sat down anyway, the creak of wood under me too loud in the small room. He spent a while adjusting the lens, thin lips pressed together. I fidgeted a little in the silence.

Finally Cameron looked up, gaze unreadable. "Think about a time you felt proud," he said, lifting the camera but not raising it to his eye. "Not just 'did well,' not just 'looked good.' Proud. Properly. When everything aligned and you thought--that's who I am."

The words hit me sideways. I blinked.

Proud?

It took longer than I wanted to admit. There'd been flashes--brief podium moments, an old photo in a kitbag, that time someone recognised me on the tube. But real, bone-deep pride?

Eventually I found it. Of course that had to be it. Why hadn't I thought of it immediately?

"Rio," I said. My voice came out rougher than I expected. If I'd been in a different mood, I might have snorted and called it sappy. But Cameron didn't say anything, just nodded slightly and lifted the camera halfway, waiting.

"Summer of '16," I said, memories slowly bubbling up in my mind, fresh as the day they'd formed. "My first Olympics. First time I'd ever been to the Americas, actually. Heat like a bastard, but that pool... Christ, it was beautiful. Everything was loud, golden, alive. The boys back home didn't expect much from me--I wasn't a favourite. But I'd trained like hell. And when I stepped up for the ten-metre final... I knew it. In my gut. Knew I bloody well had it."

I shook my head, lips twitching. My vision blurred a little.

"Third round, reverse 31/2 somersault tuck. Landed clean. Not just clean--fucking textbook. Barely a ripple or sound. You could hear the air get sucked out of the stadium. Not even the judges blinked. That silence, just for a second, right before the crowd explodes--that's the moment. That's the high."

I looked down at my hands without thinking. They were relaxed. Open.

"I came out with a silver. My first real medal. I felt so fucking proud I could have cried like a dog. First time I saw my dad cry, too. He tried to hide it behind his pint after, but I clocked it."

The shutter clicked, soft and precise. Once. Twice. I hadn't even noticed Cameron move.

He wasn't barking orders now. No "chin down" or "look to the left." Just a quiet observer, watching something thaw in real time.

"That's it," he murmured. "Hold that."

I stayed still. That memory burned warm in my chest, and for the first time since this whole mad idea began, I wasn't posing. I was just... being. Sitting in the shell of who I'd once been, and maybe--maybe--who I could be again.

Click. Click. Click.

Cameron didn't say much else during the rest of the shoot. Just let me hold that energy, let it bleed into the frame. He kept things simple--shadows, breath, posture. A few slow shifts. No artificial swagger.

When we were done, I didn't rush to put my shirt back on. Just sat there for a bit, breathing slower than I had in weeks.

"That," Cameron said, adjusting a dial, "was the real you."

I couldn't help but agree.

"You've always had that in you," he added after a beat. So quietly I wasn't sure if I was meant to hear it.

---

That was the day we set up the account.

After he'd stowed the equipment, Cameron sat cross-legged on the floor, the glow of the screen flickering across his face. "Come here," he said, without looking up. I awkwardly settled myself onto the floor, feeling big and clumsy beside his slender frame. Peering over his shoulder, I saw the photo he had open. The one from earlier.

Me on the stool. Shoulders back. Chin lifted. Beard full and dark, eyes set forward--not posing, not smiling, just... resolved. Like I'd just come down from the mountain and wasn't planning to explain myself to anyone.

I stared at it. Speechless.

Because for the first time in years, I looked exactly how I'd always wanted to feel: strong, regal, disciplined. The proud image of a warrior, facing the future with his back straight and his hands steady. Not broken. Not washed-up. Not some sad bloke flogging himself for scraps.

Whole.

Cameron glanced up, watching me read my own face. "That's the one," he said.

I nodded, slowly. "Yeah."

We set up the OnlyFans that night. Or rather--Cameron did, while I sat beside him and nursed a protein shake like it was a stiff drink. Username, bio, pricing tiers. I let him handle it all, his fingers moving precisely as he set up the centrepiece of our new joint venture.

I listened to him drone as he did it. He talked endlessly about framings. How we needed to be tasteful, while still bringing out my natural sex appeal. It all sort of wafted over my head. I was still thinking about how I'd looked, chest strong and eyes proud. Like a version of me who hadn't been broken.

We agreed to a sixty-forty split of the proceeds. Photo sessions three times a week to start. The other details escaped my mind, but Cameron meticulously wrote everything down in the notepad he kept by the side of his desk. He'd draft the contract and send it for my signature once I left.

In the end, all I had to do was pick a display photo.

I chose that one.

He asked if I wanted a caption. I thought for a moment. Then I said, "Call it: 'The Comeback.'" Cameron didn't ask for clarification. Just typed it in and hit save.

The account went live at 10:42 p. m. on a Tuesday. No fanfare. No big launch. Just an image of a man who hadn't given up yet.

---

In the days that followed, I found myself making the trip to Cameron's studio often. We'd spend hours on the camera floor. No flashy sets. No ring-light gimmicks. Just him giving me instructions in that maddeningly calm voice. Some part of me still thought this was a massive cock-up. But I went along with it anyway. I needed the money. And maybe I was a little curious about where this was going to go.

Cameron proved a firm hand in the studio. Gentle voice, sure, but when we worked, he took no shit. His instructions were clipped. Efficient. He didn't flatter or fuss. Just called out angles, adjusted light, kept moving.

It was annoying at first. I can't count the number of times I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from snapping something at him. But gradually, I grew to appreciate his steadiness. It was like training with a coach who actually knew what the fuck he was doing.

A good coach doesn't flinch when you growl at them. They see what you're holding back--and make sure you show it.

I found myself relaxing under his guidance. Trusting him to take the wheel. He would mutter things like "drop your shoulder" or "tilt your jaw" or "that--hold that," and I'd follow without fighting him. Like he was coaxing something out of me I didn't know how to access on my own.

"You've got a weird knack," I muttered one day, "for bossing people around without sounding like a knob."

Cameron didn't look up from the laptop. "You like being told what to do." I didn't know what to say to that.

At his direction, we focused less on raw sex appeal, more on rugged masculinity. Through his lens, I discovered a man who stood like a rock. Unbowed, unbroken. A man who looked like he'd cradle you in his big, muscled arms, hug you close to his ridged chest, and murmur in your ear in a gravelly voice, saying how he'd always be there for you.

Most days I barely felt half the man I saw reflected back in the frame. But Cameron always knew how to bring out the best in me.

---

In no time at all, the views, comments, subscriptions began to trickle in.

There was the usual shit, of course. Egg-profile lads with usernames like musclepuppy69 or goldmedaldaddy. Half of them just wanted to see cock or arse - we promptly deleted those. I'd become more comfortable doing shit like this, but I wasn't going to stoop to whoring myself out. The other half wanted to tell me about their deadlifting routines or ask if I'd ever considered doing "wrestling content." Whatever that meant. I made sure to send messages of thanks anyway. They might be weirdos, but they were paying weirdos.

And buried in there, occasionally, I'd find a true gem. Real people. Some of them wrote long, heartfelt messages. Said they admired me for sticking with Team GB despite everything. Said they'd followed my career since London or Rio. Said I inspired them. One bloke even thanked me for "making masculinity feel kind again." That one stayed with me for the rest of the day. I found myself writing long replies to each and every one of those, whenever they appeared.

It was odd. I thought I'd feel ashamed. Or worse--cheap. Like I'd traded in my last shred of dignity for a few likes and a cheeky tip. But the more I saw the final shots, the more I listened to Cameron's quiet confidence, the more it started to feel like... maybe there was pride in it. Not just showing off, but showing up. Standing there, saying--I'm still here. I still matter. Look at me. Not because I'm desperate. Because I'm real.

I didn't say any of that out loud. It would have sounded sentimental--ridiculous. So I just kept it in my head, where it sat like a warm coal in winter.

---

We shot over a hundred photos per session. But we only posted two or three photos per week. Never more.

"Need to keep them thirsty," he said once, not looking up from the laptop.

I groaned. "Sod off with that. You sound like Janine."

I'd met Cameron's intern and de-facto social media manager just the other day. Young, pretty, and too flirtatious by half. Someday she was going to get herself in trouble.

"She's not wrong though. You've got range now."

"Range," I echoed, like it was a disease. Still, I couldn't deny that it was working.

Speedo shots. Sleepy, half-candid morning selfies. The occasional gym mirror thirst trap. We always made sure to keep things tasteful. SFW. Showing off my muscles and physique rather than anything sexual. I wore a cup to make sure nothing untoward leaked. At the end, Cameron and I would relentlessly cut any shots that crossed the line. It was never worked out exactly where that line fell, but we seldom disagreed.

Over the following weeks, I watched the numbers climb. And climb. And bloody climb. Every time I checked the dashboard, there was a new spike. A little green arrow that made my stomach twist in ways I couldn't quite explain. Part pride. Part nausea.

Sometimes, I found myself scowling less, smirking more, the smoulder in my eyes taking on a sly hue. My gaze would drift from the lens, wandering to Cameron's face. Growing cockier, more daring. Like I was flirting. Seeing how far I could push the limits of tastefulness. Whenever I noticed it, I'd jolt a little. Then I'd carefully stamp out any errant thoughts before carefully refocusing myself on the lens.

Cameron, if he noticed anything, never mentioned it.

---

The first time I got hard in front of the camera, I'd been so in the zone I hadn't noticed. We'd been going on as usual, me sitting relaxed on the couch, staring contemplatively into the camera. Cameron's voice wafting into my ears, my body moving as if by reflex.

His voice did have a nice quality to it. I'd found it pretentious at first, but I'd soon realized it wasn't an affectation - it was just how he spoke. He was a proper Bath lad, and his accent showed it. Crisp, refined, genteel. In the studio, he never raised his voice, never changed his cadence--just spoke like he was constantly soothing a frightened rabbit. Over the course of hours, I found myself drifting often, even as my body moved. It was as if I'd gotten so used to following his direction, his words could just flow into my ears and down into my body without ever passing through my conscious mind.

"Relax for me," he said. I let my mind go blank.

It'd only been when he lowered the camera that lucidity drifted back in. With slowly-dawning awareness I'd felt the stiffness in my crotch. Rigid and pressed against the walls of my cup. Leaking just a little.

I'd blurted some excuse and disappeared to the bathroom. Cameron hadn't said anything, just kept adjusting the tripod. He looked up when I came back, red-faced and irritable.

"It's good that you're able to relax," he said, annoyingly unbothered. "Makes my job easier."

I didn't reply. Just grunted and toweled the sweat off the back of my neck, trying not to look him in the eye. The silence sat between us for a bit. Not tense, exactly. Just... loaded. Like a barbell waiting to be lifted.

Technically, the cup had stopped him from seeing anything, but I was sure he could guess. And the fact he didn't make a thing of it only made it worse. I almost wanted him to take the piss, or at least give me a look, something I could bristle against. But no. Just that same maddening calm. That same quiet, steady professionalism that made it feel like I was the one making a bloody scene.

"It's a normal response," Cameron said eventually, not looking up from the light settings. "Happens more often than you'd think."

"Yeah?" I said, folding my arms with a huff. "You get fucking stiff when you edit JPEGs?"

He looked over at me then. Not flustered. Just raised an eyebrow like I'd asked him what two plus two was. "No. But I know the body doesn't always ask for permission. Don't fight what you can't control, Ed."

That shut me up. I sat back down on the couch, still half-hard and pissed off about it, and tried to pretend it didn't matter. But I could feel his eyes on me. Not in a creepy way. Not hungry. Just... observing. Calm. Intent.

It did something strange to me. Made me want to hold still. To let him keep looking. Which was fucking weird. I crossed my legs and stared at the floor.

"You want a break?" he asked.

"No," I said, too fast. "Just shoot from the waist up, yeah?"

He nodded once, and lifted the camera again. His voice soft as breath.

"Eyes forward. Relax for me."

The words slid down my spine, the tension leaving my jaw. As I shifted, I felt my cock twitch in my boxers, swelling just a bit more.

---

"Congrats!" Janine called one afternoon. Her braids spun as she looked up from her phone with a grin that could power a wind turbine. "We've hit one thousand subscribers!"

I blinked. "You're having a go at me."

"Nope." She spun the screen around. There it was. A four-digit number, smug and glowing.

"Christ."

"You know what this means," she said, already typing something. "You need to do a thank-you post. Something sexy. Something fun. Maybe that thing where you wear the Union Jack as a cape and nothing else?"

I groaned. "I'm not doing stripper cosplay for England. This isn't Love Island: Jubilee Edition."

"Pity," Janine sighed. "Would've made a great subscriber reward."

Cameron, seated at his desk across the room, was smiling faintly but saying nothing. As usual.

I turned to him. "And what do you think, eh?"

He shrugged. "The people like you. You're real. And you're fit."

He tilted his head. "Or would you prefer 'thirst object'?"

In that moment, I realized Cameron was capable of humour after all. He just decided to never show it on his face or in his voice or in any of his mannerisms.

"Prefer if no one used any words, frankly." I bit off. But the truth was--though I'd never admit it out loud--I felt something warm unfurling in my chest.

---

The themed shoot was Cameron's idea, in the end. Sort of.

He'd been quiet since Janine's announcement, barely looking up from the screen as she rattled off engagement stats and retweet ratios and some bollocks about TikTok trends. But when she left--bag swinging off her arm, full of chaotic influencer energy--he finally turned to me.

"You should do something to mark the milestone."

"Thought that's what the cape was for."

He shook his head. "No. I mean something that feels like you. Something that comes from the heart."

I stared at him. "You've seen my heart. It's covered in stubble and grudge."

Cameron didn't laugh. Just stood, stretched, and moved to the back wall, where the lighting gear was propped up.

