Swim Team Dads

Two neighbors are drawn together by their boys

This is an original work of fiction. All characters engaged in sexual activity are over 18. As often is the case with much of my stuff, it is a slow burn—but there is action toward the end of this chapter. Currently, I have completed, edited and posted three chapters. No AI was used in the production of this story. © 2023, all rights reserved. Brunosden

I've just seated myself in the bleachers to watch the last 10 minutes of swim team practice—my routine four days each week. My son Keith and I had arrived at the Del Rey Aquatic Center at 5:45 a.m. for the scheduled practice at 6. Keith had changed from sleep shorts to the compression swim suit at home. Despite its small size, he could barely keep the suit on his slim body since his hips were non-existent. His hoodie covered everything, down almost to his knees, as he shivered in the grey very early morning light between heats. But he loved swimming and the camaraderie of the other young boys who rose so early most days to practice. And he was pretty good—often placing in the top three at the regular Saturday meets around the area.

After dropping him, I went to the adult pool and"did my laps—a habit of over twenty years, 75 laps, 3200 meters, more or less, in 45 minutes, a near-professional performance. Then I showered off the chlorine, put on my own NYU sweat shirt and went to watch and wait for his finish. As a result of this routine, I'm very broad shouldered, have a concave gut, narrow waist, thick thighs, and I'm completely shaved. And I my weight has stayed right at 165 as I eat or drink just about anything.

I'm Slade Morris, a commercial real estate broker and general contractor in South Florida. Keith and I live in Del Ray Crescent, a small gated community of about 80 homes, single family, many fronting the Intracoastal, with a small clubhouse and community pool—although most homes have small private plunge pools or hot tubs. It was a modest, middle class neighborhood with only a small part of the population "snow-birds"--but prices have exploded in the last few years.

I'm 35 and a single Dad. I never married Keith's mother and I have no idea where she is today. We met just after college graduation and enjoyed a summer romance. Keith was born seven months later. She was a photographer. About a year after his birth, she got an offer from AFP to do war photography in Africa, took the job, met a Frenchman there and never was heard from again. I moved to Florida to avail myself of my widowed mother's help. Obviously, I wanted to keep my son Keith. Mom died two years ago, and we are now making do with occasional hired help. (Keith—whose 13 going on 18--won't let me call them sitters or nannies.) He's a great kid and I love him unconditionally, although his recent discovery of the opposite sex and entry into puberty is challenging, to say the least.

I know you're wondering. I don't date much—maybe once a month. I have a "regular" date with a former client, and we do enjoy "benefits," but there is no future. We both know it. It's just a matter of convenience. Given my job, financial security and looks--just over six foot