"I won't direct this one," he said, matter-of-fact. "You've spent enough time in front of the lens now. You know what works. And you know who you are. I'll handle the camerawork. But you tell me what you want to do."

That caught me off guard more than anything else he'd ever said. No smugness. No challenge. Just quiet faith. Like I was meant to take the reins, and he was just... waiting.

It took me a minute. But I nodded.

---

I chose the kit myself. My old Team GB warm-up jacket, faded around the cuffs. One of the Union Jack speedos from back in Rio--the elastic a little tired but still holding strong. I tugged on a pair of crisp white socks. Bare feet felt too soft for what I wanted this to be.

No props. No couch. No cheeky kitchen counter backdrop. Just me, standing tall against a plain grey backdrop, one hand on my hip, the other holding the edge of the jacket open to show the flag beneath.

Cameron adjusted the tripod quietly, but true to his word, said nothing. Just let the shutter click, again and again, as I found the rhythm. A turn. A glance. A step forward. My chest lifting with every breath.

I didn't smile. I didn't pose. I stood. And for the first time since Rio, I felt like I was representing something again. After, we reviewed the photos together, side by side. There was one shot--just one--that stopped us both.

I was mid-stride. Jacket open. Speedo sharp. Eyes steady. A hint of sweat at my brow. I looked older, sure. Rougher. But proud. Still in the fight.

Cameron didn't say anything. But I saw the way his eyes lingered on the screen, just for a second longer than usual.

He selected the file and uploaded it. Caption field open. I reached over and typed it in myself.

"1,000 strong. And not done yet."

---

Two months in, Janine insisted we celebrate.

"Come on," she pouted, arms crossed over her ribbed crop top, acrylic nails drumming on the back of Cameron's desk. "You guys never do anything fun. It's always spreadsheets and lighting setups and glowering silence."

"I like glowering silence," I muttered.

"You need to get drunk for one goddamn evening."

Cameron, ever the diplomat, gave a small shrug. "Could be nice to mark the milestone."

I gave him a look. "You too?"

"I didn't say I'd smile," he replied mildly.

That was how we ended up at a small corner pub off Hoe Street, tucked between a curry shop and a vape store, the air smelling of wet wood, fryer oil, and somebody's cheap aftershave. It was a Tuesday, mercifully quiet. No music. Just a chalkboard announcing Quiz Night Thursdays and two old blokes at the bar arguing over Arsenal.

Janine arrived with glitter under her eyes and a plan for "shots first, feelings later." Cameron nursed a Guinness. I stuck to Camden Hells, two pints in and already looser than I liked.

"I can't believe we've done this for two months," Janine said, sipping something fizzy and radioactive. "You realise you've doubled your sub count every week for the last six?"

"Don't remind me," I muttered.

"Oh, I will, Daddy."

I choked on my beer. Cameron just reached for his napkin and dabbed at the table.

Janine cackled. "Sorry, sorry--but come on. You do know what your top-performing tag is, right? I've got the spreadsheet. 'Daddy', 'Hairy', 'Bear', 'Olympic', and then 'That One Where He Looks Like He'd Ruin Me In a Locker Room.' That one's not a tag. Someone just typed that in the comments."

I covered my face with both hands. "I need another pint."

"You need to embrace your fanbase," she grinned. "They love you."

I threw my coaster at her.

---

Janine babbled on in the background. Cameron was half-listening, half-watching me over the rim of his glass. Not smiling. Not judging. Just watching. Like he always did.

I set my pint down. My head felt woozy, a little lighter. The world seemed to spin a little around me. "You know what I remember most about Rio?" I said suddenly. Both heads turned.

"The silence. That split-second, right after I landed, when no one breathed. Before the applause. Before the announcer. Just that moment when I knew I'd nailed it."

Cameron nodded. "You looked like you knew."

"Yeah, well. Doesn't last."

That earned a pause. Then Cameron said, very softly: "Still worth remembering."

We sat with that for a while.

The night wore on. Janine eventually wandered off to chat with the bartender about mezcal. I caught myself talking more than I meant to--about training, the old coaches, the way the BOA had pulled funding without a backward glance. I told a story about a lad I used to train with who now ran marathons for charity and once accidentally shaved off one eyebrow before a televised meet.

Cameron listened, quiet and steady, offering the occasional remark but mostly just letting me talk. Eventually, I realised I'd been rambling for the better part of an hour. I glanced over, sheepish. I'd never held my beer well. It was one of the many reasons I didn't normally drink.

"You bored yet?"

He shook his head. "No."

"Sure?"

"You don't talk like this when we shoot. It's good to hear."

I scratched the back of my neck, suddenly warm. "Feel like I've been mansplaining my own life."

"Maybe," he said, smiling just a little. "But it suits you."

That shut me up. There was a pause, long and comfortable. And then, because I couldn't sit with the warmth of that silence, I turned the tables.

"What about you, then? All I know is you're annoyingly competent and you own way too many cable ties."

That made him laugh--quiet and unexpected. It was a gentle sound that reminded me of spring showers and a warm summer breeze.

He talked, then. About growing up in Bath--hilly streets and Georgian stone, mornings that smelt like wet leaves and strong tea. About walking home from school along the canal, past crumbling bridges and flowerbeds full of bees. It was quiet there. Thoughtful. He said he missed the stillness sometimes, even if he'd outgrown it. He'd come to London for work, for energy, for something sharper. But the idea of going back someday still tugged at him. Not to settle. Just to breathe.

He talked about how he wanted financial independence. Quiet work. A place of his own, not a rented flat where the plumbing squealed and the landlord ignored emails. His hopes were quiet. But the way he said them--they carried weight.

"I'm not flashy," he said. "Never have been. I just want to live my life. Do things that spark joy. Find meaning in every day."

That gave me pause. It was soft, wistful, philosophical - a marked contrast from the way I spent my own life, in dogged pursuit of a single goal. A younger me would have called it sappy, stupid, limp-wristed. But, listening to him talk, I realized I could see the appeal.

"Yeah," I said. "That'd be nice."

---

Janine returned soon after, cheeks flushed from the bar and clutching another round like she'd personally won the raffle. The tone of the conversation shifted almost instantly.

Within minutes she was off, gabbing about her latest boy obsession--some producer who'd slid into her DMs, called her "enigmatic," and invited her to a pop-up absinthe tasting in Dalston. Cameron listened like he was hearing a favourite daughter recount a dream, head tilted, mouth politely curved.

I watched them, perturbed. I knew my thoughts weren't running fully rational, but there was something in the way he listened--so open, so still--that got under my skin. Not jealousy, exactly. Just... a sense that I was missing some piece of the equation.

"He's so intense," Janine said. "You know the type. Lives in a converted warehouse. Smells like rosemary and unresolved trauma."

"You're drawn to broken things," Cameron said mildly.

"You're one to talk," she shot back, grinning.

Cameron sipped his Guinness, unbothered. "I believe in waiting for good things."

And before I could stop myself, I said, "Still single, then?"

It cut through the conversation like a coin tossed into a quiet pond. Cameron turned slightly, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"You," I said, forcing a shrug. "I mean--you've got that whole sensitive, artistic thing going. Figured you'd have women queueing round the block."

Janine blinked. "Jesus, Ed." For once, she was uncharacteristically serious.

Suddenly I felt embarrassed, my tongue thick and stiff from too much beer. A drunken bull in a china shop. I held up a hand awkwardly, trying to defuse the tension.

"Not like that. I just meant--he's got that energy. That soft gaze thing. Women love that."

Looking back and forth between them, I felt like I'd only dug myself a deeper hole.

Cameron didn't answer. He didn't look angry, didn't flinch. But something in his face went still. Like a light dimmed. "That's not really how it works," he said quietly.

And that was it. He turned back to Janine, let her spin the conversation into something safer--music gigs, dumpling spots in Soho, whatever. I nodded along, biting my tongue so I wouldn't say anything else.

Later, on the tube home, the comment wouldn't leave me alone. It looped back in my head. Not the words, exactly--but the pause after. The way his fingers had curled around his glass. The way his jaw had gone tight, just for a second.

I thought about what I'd said. How easy it had been to assume. To push him into the neat little shape of a man with girls on speed dial and poetry in his DMs. The truth was, I didn't know who Cameron went home to. If anyone. And something about that--about not knowing--needled me. Not because I needed to know, necessarily.

But because a part of me... wanted to.

I fell asleep that night, mind spinning.

---

Overall, my joint venture with Cameron was going swimmingly. I had a bloody good body and Cameron knew how to make it pop for the camera. Meanwhile, Janine managed the flood of comments with unexpected competence. The trickle of income turned into a flood. Soon I was flush with cash, and raking in more by the week.

With my bank account sorted, it was time to restart my training regimen in earnest.

I'd always told myself I wasn't done. Even when the funding dried up, even when the sponsors ghosted, even when I found myself grumbling into a protein shake while posing half-naked on the internet--I kept a corner of my mind locked around that one, stubborn thought.

Paris, 2024.

So I made the calls. Sent out the texts I'd been avoiding. Reached out to the old crew--coaches, physios, massage therapists, even bloody nutritionists. Most of them were surprised to hear from me. A few were thrilled. One just sent back: Took you long enough.

I booked blocks of pool time. Got myself back on a training schedule strict enough to make my younger self wince. Six days a week. Split sessions. No excuses.

Mornings started with dryland work--core, plyo, mobility drills. Mid-morning pool sessions for platform technique: tuck speed, rip entry, air awareness. No cameras, no mirrors. Just form. Repetition. Sweat and chlorine and silence.

The first week was hell.

My knees ached. My back cracked every time I rolled out of bed. I was slower off the board than I remembered--rusty, stiff, heavy. But the movement was still in there. Under the scar tissue. Waiting.

By week three, I'd found my rhythm. Not perfect. Not yet. But sharp enough to draw blood.

I re-learned how to listen to my body. How to push it just to the edge, then pull back. Recovery became sacred: ice baths, foam rollers, and regular sessions with Lenny, my longtime physio, who still popped his gum and called me "granddad" every time my hamstrings locked up.

Evenings, I ate like a man possessed--clean, disciplined, boring as sin. I started sleeping again. Properly, deeply, the kind of sleep that kicked my anabolic response into overdrive.

This was a real comeback. One last shot at the stage. The platform. The roar.

Paris.

I didn't know if the BOA would even consider me. I didn't know if I'd hold up another six months without breaking. But I was training again. Properly. Obsessively. And for the first time in a long while...

I felt like an athlete again.

---

Of course, the training didn't come without a cost.

Our photo sessions, when I could make them, shifted to late nights. Some days I'd show up with my shoulders taped and my eyes still bloodshot from chlorine. Bone tired. Legs trembling with the kind of lactic burn you can only get from platform drills and Bulgarian split squats.

And then I'd have to try to smoulder.

"Can you lean a bit more to the right?" Cameron would say, adjusting the angle.

I'd grunt. "If I lean any more, my spine's going to file a complaint."

He'd smile, faintly. "Noted."

We tried to keep the shoots light. Focused. But the difference was obvious. I wasn't flirting with the lens anymore. I wasn't cheeky, or clever, or even particularly fuckable on camera some days. Just... exhausted. We'd scroll through the photos afterward, and more often than not, I'd shake my head at half of them.

"Delete it."

"Ed--"

"Delete it. I look like a corpse in compression socks."

I knew it was hurting the content. We weren't posting as often. The photos had less heat, less flair. Janine noticed. She sent us a spreadsheet showing subscriber retention dropping, complete with emojis.

I could feel the weight of it on Cameron--he never said anything outright, but there was a moment one evening when he lingered over a soft-light setup and said, "We can always try a backlog strategy. Post older stuff. No one has to know."

I looked at him then. Really looked.

"You're not upset?"

He met my eyes. Resolute as ever. "You've devoted your life to this. If I don't respect that, what's the point?"

It landed harder than I expected.

Because I think some part of me had been waiting for him to push. To demand the version of me that arched his back and gave the camera that half-lidded bedroom look. The version I didn't have the energy to be right now.

But he didn't. And that made me want to go above and beyond anyway. He'd stuck with me all the way. Invested his time and money in this crackpot scheme of mine. And fuck me if I was going to leave him hanging.

We adjusted. Posted less, but with care. Shot what we could--post-gym selfies, candid moments, the occasional moody backlit profile with a caption like "Rest day. Don't ask." We still pulled in enough to cover costs, and a bit more.

The audience changed, too. The worst creeps moved on to greener pastures. The ones who stayed were... different. Less thirsty, maybe. Or at least, more loyal. They didn't just want to get off. They wanted to follow. To see what happened next.

And maybe I did too.

---

Sundays were rest days.

No weights. No drills. No posing. Just silence, stretched thin across the walls of my flat like a film I couldn't shake off. I hadn't turned on the telly. Couldn't bring myself to scroll, either. My thumbs itched for it, but every time I opened the app, I saw my own chest, my own face, my own smoulder staring back like I was some bloody himbo-for-hire. So I left the phone on the counter and wandered the kitchen barefoot, sipping cold protein shake from the bottle like it was medicine.

The soreness had settled into me good. My traps throbbed. My thighs twitched from yesterday's Bulgarian split squats. Even my jaw ached, like I'd been clenching it all night in my sleep. I'd foam rolled for half an hour. Done all the stretches. Still felt wound tight, like a rubber band one twist away from snapping.

I sat on the edge of the bed with a sigh. Pulled off my hoodie. Peeled away the socks. My feet hit the floor like bricks. Just me, boxers, and the buzz of quiet in my flat.

I was backed up. In every sense.

There wasn't time, usually. Not with the training, the shooting, the eating, the sleeping. Every part of my schedule was plotted like a bloody flight path. And even if I had wanted to wank at the end of the day, I'd usually collapse face-first into the mattress before I could even try.

But today was slow. Empty. Still.

And my cock had ideas.

I wasn't even fully hard yet. Just heavy. Full. A warm throb sitting low and thick between my legs like it had been saving itself up, waiting for a spare hour where it could unfurl without apology. I palmed myself through the fabric--gently at first, then harder. I let my head fall back. Let the breath fall out of me in one long, relieved exhale.

No cameras. No audience. No instructions.

Just me.

And yet--

My mind didn't stay still. It wandered, like it always bloody did when I let myself go soft inside. I tried to summon up old images. Flickers of strangers' hands. The curve of someone's lip. The grit of a Soho quickie I barely remembered. But nothing stuck. Every time, the image blurred, softened, then refocused into--

His voice.

Soft as breath. "Relax for me."

My cock jerked at the memory. Shit.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Tried to think of anything else. But it was there. Him. Always calm, always steady. That maddening patience. That look he gave when the lens clicked and he caught something real--like he was more surprised than pleased, like he'd seen something break open and didn't know whether to catch it or leave it be.

I shouldn't have let my thoughts go there. But they were already there. Crawling. I slapped my cheek once. Pain bloomed temporarily, then faded. The thoughts re-formed.

"Relax for me, Ed..."

I shifted on the bed, squeezing my eyes shut. Pulled my cock out, already thick and hot in my palm. Stroked slow. Careful. Like I was handling something private. Something sacred.

An image formed in my mind, though I was sure I hadn't willed it. I was in the studio, draped across a couch. Eyes closed, Adam's apple bared, for once fully exposed. Not posing. Not performing. Just... offered up. Like a body at rest, trusting the hands that held it. I could feel the heat of the lights on my skin. The soft creak of the floorboards beneath Cameron's steps as he circled, always out of view. The faint click of the shutter--unhurried. No orders. No angle corrections. Just the sound of him watching.

I imagined his voice again, lower now. Closer. A touch of heat laced in his words.

"That's it. Don't hide."

I gripped myself tighter. Stroked harder. The image burned vivid behind my eyes: his hand, not mine. Cool, sure, sliding down my sternum. Settling low. Resting just above my pelvis, fingers spread. Not even touching. Just holding me still.

"Let me see it."

My breath caught. Hips lifted, jaw slack. That voice, fucking hell, that voice--so calm it made me ache. Not hungry. Not hurried. Just patient. Certain. Like he already knew what I needed. Like he was already giving it.

The tension curled tight in my spine. My whole body wound around it, like it wasn't just release I was chasing but some kind of permission.

"Let go..."

I saw white. Bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop from calling out. Came hard--hot, fast, messy--chest heaving like I'd surfaced from deep underwater. Thick white globs spewed and landed on my stomach, gunking into the hair on my navel.

The moment collapsed. I lay gasping on my bed, alone, my cum cooling on my belly. Heart pounding. Mind racing.

What the fuck had that been?

---

The next time we shot, I could barely look him in the eye.

We started as usual. Soft lighting. Background pre-lit. He moved with that same quiet efficiency he always did--adjusting dials, repositioning reflectors, nudging the stool half a step to the left with the toe of his boot. I stood there in joggers and a sleeveless tee, bone tired from a full day of work, exhausted yet tightly wound. Jaw clenched hard enough to crack enamel.

We were half an hour into the session when he set the camera on the table, before folding his arms.

"What's wrong today, Ed?"

I shifted. "Nothing."

"You've been a sullen tomcat all day." His tone was mild, but pointed.

"Just tired."

"You were tired last week too," he said. "You still smiled then."

"I'm here, aren't I?" I snapped. "What the fuck else do you want from me?" The words echoed too loudly in the quiet space. Cameron didn't reply, just regarded me solemnly with arms wrapped tightly across his chest.

I took a deep breath. "Sorry. That was out of line. I'm just--my training's been rough. Sore all over." I left the other thing unsaid.

He nodded slowly. "You want to call it off early today?"

"No." Too fast. "I'm good. I can do it."

Another pause. Then, carefully: "You sure?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just tell me what to do."

Cameron didn't move right away. His gaze stayed fixed on me, steady and thoughtful in that way that always got under my skin.

"Shirt off." I obeyed. The shirt peeled off, stuck slightly to my lower back. I flung it over the chair.

"Chin down. Look past me." I did.

He circled around me slowly. The lens clicked once. Twice. Then again.

"Good," he murmured.

He adjusted a light. I caught his reflection in the black side of a softbox--calm, composed, surgical. I wondered if he'd ever fantasised about me the way I had about him. If he'd ever closed his eyes at night and imagined me offered up, limp-limbed and wanting.

My jaw tensed. I looked away. My cock twitched once, heavy but not hard, just present, like a phantom limb.

He paused, lowering the lens. "Stay with me, Ed."

I flinched. "I'm trying", I grumbled.

He took that in, digested it.

"Relax for me, Ed."

Somehow that hit differently. A long sigh escaped me, the sound of tension leaving my body. My jaw went slack. I stood, hands folded behind my back, chest puffed out. As if I was a soldier, presenting myself for inspection.

"That's it," he murmured. "Good. Don't overthink."

The camera clicked. Then again. My eyes stayed half-lidded, breath deep and slow. My whole body felt heavier, somehow. A warm feeling enveloped my lower body.

It felt... good.

When we posted the photo from that day, the top comment raved about my 'erotic appeal'. This one feels different. Like he's letting you in. Erotic without trying. God-tier.

Janine read it aloud over her iced coffee, then gave me a look. Sympathetic. A little confused. "I thought we'd gotten rid of all the degenerates." She shook her head, braids flying. "Want me to handle it?"

"No", I said, a little quick. "Let's keep that one."

---

I never did end up telling Cameron about the Sunday I'd jacked off. Just bottled it up and stuffed it inside, and carried on. Stiff upper lip and all that bollocks.

It wasn't perfect. But truth be told, I didn't have the energy to deal with it. Whatever the fuck 'it' was. Between training and photo shoots, I felt constantly drained. And as if I didn't have enough on my plate already, I knew that I now had to wrangle the BOA.

Fucking BOA. Bloody Oxbridge-slick wankers who've never sweated a day in their lives. You'd think, what with all their six-figure salaries and cosy board meetings, they'd spare a fiver for the athletes doing the actual graft. Nah. Not their style. Smile for the cameras, carry the flag, then sod off and wonder how you're paying rent. Despite everything I'd given them--silver in '16, bronze in '20--they'd had precious little hesitation pulling the plug on my '24 ambitions. British Olympic Association, they called themselves. In my view they were more like Bunch Of Arseholes.

But as much as I hated the arrogant pricks at the association, I'd need to cosy up to them if I wanted a shot at the final team. So I emailed them. Cameron peered over my shoulder as I typed it out in his studio, offering a suggestion here, a word there. I'd never been good with words, but under his direction, my fumbling fingers managed to write something that looked halfway presentable.

It wasn't like I thought they'd roll out a red carpet. I just needed to know what hoops to jump through. Thought maybe, if I sounded polite enough, professional enough, they'd treat me like less of a washed-up pervert with a dodgy side hustle.

They hadn't replied in three weeks.

Not a peep.

No call. No email. Just silence, humming smugly in my inbox.

"You'll need to qualify at the British Nationals," my old coach had said, when I finally tracked him down. "That's your best shot. You show up in shape and stick your dives, they have to consider you. Even those BOA stiffs can't ignore the scoreboard."

So that was the plan.

Train like hell. Make weight. Hit the metrics. Show up to Nationals in March and make enough noise they couldn't look away.

Even if they hated me. Even if they'd already pencilled in some baby-faced TikTok diver from Surrey to carry the bloody flag.

I wasn't going quietly.

---

Eventually, they called me back.

"Is this Mr. Edward Turner?" the voice asked. Female. Clipped. Too posh to work reception.

"This is Ed, yeah."

"This is Helena from the BOA Performance Directorate. I'm responding to your recent inquiry." No last name, no position - another faceless bureaucratic lackey. She spoke with the kind of voice that let you know you'd already been judged and filed. I suppressed the urge to sneer.

"We've reviewed your request. Given your hiatus from the professional circuit, we'd need to assess your candidacy in line with updated selection criteria."

Translation: We don't like you, but we can't say that out loud.

"I'm already training. Working with Lenny again, diving six days a week. I'll be match-fit in time for Nationals."

A pause on her end. Then: "That would be a prerequisite, yes. A top-three finish in your event at British Nationals is mandatory. Additionally, we'll require a medical clearance and a current anti-doping certification through UKAD."

"I'll sort both," I said. "What else?"

Another pause. I could hear the doubt in it.

"A panel review will be conducted in April, post-trials. You're encouraged to liaise with British Swimming for technical approval. And if I may suggest, Mr. Turner--public discretion would be wise during this process."

There it was. The not-so-veiled warning. Keep it quiet. Keep it clean. I hung up without saying what I wanted to say.

Instead, I called Lenny. Told him to set up the UKAD paperwork and book a blood test. Reached out to a mate who still worked with British Swimming and got myself pencilled in for the selection camp. Pulled every thread I had left, even the ones that were frayed and half-burned.

Cameron found me that night, sitting on the floor of his studio, surrounded by forms and open tabs. "You look like you're applying for a mortgage," he said.

"Feels more like a security clearance."

He didn't ask what it was for. Just crouched beside me and nudged a protein bar toward my elbow. "Whatever they're asking for," he said softly, "they won't find anyone who wants it more than you do."

I didn't say anything. Just tore the wrapper open with my teeth, and kept going.

---

Some days, I didn't even make it home.

I'd train hard in the morning--legs wobbling on the walk to the showers--then drag myself to Cameron's studio for a shoot I didn't have the energy for. Barely say a word. Hit the poses. Then sit down on the little two-seater near the windows "just for a minute"--and wake up two hours later with my neck cricked and a blanket tucked under my chin.

Cameron never made a thing of it.

He'd just glance up from his desk, murmur a quiet "Evening," and hand me a glass of water before I'd even opened my mouth.

The man was infuriatingly consistent. Always a warm room. Always a clean towel. Always the exact right level of not-speaking when I was too tired to talk.

Sometimes Janine would be there, headphones around her neck, chirping out analytics like we were stock traders. She'd plop down next to me mid-yawn and say something like, "Your engagement rate's going up--unlike your eyelids, apparently."

I'd groan. She'd giggle. Cameron would glance at us both like we were unruly children he'd agreed to supervise.

It became a rhythm. Shoot, crash, recover. Repeat.

I never stayed the night--Cameron's flat was barely a one-bed and I still had some scrap of pride--but I crashed on that couch more times than I cared to count. Always woke up with something warm over me. A blanket. Once even his hoodie. Always folded. Always quiet.

It wasn't a big thing. But it was.

And slowly, without meaning to, I came to depend on it. On the way Cameron's voice didn't change when I was short-tempered or monosyllabic. On the way Janine knew exactly when to pull up a stupid meme to make me snort into my protein bar. On the way the studio didn't feel like a workplace anymore. More like a bunker. A soft little war room for one very stupid, very stubborn campaign.

I'd never say it out loud--not to them, not to myself--but that room started to feel like the safest place I knew. Even if I never let myself stay long enough to call it home.

---

It was Janine who first called me out on my horseshite.

I walked into the studio late that Friday--bags under my eyes, shoulders slumped, shirt still damp from the afternoon's pool session--and barely had time to grunt before she put down her laptop, narrowed her eyes, and pointed dramatically.

"Nope. Absolutely not."

"What?" I said.

She marched over like a woman on a mission. Gave me a once-over. Then a twice-over. Her face was the picture of exaggerated horror.

"You look like a sleep-deprived Victorian chimney sweep."

"Cheers."

"You're not doing a shoot today," she declared. "You're going to sit down, eat something with carbs, and not take your top off unless it's for comfort."

Cameron appeared behind her, a mug of tea in one hand. "She's right," he said mildly. "You're barely vertical."

I blinked. "So what, we just... not work?" Even as I said it, I recoiled. It sounded pathetic. Limp-wristed.

"We live in a society," Janine said solemnly, pushing me into a chair. "And sometimes society says: Pictionary."

---

They set up at Cameron's tiny dining table, which barely seated three without someone elbowing the radiator. Janine found a battered pad of sketch paper and a box of half-dried markers. Cameron brewed tea. I sat there, stunned, unsure how I'd been hijacked by two people who talked in the calm tones of a cult intervention.

We played for hours.

Janine was terrible at drawing but made up for it with sheer theatrical commitment. Cameron turned out to be unnervingly competitive. I mostly heckled, drank peppermint tea, and laughed more in one evening than I had in months.

Cameron drew me once--stick figure, hairy chest, tiny speedo. I demanded a copy. He blushed faintly and pretended he'd throw it out.

We posted that night anyway. Not a shoot. Just a blurry photo Janine snapped of me mid-laugh, hand over my face, slouched between them at the table. A mug in front of me. Markers everywhere. I looked like shit.

Caption: "Even Olympians need rest days. ????????????️"

It got more likes than anything we'd posted all week.

---

Dinner ended up being takeaway from the little curry shop down the road--light, fragrant, just spicy enough to cut through the long week. Janine had insisted on garlic naan "for morale". It wasn't what my nutritionist had prescribed, but I'd devoured it like a starving man. It wasn't just nutrition--with every bite, I'd felt like it was feeding my soul.

After dinner, I slumped at the table, warm, sated, head resting in folded arms. Janine had helped Cameron wash up, and left with a kiss on both our cheeks and a warning not to burn the place down in her absence.

Now the flat was quiet. The kitchen was clean, lights dimmed, the hum of the fridge barely audible beneath the creak of old floorboards.

I lay on the couch--my couch, I was starting to think of it--as the food settled into my bones and the exhaustion settled deeper. Not the bone-deep fatigue of training, but something gentler. Heavier in a different way. I felt warm. A little giddy. The kind of softness that sneaks up on you and makes you forget what you were so tightly wound about in the first place.

I wasn't asleep. Not yet. Just... still.

Cameron appeared without a word. Moved across the room like a shadow, barefoot, quiet. He draped the blanket over me, just as he had so many times before.

But this time, instead of walking away, he paused. Stood there for a moment.

Then: "You good?"

I opened one eye. "Think so."

"You look... peaceful."

"I'm full of curry and being held together by rice and residual affection. Don't ruin it."

He gave a faint smile. The kind that barely lifted one side of his mouth. "Wasn't planning to."

The room stayed quiet for a long moment. Just the two of us. Lamplight. The smell of turmeric. The blanket warm over my legs, his hand still barely grazing the edge of it.

"You do a lot," I murmured.

"What?"

I swallowed. "For me. You do a lot."

He didn't move. Didn't speak. But after a moment, he sat down on the floor beside the couch, leaning back against the wall. Close. Not touching, but near enough I could feel the calm of him. "That's alright," he said softly. "I don't mind."

I didn't answer.

Didn't need to.

I just let the silence hold us both, and closed my eyes.

---

I must've drifted off not long after. The kind of sleep that slips in sideways--gentle, thick, like sinking into warm water.

And then, the dream.

I was walking down a quiet street, cobbled and golden, the buildings tall and old in that way that only money or history can preserve. I'd never been to Bath, not properly, but somehow I knew this was it. The air was cool, the kind that brushes the nape of your neck like a secret. The sky was soft with evening light, and everything smelled faintly of rain and rosemary.

I wasn't alone. There was someone walking beside me. I couldn't see their face. Didn't need to. I just knew. Their hand was in mine. Warm. Easy. The kind of touch you don't think about, because it's always been there.

We weren't speaking. Just walking. The silence between us wasn't heavy. It was full. Full of every word we didn't need to say. I remember the sensation most clearly: of our fingers laced, of my thumb brushing over their knuckle.

When I woke, the flat was dark and quiet. Pale moonlight filtered through a gap in the curtains.

And I had a hard-on that could've cracked stone.

I lay there, blinking at the ceiling, pulse ticking just a little too fast, the heat of the dream still curling at the edges of my skin.

Confused.

Not because I'd gotten hard. That happened. Morning wood was a fact of life. But because I still felt the hand in mine. Still felt the echo of that quiet joy. And because even in the hazy pull of sleep, I'd known--absolutely known--that the person walking beside me...

... was Cameron.

---

I still didn't know what the fuck was going on with me. The evidence had been mounting for some time. Cameron took up an unhealthy amount of my headspace. Not just a friend. My mind seemed to see him as something more. It was fucking weird, and I tried as hard as possible not to think about it.

So, I did what men do, and threw myself into my routine.

Mornings at the pool. Afternoons at the studio. Evenings full of protein, foam rollers, and the kind of bone-deep fatigue that made you forget how lonely you were. There wasn't a second to spare most days, but I liked it that way. Chaos kept the darker thoughts at bay.

It wasn't perfect. Nothing ever was. But I was holding it together--just about. Training hard. Eating clean. Sleeping like a corpse.

OnlyFans was ticking along, too. The numbers weren't exploding anymore, but they'd plateaued in a good place. Loyal fans. Solid income. A few weekly posts, sometimes candid, sometimes styled. Every so often I'd even enjoy it--not the posing, exactly, but the control. The agency. The fact that this was mine.

And Cameron--

Well. That was something I still didn't have a name for. But it made the days feel easier. And the nights feel less like a cliff edge.

So yeah. Things were hectic. Fast-paced. Hectic. But manageable. Right up until the morning I stopped by the corner shop to grab a protein bar and a bottle of water... and saw it.

There, bold and glossy, stacked beside the scratch cards and chewing gum:

"ATHLETE OR ESCORT? Inside the X-rated side hustle of one of Team GB's Olympic hopefuls"

My face. Right on the front page. Shirtless. One of our early shoots--the black-and-white one. Tasteful. Clean. Cropped just enough to make the reader's brain do the rest.

I stared at it for a long moment. Long enough for the man behind the till to clear his throat. I walked out, fists clenched tight, my gaze beginning to blur.

---

Cameron's flat smelled like coffee and old wood when I barged in.

Didn't knock. Didn't text ahead. Just stormed up the stairs, heart pounding, hand clenched around the rolled-up tabloid like it was evidence in a goddamn trial.

He was in the kitchen, rinsing out a mug. Calm. Peaceful. Fucking unbothered. I slammed the paper down on the table so hard the salt shaker jumped. Janine looked up from where she sat in the corner, eyes wide, shaken.

"Have you seen this?"

He turned. Took in my face first, then the headline. That photo. That fucking smirk the editors had probably added in post.

His expression didn't change. Which made it worse.

"I just found out," he said quietly.

"Oh, did you?" I snapped. "Funny innit, how everyone else seems to have known before me? D'you think my bloody mum has seen this? D'you think the BOA's gonna love this on top of everything else?"

Cameron didn't flinch. Just wiped his hands on a tea towel and stepped closer.

"It's garbage journalism. They pulled the image from a public post. The copy is vague enough not to get sued, but nasty enough to cause damage. That's how they work."

"Don't bloody lecture me on how the tabloids work," I barked. "I know how they work. What I want to know is how the fuck we let this happen."

Janine opened her mouth, but Cameron silenced her with a look. "We didn't let anything happen," he said, voice calm but firm. "We didn't post anything obscene. We never broke terms. We played it tasteful."

"Well, it doesn't look fucking tasteful, does it?"

I was shouting now. My hands were fists at my sides. My jaw tight enough to crack. The stress, confusion, bottled-up feelings--all of it churned up into a whirling storm inside me.

"Ed," he said softly.

"Don't. Don't say my name like that."

He took a breath. "You're not angry at the photos."

"Bollocks."

"You're angry because they made you feel ashamed of something you've taken pride in."

That stopped me. I blinked. Something hot welled up behind my ribs. I turned away, pacing like a cornered animal. Unable to meet his eyes.

"It's all falling apart," I muttered. "The BOA's going to see this and shut the door for good. All of it--for this. For a few sodding likes and captions and posing like a twat in someone's spare room--"

"My spare room," he said.

That made me look at him. And something in his face--steady, wounded, trying--made me falter.

"I believed in this," he said, quieter now. "I believed in you. Every single post we made, every shot, every caption--none of it was sleazy. None of it was a joke. It was yours. It still is."

I didn't know what to say to that.

So I said nothing. Just stood there, heaving, fists clenched, heart pounding like I was about to step onto the ten-metre. The storm swirled within me, emotions with no outlet. I wanted to scream, shout, somehow wipe that fucking implacable expression off his face.

Instead I turned, wordlessly. I stomped out of his living room, slamming the door behind me. The last thing I saw of him was the look of quiet hurt in his eyes.

---

We didn't speak for three days.

Cameron didn't message. I didn't check. Janine sent a single "Are you okay" and when I didn't reply, she left it. Probably guessed what kind of hole I was falling into. Maybe they both did.

I'd regretted lashing out the moment I slammed the door. Knew I'd let myself snap at the wrong people. Everything after that had been rage and momentum. The guilt tore at me from inside like a hot knife through butter. Why had I let myself go like that? I wanted to apologise. Text them back. But each time I reached for the phone, I remembered the hurt look on his face, and suddenly I couldn't bear thinking about it.

I stopped going to the gym. Skipped physio. Blew off training. Mostly I just sat in my studio flat, curtains drawn, watching dust gather in the corners. The OnlyFans app buzzed occasionally with new notifications. I didn't look at those either.

The bottle of scotch--gifted once, forgotten in the back of the cupboard--made it as far as the floor beside my bed. I drank it straight. Warm. Bitter. It didn't make me feel better. Just nothing. And that was good enough.

I don't remember texting him. I might not have. Might've just left the door unlocked, in that quiet, self-destructive way of people who hope someone will come find them, but can't bear to ask.

When Cameron showed up, it was past midnight. The hallway light flicked on. Then soft footsteps, and a familiar knock against the doorframe.

I was slumped on the edge of the bed, shirt damp with sweat, head pounding. The bottle was nearly empty. My body felt strange--floaty, burning around the edges. Like a fever had crept in while I wasn't paying attention.

He didn't say anything. Just stepped inside, dusting his jacket. Took one look at me, and crossed to the sink. Poured a glass of water. Handed it to me.

I stared at it. At him. Blinking slowly, vision blurry.

"What... are you doing here?" I said, voice rough.

"Checking on a friend," he said gently.

I felt something hot well up inside me. Clumsily I took the water. Drank it like it was the first thing I'd tasted all week.

"I fucked it," I muttered. "Everything. The training. The shoot. The press. All of it."

"You didn't."

"I did," I said, louder now. "I lost my temper. Blew up at the only people who've stood by me. And for what? Because some arsehole at the local rag knows how to make a headline?"

"You were hurt."

I looked at him then. Really looked. His hair was mussed. Eyes tired. He must've come straight from work. Or from bed.

"I feel like I've betrayed everything I've ever worked for," I whispered. My vision went a little blurry.

He didn't answer. Just sat beside me. Quiet. Close. A hand probed my forehead gently.

"Drink more," he said. "You're burning up."

He handed me two aspirin. I took them without thinking. Let my head fall to my hands. Everything felt too big. Too heavy.

"Relax for me, Ed." A voice crooned. The last thing I remembered was a soft thumb stroking my forehead.

---

I woke several hours later in a daze. The faint light of morning bled through the window. The scotch bottle was gone. So was the glass. My head still pounded, but there was a cool cloth resting on my forehead, and a blanket over my shoulders I didn't remember pulling up.

Cameron was there.

Asleep in the chair beside the bed. Still wearing the same clothes. Head tilted. The faint rise and fall of breath. That warm ache bloomed again. Hot, uneasy, right behind the sternum. It gnawed at me from within and made tears well up in my eyes.

No one else--no coach, no teammate, no sponsor--had ever taken care of me like that.

Just him.

I lay there for a long time, barely breathing, not wanting to disturb the moment. The cool cloth had fallen into my lap. The blanket was still tucked around my legs.

What had I done to deserve this?

Eventually, he stirred. Shifted. Blinked the sleep out of his eyes and looked at me. I held his gaze for a second, then dropped it. My throat felt dry. Every muscle ached.

"Thanks," I said. It came out quiet. Hoarse. Like it had fought its way through barbed wire just to reach the air. For a moment I struggled to convey more, to let the flood out from within me. But my mouth felt thick and stupid, and no words came out.

Cameron didn't say anything at first. Just stood. Crossed the room. Sat on the edge of the bed. I stared at my hands, heart thudding in my chest.

"I'm sorry," I said. Still barely above a whisper. "For yelling. For... all of it."

He reached out, slowly. Placed a hand on my shoulder. Just there. Warm. Steady.

"You were scared," he said.

"I was a prick."

"You're allowed to be both."

That made me laugh. Or something close to it. A broken little exhale through my nose. I looked at him then. Really looked. "You still want to do this?" I asked. "The account. The... project. After all this?"

He nodded. "Do you?"

I paused. Thought about it. Not just the money. Not just the posing or the training schedule or the brand deals we weren't getting. But what it meant now. What it was. A choice. A reclamation. A refusal to let the world define me with its tired little labels.

I nodded. "Yeah. I do."

Cameron smiled. Small. Real. The kind of smile that felt like a sunrise after a long storm. "Then we keep going," he said. And just like that, I felt something click back into place. Not the old shape of things. Not the athlete I'd been before the BOA or the bottle or the bedroom studio.

But someone new. Someone who chose this. Who stood in it. Who wasn't done yet.

---

We shot it the next day.

Cameron set up the lighting just like he always did--soft, clean, controlled--but this time it was my concept. I came in holding the tabloid. Same headline. Same grainy, overexposed photo on the front. ATHLETE OR ESCORT? still blaring in red like it was breaking news. I'd almost thrown it out a dozen times. But something in me had known we'd need it.

"What's the plan?" Cameron asked as I stepped onto the backdrop.

I smirked. "Give the people what they want."

He raised an eyebrow, curious but not objecting.

I stripped to the waist. Nothing risqué--just jeans slung low on my hips, bare chest, hair messy in that way Janine always insisted looked 'feral but marketable.'

Then I held the tabloid up in one hand. Not covering anything. Just there. A prop. A punchline. I angled my body half toward the lens. Dropped one eyebrow. Let my mouth curl into something halfway between a grin and a dare.

Cameron lifted the camera. Click. Click.

He didn't speak. Didn't need to. The energy in the room had shifted. I wasn't braced anymore. I wasn't hiding. I was owning it. After a dozen or so frames, I dropped the paper and looked at him.

"Did we get it?"

He checked the screen. Nodded once. "Oh yeah."

We posted it that evening.

Caption: "Athlete and Escort? Guess Daddy's just good at multitasking. ????????????????"

Tasteful. Smirking. Above board. The comments exploded. Some of them laughed. Some applauded. Some drooled. A few tried to be outraged. But I didn't care. Because for the first time since the whole thing started, I felt like I was driving the story again.

And it felt bloody fucking good.

---

I didn't expect it to blow up.

We posted the photo, had a laugh, moved on. Didn't think the press would care for anything that didn't involve a sex tape or a punch thrown at a nightclub.

But two days later, there I was. Third page of the bloody Telegraph.

Not some sleazy sidebar, either. A full story. Half a spread. High-res photo of me holding the rag, smirking like I'd just been crowned Miss Fucking Congeniality. The journalist had called it "defiant," "tongue-in-cheek," "strangely regal." Even used the phrase 'a new model of athlete--gritty, entrepreneurial, and unashamed.' I had to read that bit twice. Then a third time, just to make sure it was real.

I thought I'd get backlash. Maybe a second wave of ridicule. But what I got was... something else entirely.

The messages started rolling in. First from mutuals--other athletes. Some Olympians. Some just guys I'd trained alongside over the years. People I barely knew. A nod at the gym. A name I half-remembered from a locker room four years ago.

They weren't long. Just: Saw the piece. Respect. Or: Glad someone finally said it. A few said nothing at all. Just a thumbs-up emoji. One just sent, "Fucking legend."

And then, slowly, people started showing up in person. Little moments. Quiet, private. A lad from the sprint team slapped me on the back after warm-ups. "Fucking Telegraph," he said. "You're famous now, mate." A gymnast I'd never spoken to leaned in during cooldown and murmured, "They tried to cut my funding last year. Started a Patreon. BOA stiff told me to delete it. Bunch of assholes." Another just offered a protein bar and said, "Solidarity, bruv."

It knocked the wind out of me, honestly. For years, it felt like we'd all been suffering in silence. Pretending we were fine. Pretending the system wasn't grinding us into the dirt. But now? Now I wasn't alone in it.

And then the real kicker. A reply from Mark.

Mark fucking Leland. My old performance coach. The same one who'd ignored three of my emails. The one I thought had written me off entirely.

Just one line.

If you're serious about Nationals, I'll vouch. Let's talk.

I stared at the message for a full five minutes before I showed it to Cameron. He looked at me. Quiet. Measured. Like he knew what it meant.

"Well," he said. "I guess you're back on the map."

I didn't say anything. Just nodded. And for the first time in months, maybe years--I felt like I belonged there. Not because I begged. But because I earned it.

---

Nationals came fast.

One minute I was knee-deep in physio exercises and last-minute coaching calls, the next I was standing poolside under the glare of stadium lights, muscles loose, heart steady, the air around me thick with chlorine and adrenaline.

I didn't choke. Didn't even wobble.

First dive: clean. Second: tighter. By the third, I was grinning before I hit the water. It wasn't rage. Wasn't defiance. It was joy. Pure, feral, uncut joy.

My body knew what it was doing. Every twist, every spin, every breath timed to the beat of muscle memory I thought I'd buried two years ago. When I climbed the platform for the final dive, I wasn't nervous.

I was ready. I launched like I'd never stopped. The splash barely rippled. When I surfaced, I was smiling so wide my jaw ached.

Didn't care.

The scoreboard lit up. Top marks. First place.

Qualified.

Paris-bound.

---

That night, back in Cameron's studio, we didn't do anything fancy.

No sets. No concept. Just me. Still damp from the pool, wearing the Union Jack warm-up jacket open over bare skin. Hair wild. Medal still slung around my neck.

I sat on the stool. Looked straight down the lens. Smirked.

Cameron raised the camera. "Ready?" he asked.

"I've never been readier."

Click. Click.

The shot we posted that night was simple. Powerful. Honest.

Caption: "We're going to Paris."

---

As Cameron set the camera down, I looked at him. Really looked. In the quiet, my mind raced. It felt like the events of the day finally had time to catch up and sink in for real.

I was going to Paris.

Something shifted in my chest. A slow, tidal surge of gratitude so fierce it caught me off guard. He'd stood by me through the worst of it. Through the shame, the silence, the nights I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. And now here I was. Whole. Because of him.

I didn't think. Didn't warn. I just stepped forward and barrelled into him. His arms tensed in shock. He gasped--sharp, involuntary--equal parts surprise and delight. Finally, I thought, finally, I'd found out how to wipe that placid look off his face.

I crushed him to me, shaking, breath ragged, clutching at his slender frame like a drowning man clinging to driftwood. My eyes were hot. My face was wet. "Thank you," I whispered, my voice thick, mouth half-buried in the curve of his neck. I bled hot tears into the fabric of his collar. "Christ, Cameron. Thank you for not giving up on me."

His arms wrapped around me then. Firm. Steady. Not pulling me closer--just holding.

And for a long moment, I didn't need to say anything else.

Because he already knew.

---

It turned out the BOA weren't totally useless after all.

A week after Nationals, I got another call. Same clipped voice. Same careful tone, like they didn't quite want to admit I'd proven them wrong.

"Congratulations, Mr. Turner," she said. "You've been approved for final Olympic delegation. Your flight and accommodations will be covered by the committee. You're cleared to compete in Paris."

I let her finish. Took the news like a soldier being handed his next deployment. Didn't smile. Didn't laugh. Just said, "Right. Thanks," and hung up. Then I sat on my bed and stared at the wall for a full minute, stunned.

It was happening.

Paris.

Two tickets came with the package. For family. Or friends. Or whoever the hell mattered. I called my mum that evening, pacing the pavement outside Cameron's studio. She answered after two rings.

"Edward! It's so lovely to hear from you. I saw your name in the paper again. You've been quite the scandal, haven't you?"

"Mum, I'm going to Paris."

There was a pause. Then: "I know." Her voice was full of warmth. There was a brief rustle of newspaper. "Your mother and I are very proud of you, son", came my father's gruff voice.

"I've got two tickets," I said. "For the event. For the village."

"That's lovely, dear," she said. "But I think your father and I will cheer you on from home, if that's alright."

My heart dipped. "You sure?"

She laughed. "Edward. We're getting old. Your father barely makes it to the kitchen without needing a sit-down. And I've had quite enough airports for one lifetime."

"Right," I said. "Fair."

There was a pause. I was about to hang up when she added, softly:

"Besides... I've got a feeling you already know who those tickets are really for."

I didn't say anything. Just stood there, flushed, smiling stupidly at the cracks in the pavement.

She always knew. Even before I did.

---

I handed Janine her ticket first. It felt like the lighter of the two by far.

We were in the studio, midday light spilling through the windows, the air still smelling faintly of old coffee and sweat. She looked up as I lumbered over awkwardly, proffering an envelope in one hand. "Is this--" she started, taking it. "Yeah," I said. "You're coming to Paris."

She squealed. Actually squealed. Then lunged forward, wrapping me in a flower-scented hug that nearly knocked me into the backdrop. "Oh my God, Ed," she said, already grabbing her phone. "I need to book a wax. And maybe learn French. Do you think I'll fall in love on the Metro?"

"Just try not to start an international incident," I muttered. But I was grinning. Somehow, over the course of months, she'd grown on me. She blew me a kiss, grabbed her bag, and bolted out the door like she'd just been invited to a royal wedding.

The studio went quiet again. Just me and Cameron. He was leaning against the far table, arms folded, watching me. Calm, as always. But I saw it--the faint question in his eyes.

I swallowed. Pulled the second envelope from my back pocket. Walked it over. Didn't say much. Just held it out. He took it slowly. Looked down at the name printed in black ink. Then back up at me.

"You sure?" he asked.

I nodded. "Wouldn't be going without you."

It came out quieter than I meant it to. He stared at me for a long moment. Something unreadable in his eyes. My heart felt full. There was so much more I wanted to say than that. But I couldn't quite put it into words. So I just stood there, looking at him. Trusting that he'd understand anyway.

His eyes softened. And he smiled a rare smile.

"I've always wanted to go to Paris."

---

Touching down felt surreal.

Even now, I half-expected someone to tap me on the shoulder and say there'd been a mistake. That I was meant to be back in Whitechapel, scrolling through subscriber comments and rinsing out protein shakers, not here--Olympic accreditation dangling around my neck, passport still warm in my hand, standing at Charles de Gaulle with a branded duffel bag and a Union Jack windbreaker.

The BOA reps met us at the terminal. They were efficient, polished, suspiciously polite. One of them--ponytail, clipboard, heels clicking far too aggressively for someone in a hospitality role--gave me a once-over like she was making a mental note of how little press access to grant me.

I grinned at her. Big. Smug. Didn't say a word.

Cameron walked beside me, quiet and observant, eyes flicking across the cavernous airport like he was framing shots in his head. I caught him looking at me once, when he didn't think I'd notice.

I noticed. Christ, did I notice.

Janine bounced along behind us, voice bright and full of nervous energy. "Do you think we'll get to meet that swimmer with the neck tattoos?" she whispered as we were herded toward the shuttle. "He liked one of our posts. I checked."

"Focus, Janine."

"I am focused. Focused on living my best life."

The ride from the airport was oddly quiet. The three of us pressed together in the shuttle seats, crammed between other athletes, officials, and hangers-on. Everyone looked the same--headphones in, eyes glazed, somewhere between jetlagged and vibrating.

But when we passed the Seine and I caught sight of the Eiffel Tower out the window, something caught in my throat.

Cameron followed my gaze. Said nothing. But his knee brushed mine gently. Deliberate. Just once. And I didn't pull away.

---

We dropped Cameron and Janine off at the Ritz-Carlton.

It was ridiculous. Gold trim on the door handles. A chandelier the size of a small car hanging in the lobby. Staff in white gloves gliding about like they were allergic to footsteps.

Janine looked like she might actually combust. "Oh my God," she whispered, clinging to her roller bag. "This place has valet orchids. I don't even know what that means, but I'm obsessed."

Cameron just looked mildly amused. The corner of his mouth curled slightly as he took it all in--the marble floors, the way the air smelled like citrus and money. I stood there awkwardly, suddenly aware of how wrinkled my tracksuit was, how heavy my duffel felt slung across my back.

A concierge glided up to take their names. Janine was already halfway to the elevator, practically vibrating. Cameron turned back.

"Text me when you're settled in," he said.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Will do."

He hesitated. Then took a small step forward. Not touching me--he never touched first--but close enough that I felt it.

"You alright?"

I nodded. Then shook my head.

"Don't know. Bit rattled. It's a lot."

He gave the smallest nod. Like he knew that already. Like he'd expected me to say it. Then he did something I didn't expect.

He leaned in. Close. And said, so quietly I barely caught it, "You've already made it. The rest is just noise."

Before I could reply, he was gone--turning toward the elevator, hands in his pockets, disappearing into gold and glass.

---

The Olympic Village hadn't changed.

Every corridor hummed with nerves and adrenaline and a barely-repressed undercurrent of libido. You could practically taste the tension in the air--jittery, charged, barely contained.

It was like being trapped in a five-star boarding school full of the most beautiful people in the world... all of whom had just hit peak physical form and been told to blow off steam.

It didn't take long. By midday the next day, things had devolved into what they always did: flirtations over protein shakes, eye-fucks in the weight room, bodies brushing just a little too close during cooldowns.

I'd partaken in years past. Hookups were practically tradition. No one judged. Half the time you didn't even swap last names.

But this time... I wasn't feeling it.

I turned down two offers at breakfast--one from a sprinter with thighs like carved marble, another from a swimmer who bit her straw when she smiled. Later, a very friendly decathlete sat down beside me in the rec hall, stretched lazily, and murmured something about "massaging tension out of tight places." I muttered something noncommittal, stood, and left him sitting there confused.

I wasn't disgusted. Wasn't even disinterested. My body still worked. My cock reminded me of that constantly. But somehow I ached for something different.

Back in my room that night, I lay on the stiff mattress, scrolling idly before tapping open FaceTime. It rang twice. Then Janine's face filled the screen--already flushed, already tipsy, grinning like a cat in cream.

"Bonsoir, monsieur!" she sang, martini glass in hand. "How's the accommodations?"

"Quiet," I muttered. "Crowded."

She laughed. "I'm already two olives deep and planning to seduce a fencing coach."

"Classy."

"Always."

She leaned back, revealing the elegant suite behind her--tall ceilings, warm lighting, everything gilded and unnecessarily plush. I watched it all enviously, imagining myself there instead of being trapped in horny Olympic jail.

"Cameron around?" I asked.

Her eyes twinkled. "He's in the shower."

Something twisted low in my gut. I shouldn't have reacted to that. But I did, instantly. The image bloomed in my mind without permission--Cameron under a stream of hot water, eyes closed, hair slicked back, water tracing down his chest, over the subtle, wiry muscles he never showed off.

My cock stirred beneath the blanket. Then stiffened. Then throbbed. I shifted slightly, breath catching. "Want me to tell him you called?" Janine asked, sipping her drink with theatrical innocence.

"Nah," I rasped. "It's fine. Just tell him... I'll see him tomorrow."

"Will do," she said, already turning away. "I'll leave the bathroom door open for you next time."

She winked. And ended the call.

I lay there, hard and aching and ridiculously aware of the emptiness beside me. Of the heat behind my ribs. Of the way his name sat in my mouth like a secret I didn't know how to say out loud yet.

---

I couldn't sleep.

The room was too bright, too sterile, too full of the wrong kind of silence. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, the scratchy Olympic-issue blanket pulled halfway down my thighs. My skin felt tight. My breath shallow. The afterimage of Janine's voice and Cameron's absence still flickering in my chest.

And then, through the paper-thin wall, the noises started. Soft at first. Indistinct. Then unmistakable. A low moan. The rhythmic creak of mattress springs. A sharp gasp muffled by what was probably a pillow. Whoever was next door wasn't shy. Or quiet. Or alone.

I closed my eyes. Tried to breathe past it. But my body had already caught the signal. Heat pulsed low in my belly, coiling, thickening. My cock twitched against the waistband of my briefs. Already semi-hard from earlier. Now surging.

I turned over, tried to ignore it. Didn't work.

Cameron in the shower came flooding back--his bare chest slick with water, the quiet way he laughed sometimes, the curve of his neck where I'd buried my face only days ago.

I groaned softly. My hand drifted down. Hesitated. Then slipped beneath the waistband.

I wasn't proud. But I needed it.

My fingers curled around the length of me, thick and stiff and painfully hard. I exhaled sharply, thumb brushing over the head--wet already. Christ.

I started slow. Eyes closed, hips still, the kind of movement that was more about grounding myself than chasing a high. But the sounds from next door kept going. Moans. A slap. A laugh. Skin on skin. And the ache in my gut kept growing.

I stroked harder. Faster.

The slide of my palm over my cock was hot, slick, desperate. In the dark confines of my solitary room, my chest rose and fell in sharp breaths, puncutating the heady silence. I lay there, jaw clenched, trying to stay quiet, like I was hiding something sacred, as I fisted myself furiously.

I thought of Cameron. His hands. His voice. I imagined him here. Leaning over me, one hand guiding mine. His lips brushing the shell of my ear. The warm pressure of his body, grounding, steady, close.

"Relax for me, Ed..."

"Fuck," I whispered, barely audible.

I tightened my grip, stroking fast now, hips flexing up into the rhythm. It built too quickly. No romance, no finesse. Just pure, body-deep need.

My thoughts spun, whirling, forming a maelstrom. Thoughts sprang unbidden from the depths of my subconscious. I thought of nights spent on his couch, warm blankets draped over me. Of days spent posing for him, unknowingly erect, intimately exposed, eyes glassy and ready to follow his every instruction. Of a soft thumb, stroking my forehead as I'd drifted off to sleep, hurt, confused, running a fever. Of an imagined memory, seeming almost real, of walking down the streets of Bath in the autumn, warm fingers laced through mine.

"Cameron--!" I bit back my voice.

When I came, it was with a shudder. A low, strangled groan, muffled into the pillow. My release spattered across my stomach. Hot. Sharp. Relentless. I lay there afterward, breath slowing, chest slick with sweat and cum, the room suddenly very still. Very quiet.

I didn't reach for tissues. Didn't move at all. Just lay there, panting, spent, my cum crusting the hair on my belly as it cooled. And for the first time, I let myself think it--fully, consciously, without shame.

I wanted him.

---

In any case, I didn't have much time to dwell on it. Mark Leland set a strict schedule leading up to competition day. Up at six. Dynamic warm-up. Light drills with Leland barking orders. Protein. Stretch. Ice. Hydration. More drills. Same shit I could've done at Loughborough, except here everything smelled faintly of antibacterial wipes and collective nerves.

The Olympic Village was efficient, sure. Neat. Full of smiling volunteers and branded signage and signs reminding you to hydrate. But it still felt like a holding pen. Like the athletes were the cargo--polished, tested, press-ready--while the rest of the city spun on like a carousel we weren't allowed to ride.

I'd tried to shake it off. Keep the blinkers on. Focus. But the surrealism of it all kept catching me sideways.

We were the reason this whole machine existed--us, our bodies, our years of sacrifice. And somehow, we were the ones trapped. Shuttled between training halls and nutrition tents like livestock. Keep moving. Keep smiling. No distractions.

Outside, Paris pulsed with life. You could feel it even from the sterilised bubble of the village--through the news feeds, the faint roar of distant crowds, the occasional glimpse of fireworks over the skyline.

But we weren't part of it. We were here--performing, waiting, watching.

---

After evening stretch, I lay flat on the scratchy BOA-issue bedspread, hamstrings aching, phone screen balanced on my chest.

The call came through just after nine. I picked up without thinking. Cameron and Janine. Faces already flushed, street noise blaring behind them. I could hear the tinny thump of music, the distant lilt of French being shouted with enthusiasm and no regard for traffic.

"Ed! Guess what just happened," Janine said, eyes sparkling like she'd swallowed a disco ball.

"You punched a mime?"

"Close. A man in a beret tried to flirt with me by reciting Baudelaire and offering me a cigarette."

"Sounds like Paris."

"He was seventy."

"Still Paris."

She spun the camera round--blurry shapes, bright lights, crowds gathered around a giant screen where highlights from the day's events looped like a hymn. People waved little flags. Someone popped a champagne bottle off-frame. I watched it all, transfixed, soaking in the bright world through a tiny glass screen.

Cameron leaned into view a moment later, calm as ever. "We're on Rue de Rivoli. There's a viewing party by Hôtel de Ville. Janine's been collecting free wine."

"I earned it," she muttered.

He didn't correct her. Just angled the lens to catch the street--lit golden, alive with noise, the Eiffel Tower sparkling distantly like some myth made real. I watched, silent. My room felt barren by comparison. Like I was stuck in a dentist's office with ambitions.

"Looks mad," I said.

"You alright?" Cameron asked.

I shrugged. "Just... weird. Being here. Training like it's any other week while the whole bloody world's losing its mind five minutes away. Feels like we're ghosts."

He tilted his head. "You're not."

"Could've fooled me. We do all the work, and still get treated like high-value luggage. Carry-on only. Don't speak. Don't stray."

"Still better than being home," Janine pointed out.

I thought of my flat in Whitechapel. Lonely, run-down, isolated. "Yeah. Suppose it is."

There was a pause. Just long enough for the noise of Paris to pour in. Distant horns. Laughter. The low boom of a bass speaker echoing through the stones.

"You'll get your moment," Cameron said, softer now. "All of this--it's just waiting. But your stage is coming."

Something in my throat twisted. I looked at him, really looked, and for a moment I wanted to say something honest. Something dangerous.

Instead, I just cleared my throat. "Keep her out of trouble, will you?"

"Hey!" Janine said, scandalised.

Cameron smiled. "No promises."

They stayed on the line for a while longer. Just wandering. Talking shit. Laughing too loudly at dumb street signs and pointing out dogs in tiny scarves. I didn't say much. Just listened. Let their voices fill the sterile air of my room like it meant something. Like it could hold me up from the inside.

When I finally hung up, it was close to midnight. The Village was dead quiet. My muscles were already tightening for the next day. But my head felt clearer.

Somehow, in the middle of the most crowded city in the world, it took two people on a blurry screen to make me feel less alone.

So went my days and nights, right up till competition day.

---

It was the night before the men's ten-metre prelim. The room beside me was uncharacteristically silent. No sounds of fucking tonight. Oh, sure, athletes might screw around on off days, but when it came time to perform, everyone had come here with serious intentions of giving their all.

I lay awake, restless.

Not that I was panicking. I wasn't one for nerves, generally. Never had been. Not really. I was the sort who did the work, took the hits, showed up anyway. Nerves were for kids and prima donnas.

But tonight--something buzzed beneath my skin. Not fear. Not even adrenaline. Just... a hum. Like I was forgetting something. Or like something was waiting to be said, and it wouldn't leave me alone until I said it.

The room was dark, save for the green LED on the kettle and the faint glow from the hallway light under the door. I lay on top of the covers in my shorts, one arm thrown over my eyes, the other resting uselessly on my chest. My breath was shallow. I felt stupidly warm.

Eventually, without really thinking, I reached for my phone. Thumb hovered for a second. Then I tapped his name.

It rang twice. Cameron answered, voice low, drowsy. "You alright?"

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry. Didn't wake you, did I?"

"Little bit. But it's fine."

He sounded like he meant it. Still had that calm cadence, even half-asleep. I imagined him in the Ritz, shirtless in a stupidly plush bed with too many pillows. That mental image did not help the restlessness in my chest.

"Couldn't sleep," I muttered.

A pause. "Are you nervous?"

"No," I said, too quickly. Then: "Maybe."

He let that hang. Didn't fill the space with platitudes. Just waited.

"I keep thinking," I said, "about how fucking weird this all is. That I'm here at all. That they let me come back. That I didn't just... rot in a flat somewhere."

"Not weird," Cameron said softly. "Just rare. Hard-fought."

"Yeah, well. I didn't get here on my own."

He didn't say anything. Which was fine. I wasn't fishing. I was just--clearing the air. Out of my own bloody head for once.

"I mean it," I said. "This whole thing--OnlyFans, the training, Nationals, Paris--none of it would've happened if you hadn't... backed me. Stuck around. Made me look like something other than a washed-up tosser."

"You did that," he said, voice firm enough to surprise me. "We did it. Together."

I swallowed. "You know what I mean. You gave me something to hold onto. Something to believe in again. And I've been too much of a wanker to say it properly, so--"

"Thank you." I said it in a rush, like I was letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My eyes teared up a little bit. "Thank you for everything."

There was a long silence on the line. Not heavy. Just full. Then Cameron chuckled--quiet, sheepish. "I don't really know what to say to that. I don't think anyone's ever thanked me for taking photos of their arse before."

I huffed. "I didn't say that was the bit I was grateful for."

"Too late. It's canon now."

I let the laugh come. Small, stupid. But real.

Another pause. Then, quieter now: "You sure you're alright?"

I nodded, then realised he couldn't see me. "Yeah. Just needed to hear your voice, I think."

A beat. "You'll be brilliant tomorrow."

I closed my eyes. Let the words sit. Let myself believe them. "Thanks," I murmured.

"Anytime."

We didn't say goodnight. Just... let the call end when it needed to. And when I finally lay back down, phone on my chest, heart still buzzing--I felt steady. Not calm. Not cured. But... held. Somehow. By the voice on the other end of the line.

---

Friday, the 9th of August.

Mark had made us all hang calendars in our rooms. Actual paper calendars, like it was 1998. Said it helped focus the brain. "Visual reinforcement," he'd called it. I'd called bollocks at the time, but I still hung mine on the back of the door and circled this date in red, like he told me to.

Now it stared at me like a witness.

I'd woken up before the alarm. Body clock on edge, nerves humming like power lines. The sky outside was still bruised with dawn, the village quiet save for the occasional creak of floorboards and the low whirr of an electric scooter outside.

I lay still for a moment. Let the silence sink in. Then swung my legs off the bed and started the routine.

---

Warm-up. Core primer. Mobility drills. A scoop of protein stirred into a plastic shaker that had long since started to smell faintly of defeat. Then shower. Compression shorts. Kit bag. The whole thing felt surreal in its normality.

This was it. The big day. The culmination of years. Of ache and blood and pride swallowed like bitter pills. And I was brushing my teeth like it was Tuesday.

---

Mark met me downstairs by the gym. No preamble, no rah-rah talk. Just a firm nod, a clipboard, and a precise warm-up plan. Dynamic stretches. Fast-twitch activation.

"Get your hips alive," he said, tapping his pen against his palm like a metronome.

I didn't need him to say more. Didn't want him to. I knew what had to be done. The body was ready. The mind would follow. Still, as I moved through the drills--shoulder rolls, squat pulses, vertical jumps--I felt the weight of it pressing down.

Not pressure. Not quite.

Something heavier. Something closer to... honour.

That I'd made it here at all. That I'd clawed my way back from the void. That I had people--Cameron, Janine, even bloody Mark--who'd shown up for me, again and again.

I owed them more than medals.

I owed them this--this stillness, this focus, this moment on the edge.

---

We walked to the transport shuttle in silence. My kitbag bounced lightly against my hip. My heart was steady. My hands were warm.

Mark handed me a pack of mints. Said they helped with dry mouth. I took one, rolled it on my tongue. Felt the ice in my gut clear.

As we climbed into the shuttle, I checked my phone one last time. A single message from Cameron. "You've already made it. Now show them what that looks like." Beneath it: "Janine here! Go crush it, Daddy. XOXO".

I didn't reply.

Just stared at the screen for a moment. Let the words burn themselves in.

Then I slipped the phone into my bag, leaned back in the seat, and closed my eyes.

---

It was time.

I stood on the precipice, my mind blank and focused. The roar of wind in my ears felt faint and distant, like a breeze along a distant shore. The noise, the lights, the shape of the arena--it all smudged at the edges. Nothing existed beyond the stretch of platform beneath my feet and the sound of my breath in my own ears.

I was in it. Not hyped. Not nervous. Just... there. Like the body had taken over, and the mind was along for the ride.

Each step felt pre-programmed. Walk to the end. Check the wind. Set the stance. Hands steady. Knees soft. Chin forward. The air was cold on my ribs. I barely felt it.

Somewhere, distantly, I heard my name over the speaker. "Edward Turner. Great Britain." There was a round of applause. Faint. Filtered. Like it was happening through a pane of glass.

Then silence. Real silence. The kind that drops just before a leap.

---

I didn't think. Didn't question. Just moved.

Arms swept. Knees bent. The board rose to meet me. And I was airborne.

Time dilated. Everything snapped into place. Twist. Tuck. Hold. Eyes locked on the blur of blue below.

Then water--cool and cutting. A single clean line. Barely a splash. The kind of entry you dream about. The kind that lives in your muscle memory for years, waiting for the right second to resurface.

I surfaced with the same stillness I'd entered with.

No whoop. No fist-pump. Just a breath.

---

The scores flashed up on the board at the end of my final dive. Solid. Higher than I'd dared to expect.

I blinked. Looked again.

I was through.

---

Mark was waiting poolside when I climbed out, water sluicing off my back in heavy sheets. He didn't say much--never did. Just clapped a firm hand on my shoulder, the kind that said more than words ever could. "Solid work," he said. Low. Steady. Almost proud.

I nodded. Blankly. Still in it. Still humming. Couldn't quite meet his eyes--not out of shame, just... precision. The machine wasn't off yet.

I toweled off in silence. Changed on autopilot. Ate something beige and protein-rich without tasting it. Did press the way you're meant to--eyes up, words sharp, but distant enough they couldn't pin you down.

The rest of the day passed like a dream you barely remember having.

Walked back to the Village. Took my ice bath. Reviewed footage with Mark, though neither of us said much. We didn't need to. The lines were clean. The rotations crisp. The score said what needed saying.

At dinner, I sat with a few other GB lads--young ones, still buzzing, still cracking jokes and checking their phones. I let them talk. Let their noise wrap around me like bubble wrap. I didn't join in.

I didn't need to.

That razor thread of focus was still there. Not tense. Not anxious. Just sharp. Like I'd tuned the dial to the exact right frequency and didn't dare shift it now.

When I lay down that night, I expected the nerves to hit. Expected the brain to do what it always did--replay every second, pick it apart, find the flaw, invent a hundred versions of what could go wrong next.

But they never came.

The body was already ahead. Muscles soft, heart steady. Every cell humming in anticipation of the next task. The mind didn't need to lead anymore. It just followed.

Morning came like a clean sheet pulled over the head. I woke with purpose already coiled in my spine. Routine passed in a daze.

The next thing I knew, I was standing on the precipice once again.

---

The air was different on finals day. Still sharp. Still dry. But charged. Like ozone before a storm. I didn't feel it in my stomach. Didn't sweat or shake. Just stood there, calm as glass, the hum in my chest now a low, steady drumbeat.

Not excitement. Not fear. Just readiness.

Same board. Same height. Same arc of breath. Only difference was the pressure radiating from the stands, all those bodies packed into the seats like heat in a sealed room.

I didn't look at them. Didn't look at the cameras, or the flags, or the BOA staffer pacing just off the platform like she was afraid one of us might explode mid-air. Didn't scan the crowd, searching for the two familiar faces who'd surely be waiting in the VIP area, breath bated and ready to watch me perform.

No, I just looked at my hands.

Then the water.

Then nowhere at all.

---

The first dive hit clean. Not perfect--nothing ever was--but tight enough to draw breath from the crowd. A flicker of sound. A ripple. Gone again.

Second dive, sharper. Felt it in my ribs when I rotated--one of those rare, exact moments when your body knows where it is in space down to the centimetre.

Three, four, five. Clinical. Precise. Each executed like clockwork.

Final dive... That was the one. The one I hadn't landed right in two weeks of training. The one Mark had circled in his notebook like a threat.

Reverse 31/2 tuck. One breath. No margin.

I stepped up. Arms up. Chin steady. The platform humming underfoot.

And I jumped.

---

The twist came late. Deliberate. Controlled. Everything moved fast but felt slow. I saw the lights flip once, twice, the glint of water rise beneath me--

--and then nothing.

Just silence. Then cold. Then up.

---

The splash barely registered. No sting. No slap.

When I surfaced, the crowd was already reacting. Noise pouring in from above, all jumbled vowels and limbs and light. For the first time in over a day, it felt like the dome around me had been lifted, and I could hear them cheering thunderously. The bubble of focus had burst. Sound and light flooded in from all around me, loud, bright, overwhelming.

I staggered out of the pool, gasping. Heart jackhammering, lungs gulping air like I'd just outrun a train. Water streaming down my back, legs half-numb. My chest was tight. Vision weird at the edges--like everything was too sharp, too much.

I turned around, looking, dazed. I saw and heard everything and took in nothing. At some point my eyes halted, and my vision shifted, zooming into the crowd, bringing something into sharp relief.

There they were. Janine jumped up and down, whooping ecstatically like a kid going to Disneyland. And Cameron - his hands were raised in a giant heart. It was the goofiest thing I'd ever seen him do. He had a broad smile on his face - unreserved, powerful, resplendent. The look on his eyes cut through the meters and meters between us, a laser beam bridging an impossible distance to whisper in my ear.

"You did it, champ."

---

Backstage was cool, quiet, tiled. A corridor that smelled of chlorine and old adrenaline. My footsteps echoed. There was a bench against the far wall. I sat down hard. Dropped my bag beside me. Braced my elbows on my knees.

Breathed. Just breathed.

Let it hit me like a slow avalanche. The weight of it. The noise. The years. The comeback.

The way Cameron had smiled. My hands shook. Just a little.

For a moment, I buried my face in the towel. Not crying. Just... letting it come.

Later, Mark Leland would come in and clap me on the back. Tell me all about the young lad from China who'd pulled off a bloody 41/2 somersault. And the lithe Japanese bloke who'd done a cool back 21/2, with a 21/2 twister on top. Say some words in a bracing tone that I'd acknowledge with a grunt before I forgot them.

But for now I was alone. Inside this space--this cold, humming nothingness--it was just me.

---

I didn't remember the anthem. Didn't remember the walk to the podium, or the way the medal felt when they hung it around my neck.

Just flashes.

The weight of the bronze--solid, cool, heavier than I expected. The smell of sweat and chlorine baked into the towel at my shoulders. The lights. So many bloody lights. The Union Jack rippling somewhere behind me.

I stood there, back straight, chin up. Not for the cameras. Not for the committee. For me.

For the years I'd dragged myself through it. The mornings that started before the sun. The nights spent with nothing but protein powder and the buzzing silence of a studio flat. The funding cuts. The press smirks. The side-hustle whispers.

And now, here I was. Still standing. Still fucking here. A bronze medal on my chest, the flag on my back, and pride blooming hot behind my ribs like a second heartbeat.

I let myself feel it. Just for a moment. The mountainous weight of gratitude.

For my parents, who'd supported me duly. For Mark, who never flinched. For Janine, who refused to be ignored. For Cameron--God--for Cameron, who'd seen the parts of me I hadn't looked at in years, and called it art anyway.

My throat was tight. My eyes burned. But I didn't cry. Didn't need to.

I just stood tall on that podium, medal warm against my chest, and let the moment press into me like a brand. Knowing I'd remember it forever.

---

The room was dark when I got back.

I peeled off the tracksuit. Let the medal hang from the corner of the desk lamp. It swayed gently, catching the light. Bronze, but beautiful. My body was sore in the way that meant complete. Nothing left in the tank. Everything given.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. Opened my phone. A dozen texts. A hundred notifications. My name trending again--half praise, half scandal, like always. And then--one post. Pinned to the top of the feed.

New upload.

I tapped it open.

It was the photo. The one from earlier today. Me on the podium. Medal at my lips. Eyes closed. The flag behind me. Chest bare beneath the tracksuit top I'd unzipped halfway. The light caught in the curve of my jaw, the creases around my eyes. It wasn't posed. It wasn't stylized. Just real.

Just me.

The caption read: "Earned."

My throat tightened. I stared at the image. Let it settle into me. He must've pulled it from the press feed. Cropped it just enough. Posted it without asking.

I didn't like using words like proud, or beautiful, or loved.

But looking at that photo...

I felt all three.

---

Mark handed me the rest of the week off with a grunt and a nod. Said I'd earned it. Said I'd be no use in the weight room with that medal weighing me down anyway. So that was that. The work was done. The schedule vanished. The silence rushed in.

I slept late the next morning. Took my time shaving. Put on a proper shirt. One of the few I'd packed that didn't smell like chlorine or gym floor. I combed my beard till it looked almost presentable. Borrowed some cologne from a friend.

When I arrived, the sun was just beginning to tip toward golden.

Cameron was already there--seated outside a little café on the Champs-Élysées, tucked just enough off the thoroughfare that it didn't feel like a tourist trap. The Arc de Triomphe towered in the distance, dignified and unbothered. People passed on bicycles, in silk dresses, holding tiny dogs like purses.

He stood when he saw me. Gave a small smile. No wave. No fuss.

Just that look. Like I was someone worth waiting for.

---

We ordered quietly. Food I couldn't pronounce. Wine I didn't try to refuse. The evening air was warm, honey-thick. The kind of heat that didn't make you sweat, just loosened you.

We talked, but not about much. The match. The crowd. The architecture. The way Janine had apparently charmed her way into an afterparty hosted by an Estonian gymnast and now claimed to be "culturally bonded" to a vodka brand.

It wasn't until the second course that the silence shifted. Got heavier. Closer.

I reached for my wine. Set it down. Cleared my throat.

"I've been trying to find the right words," I said.

Cameron looked at me. Steady. Still.

"I've never been good at it. You know that."

He didn't say anything. Just waited.

"I guess I just... I want you to know..." I faltered. Swallowed. "None of this would've happened without you. None of it. The medal. The training. Hell, the bloody account. All of it. You pulled me back from the edge, and I never really told you how I feel."

I was rambling, I knew. Dithering. Beating around the bush. I looked deep into his eyes, the weight of everything I wanted to convey threatening to spill out my eyes.

"Uh. That is to say--Cameron--I reckon--"

My voice caught. The words refused to form in my mouth. I struggled, coming up short of breath. Why was it so hard? It was just three stupid words. I felt like a runner who'd fallen down the last meter before the finish line. I coughed once, twice, eyes brimming with the unspoken.

Cameron reached across the table. Placed his hand over mine. Firm, warm. Not stopping me. Just grounding me. His voice, when it came, was soft. Like a secret. "You don't have to say it."

"I want to."

"I know." He smiled. Not teasing. Not condescending. Just kind. "But you don't have to."

He looked at me then--really looked--and something in his expression shifted. Opened.

"I've known how I felt about you for a while now," he said. "Since before Paris. Since the flat. Since the first night you fell asleep on my sofa and I didn't want to move you because... I liked you there."

The world narrowed to just the space between us. The linen tablecloth. The heat of his hand on mine. "You make it hard," he added, with the ghost of a laugh. "You never say the right things. You growl and deflect and act like you don't care. But that's okay. I can see the things you keep inside."

I stared at him. Speechless. A little stupid.

Cameron squeezed my fingers. "I wanted you to win, Ed. But more than that--I wanted you to come back to yourself. And you did."

I blinked. Felt the weight behind my eyes again. That hot, unasked-for feeling.

"I'm a right mess," I said hoarsely.

"You are." He said softly. "And I love you for it."

---

The hotel was quiet when we returned. He used a keycard. I followed him in. Old wood beneath our feet. Moonlight stretched long and thin across the hallway carpet. No one said much. We didn't need to.

The suite was warm, softly lit. A breeze moved through the open balcony doors, carrying the sound of distant music and the slow churn of Paris at midnight. I stood there for a second, just inside the room. Still. Fizzing. Like something was about to crack open inside me.

Cameron turned back. Dropped the key on the table. Didn't say anything. Just stood before me, eyes lidded. Looking at me like we had all night.

I stepped forward. Closed the distance. My hands found his face first. Clumsy. Careful. Like I still didn't believe I was allowed to touch him. His skin was warm. Smooth beneath my thumbs, ridged with subtle, wiry muscle from long hours bouldering. His breath caught.

"Cameron--" I started.

But he shook his head. Just once.

"Hush. No more words."

And he kissed me.

---

It wasn't sweet. Not really. It was quiet, but hungry.

A kiss that dragged months of tension up from under the floorboards. All the moments we'd swallowed, all the touches we'd pretended didn't linger. His mouth was firm, open, certain. Mine, unsure at first--then answering. Matching. Taking. I lifted him straight off his feet as I kissed him with renewed gusto, hands pulling his thighs close around me.

Between pants and moans, I backed him toward the bed in slow, unsteady steps, depositing him on the mattress. Not rushed. Just needing. His hands gripped my waist. Pulled my shirt free. I felt the fabric bunch, then lift. Gone.

He tugged his own over his head, auburn curls rumpling slightly. Tossed it aside. The lamplight caught on the edge of his collarbone, the fine line of muscle down his pale, bare torso. Not a model. Not an athlete. Just him. And somehow that undid me more than anything. I let myself dip down, kissing and licking every exposed inch until his breath came short and ragged in my ears. My cock ached in my boxers, but that seemed distant, unimportant, before my overwhelming need to sate him.

At his request, I picked him up again, his thighs impossible supple as they wrapped around me. I pressed him back into the balcony doors, the glass flush against his spine. Behind him, sparkled Paris--lights like stars, cars whispering below, the Eiffel Tower rising in the distance like some absurd promise.

I kissed him again. Harder this time. My mouth moved down--his throat, his chest. My fingers traced the line of his hip. He gasped when I palmed the front of his trousers, his bulge throbbing insistently into my hand.

That noise. Christ.

I dropped to my knees, wordless. Unbuttoned him slow. Pulled him free. He was hard already. Leaking. Beautiful. I didn't look up. Just took him in, inch by inch, careful not to let my teeth graze. I'd never sucked a guy off in my life, but that didn't mean I couldn't give it my best shot right now. I took him in--bobbing, licking, kissing--till I could go no further. Letting him feel how much I meant it. How much I'd wanted this.

His fingers threaded through my hair. Not rough. Just anchoring. Between the way he clutched at my hair and the way his breathing grew laboured, I slowly figured out what he liked. Figured out exactly how to lick under the crown, flick the slit, caress the ballsack, before diving deep until he was buried to the hilt. Unrepentant and filthy.

I sucked him slow. Deep. Let it build. Let it burn. I nearly tripped over myself in a rush to give him everything - filthy, tender, devoted.

He didn't last much longer. Didn't need to. The way he moaned my name--guttural, helpless--it made my cock throb, hard, aching. When he spilled, it was with a sharp cry. I swallowed every drop, letting his taste linger on my tongue. Salty, bitter, slimy--and delicious. It made my cock throb.

Then I stood. Breathless. His hands came to my chest. Slid down my stomach. Unbuckled my belt. I let him undress me. Let him see all of me. For once not caring how much I exposed myself before him.

No posing. No angles. Just the body he'd helped bring back to life. The lines. The scars. The stretch of my thighs and the curl of hair across my belly. The way I was shaking, slightly, not from fear--but from something bigger. From the weight of being seen. His hands were everywhere - my chest, back, shoulders. Fingers dragging over tufts of hair, hugging the swell of tired muscle. I felt the warm weight of his devotion in every caress and fondle.

We moved back to the bed in silence. I pressed him down. Covered him with my body, fingers tracing every inch of him like it was sacred treasure. His hands wound themselves in the curls of hair along my chest and back, tugging and pulling gently like he never wanted to let them go. I hugged his chest tight against mine, grinding our hips together until we were both gasping, his slender hardness pressing gamely against my own.

He reached for the lube he'd already set on the nightstand--of course he had--and passed it to me with a look that said it's okay.

I prepped him with shaking fingers. I'd never fucked a guy up the arse, but I'd lain with plenty of women, and I supposed it was the same principle here. I clutched him close as he squirmed softly in my grasp, my thick fingers feeling impossibly clumsy as they worked their way inside him. The way he moaned, "Ed...." nearly made me cum on the spot.

He lay there, soft and panting, as I withdrew my fingers gingerly. I lined him up, as gentle as I could, feeling my flared head press against the rim of his hole. Even with the prep, he was tight. I adjusted myself repeatedly, tentative, hesitant, trying to find an angle where I could enter him without hurting too much.

Finally he looked up at me, eyes glassy and bright. "Ed... fuck me..."

That was all it took. Gasping, I breached him, sliding in, hot, wet, delicious. Our voices cried out in unison. He bucked once beneath me, hands tight on my shoulders. At long last, I was where I wanted to be.

God, how I'd fantasized about this - in my flat at home, in his couch, in the scratchy bed of the Olympic village. The tightness, the heat--it was too much. I had to stop, just for a second. Just so I could take a deep breath, and stretch out this golden moment. His hands found my face again, thumbs brushing my jaw.

"You're okay," he whispered.

"I'm not," I choked, "but I will be."

And then I moved.

Slow, at first. Deep. Measured. Filled with the weight of all the things I'd never been able to tell him. I'd never been good with words. So I just shut up and let my hands and hips do the talking, letting my gratitude and love radiate from within.

We rocked like that for what felt like forever--my thick arms wrapped tightly around his slender frame, the sounds of Paris muffled by the pulse between us. I babbled softly into his ear, incoherent nonsense he seemed to understand anyway. His legs hooked around me. His mouth found my neck, chewing with a force I knew would leave a bruise. I buried my face in his shoulder and let it all go.

I came with a groan that wasn't really a word. Just sound. Just release. He followed moments later, between us, sticky and shaking and beautiful.

---

Afterward, we didn't speak. Not right away.

I curled behind him on the balcony couch, bare skin against bare skin, the blanket he'd grabbed from the bed wrapped around our shoulders. His head tucked under my chin. The city of love glittered behind us, draped in otherworldly moonlight.

He breathed soft. Easy. Like sleep would come soon. My fingers brushed over his arm, tracing nothing. I clutched him close, burying my face in his hair like it was treasure, listening to his heartbeat as it became soft and rhythmic. And I knew that--for the rest of my life--I didn't want to be anywhere else.

Staring at him, our foreheads resting against each other, his eyes closed like a cherubim, I finally found the words I'd been struggling to deliver for so long. I kissed my way to his ear, pressing my lips gently to the shell of his earlobe.

"I love you, Cameron," I said, in a hushed, wrecked voice. The words resonated within my chest, firm and true, like a part of me that had always been there, waiting to be discovered. And I knew that, from now on, I'd never struggle to say them again.

---

I woke to the sound of traffic. Paris traffic. Which sounded like someone shaking a bag of cutlery while screaming in French.

There was sunlight on my shoulder. Warm. Heavy. And the weight on top of me wasn't a blanket--it was Cameron. I felt a rush of fondness and awe. He was usually so poised and in control when awake. I couldn't believe I was one of the few people who got to see him like this--soft, candid, vulnerable.

He stirred, yawning slightly. As he shifted, atop me, hands pawing at my chest, I felt the delicious stiffness of his morning wood poking my thigh. How had I ever thought Cameron was detached and expressionless? He had needs, urges, emotions - just like me and everybody else. And I wanted to spend the rest of my life taking care of all of them.

"Morning, love." I kissed him on the forehead. In reply he just turned, mumbling something into my chest. Possibly: "coffee". I chuckled, adjusting my thigh slightly so his cock could lie more fully against me. "Looks like you've plenty of energy already."

We didn't rush. Not that morning. Between lazy kisses and whispered promises, I let him know in no uncertain terms that his morning wood would be mine to handle, now and forever.

Taking a cock up my arse was... interesting. I hunched forward over his slender frame, thighs spread wide on the mattress, fingers gently working myself open. It was difficult, a little uncomfortable, but I felt my thick fingers slowly penetrate virgin territory. "Ngh..." I couldn't resist moaning now and again, loving the way he stared at me with dark delight in his eyes. No more shyness, I'd decided last night. I wanted to bare myself fully for him.

My obvious arousal clearly set him off in turn. As I straddled him, Cameron reached up, mouth and hands hungrily exploring my bare torso. Over and over his fingers returned to tug at the curls of hair on my chest and back, tangling them in his fingers. I decided then I'd never shave my body again. I was who I was - proud, muscled, hairy - and he seemed to love me for it.

When I finally sank down onto him, we both let out a ragged gasp. The feeling of being breached was new, intoxicating. Maybe I was just tight, but Cameron's cock felt impossibly big in my virgin arse. I'd never imagined that taking another man up the rear could feel so incredible. For a few moments, I just rocked slowly, head tossed back to bare my neck. My own cock throbbed, hard and aching, drooling drops of love juice onto Cameron's flat belly. My insides felt deliciously stuffed.

Overall, my first time was messy. There were mistakes. Unforced errors. Like an overconfident rookie, I took it too hard, too fast. Cameron tugged at me a few times, whimpering, sensitive. I knew we'd both feel the soreness later. But I acquitted myself honourably in the end, when Cameron groaned and came powerfully inside me. Not bad for a first-timer, I thought, savoring the flush in his cheeks. Just like with diving, all that mattered in the end was pleasing the judges. And I planned to get a hell of a lot better with practice.

We took too long getting dressed. Fumbled over each other in the bathroom. I caught him watching me shave, shirtless and groggy, an intense look in his eye.

Maybe something had passed between us, last night on the balcony. Or maybe I was just intimately familiar with all of Cameron's quiet mannerisms by now. Either way, I found I had no trouble reading the look on his pale face. All the signs were there, when you looked for them. I couldn't think how I'd ever found him placid or indifferent. Right now, his whole face said: I can't believe I get to be with you.

I smiled, setting down the razor, one side of my face still wet with foam. He leaned in as I clutched him tightly, pressing his nose to the valley of my pecs. "I love you too," I murmured in his ear. I felt him tremble in my arms. I knew I'd never get tired of saying those words, every day, anew.

As I drew back, I looked at his face. He looked dazed. Lit from the inside. Vivid blue eyes wide with desire, like he couldn't quite believe I was real. I smiled, heart swelling with affection. What had I done to deserve this unconditional love?

On an impulse, I knelt smoothly before him, his hips slender and svelte in my rough hands. He stiffened anew as I took him in my mouth, his sweet moans echoing anew like honey in my ears.

It felt like we had all the time in the world.

---

Janine was already at the café when we showed up, half an hour late, as the Parisians often do. She had a flaky pastry and a smug look. The sunglasses on her brow were the size of dinner plates.

"Well, well," she said, stirring her coffee. "You two look... stretched."

"Morning to you too," I said, sitting down with a grunt, deliciously sore. That morning, I'd decided I wanted to lose my anal cherry with a bang. Cameron had been wonderful--slowly revealing a quiet strength and passion that belied his lean physique. Even now, my hole now leaked something moist and sticky. I hummed as I recalled how he'd eagerly plumbed my depths, wondering if he'd top me even harder in the future. But Janine didn't need to know that.

Cameron made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. I dropped an extra sugar in his coffee--I knew I'd worn him out a little that morning, and I wanted him to keep his strength up for the rest of the day. Already I was thinking of how I could train him till he had the endurance and strength to really fuck my brains out, pounding my arse into oblivion. He'd clearly shown the want, so it was only a matter of time and practice. And we had all the time in the world.

Janine sipped, glancing between us like she was trying to read the subtext. "So. You finally shagged. Good. I was about to start charging for therapy."

"Mm," I said noncommittally. "Might have slept a little funny."

Cameron very carefully said nothing, as he inspected his mug.

"Oh bollocks. You're glowing." She tilted her head, looking straight at me. "In fact, you're even less constipated than usual. Which is saying something."

Despite myself, I smiled. She winked at Cameron. He looked like he wanted to crawl under the table. Instead, he buttered his croissant with the steady precision of a man trying not to die of embarrassment.

Later, she said it again--quieter, just to me, when Cameron went in to pay. "I'm proud of you, Ed. You earned this. All of it."

I watched Cameron through the glass windows, my heart full of love.

Yes, indeed I had.

---

We flew back to London two days after the closing ceremony. I watched the clouds crawl past the window, a paper cup of shit airline coffee going cold in my hands, and tried to make sense of the last two weeks. Paris had blurred into a kaleidoscope: neon nights, podiums and press conferences, clinking glasses, Janine's voice hooting from the stands, long evenings walking down the Seine, Cameron's mouth on mine. The medal lay in my backpack, forgotten. I'd won what really mattered, and the rest was just noise.

As I sat, contemplative, my mind turned to my long and illustrious diving career. My eyes misted as I reflected on the sacrifice, the toil, the drama. And how it'd all been worthwhile in the end. Silver '16, bronze '20, and another bronze '24. A proud three-time Olympic medallist. Hat trick. Hero. Legend.

And I suddenly knew--here was where I wanted to end it.

Mark Leland had never said it outright, but I knew he shared the same opinion. I wasn't getting any younger. And more likely than not, anything I did from now on would feel like a pale echo of what had come before. No, better to let my career end atop its crowning achievement. Like Horatio Nelson at bloody Trafalgar.

Most of all, I found myself with little appetite to run the gamut again. I was old, battered, and '28 was a long way away. Four more years of training from dawn to dusk, eating a steady diet of chicken breast and broccoli, shuttling between my flat and the gym--and all for what? To repeat a performance I'd delivered already, thrice, with aplomb? I'd never been afraid of hard work. Still wasn't. But now I realized--there could be so many bigger and better things I could be doing.

As I sat there, staring out the window. watching the clouds go by, I reflected on how I'd changed. I'd lived my life till now in a single-minded pursuit of sporting excellence. That drive--that desire to excel--wouldn't change. I'd just be applying it towards a different goal.

I made my decision. It felt strangely light. Not a tragedy. Just... a turning of the page.

Turning from the window I glanced over at Cameron, smiling. He was fast asleep, eyes hidden under mussed hair, head flopped against my shoulder. He shifted sleepily against me. Looking down at him, I had an inkling of what I'd single-mindedly pursue the rest of my life.

---

The final post on my OnlyFans wasn't flashy. Just heartfelt.

With me hanging up my jacket for good, I didn't need--or want--to keep it going. Janine just nodded quietly when I explained things to her.

"I get it," she said. For once, she seemed genuine. "You've escaped the system."

Her eyes seemed wistful, as if she was reading the ending to one of her favourite fairytale romances.

We uploaded the photo that day - the three of us, in Cameron's studio. Myself, standing front and center, medal nestled proudly in the swell of my chest, Team GB jacket draped loosely across my shoulders. Cameron and Janine stood either side, my arms around their necks, hugging them close to me. All of us were laughing, proud, genuine. Unbridled joy on our faces. One last hurrah for the quiet community of people who'd supported me all the way.

Caption: "Thanks for all the love and memories."

---

Eventually, I did what any semi-retired ex-athlete would do: I went back to school.

Cameron was maddeningly supportive. He sat beside me countless nights, peering over my shoulder at coursework I swore would kill me--statistics, biomechanics, some grim module on endocrine systems that haunts me to this day. By the end of it, I somehow came out with a degree in sports science and a shiny certification as a personal trainer. Apparently being an ex-Olympic champ with visible abs and a working brain was a bloody good marketing strategy. In no time at all, I had launched a successful private gym with a small but loyal clientele: elite athletes, the occasional ambitious influencer, and even one bloke from Team GB who'd once called me a "washed-up mascot." (He now pays me £90 an hour to fix his squat form.)

Of course, I got Cameron to do all the promotional materials. And paid him generously, in money and other ways. His photos of me--clean, resplendent, powerful--instantly set our outfit apart from the rest of the crowd. And a very tasteful set pulled from our OnlyFans days ended up in a sold-out zine. I was the cover star, of course. Arms folded. Arse barely in frame. The tagline was: "Comeback King." I told him it was pretentious. He told me to shut up and smile.

---

Moving in together was slow, but worth the wait. We found a place right on the Regent's Canal, near Victoria Park. It was just a step away from the green boulevards and zen gardens where Cameron had always loved taking walks. The flat itself was small, but ours. Mismatched mugs, creaky floorboards, a sunlit nook by the window where he set up his desk. And of course, we kept the couch I'd crashed on more times that I could count. We kept meaning to buy a proper dining table, but somehow dinner on the couch with our legs tangled always felt right.

As an added plus, it was always marvellously convenient for me to just set my belly flat on the armrest afterwards. Hunched over and eagerly spreading my arse for him.

---

Someday, when we're older and wiser, we might move back to Bath, so he can hold my hand as we walk down the timeless streets in autumn.

And some days, I still pose for him. Not for the internet anymore. Just for him. And unlike with my OnlyFans, no content restrictions apply.

Our life isn't flashy. It's just two people, living day to day, doing things that spark joy, finding new meaning in every day. And maybe that's the real miracle of it. Not the medals, or the comeback, or the fact that my arse can now take a cock without drama. But that after all these years--after all that noise--I finally came home to myself.

And to him.

==================

Thanks for making it to the end of the story, and I hope you enjoyed it! As always, appreciate feedback of any kind - feel free to let me know what you think in the comments. See you in my next adventure!

- Z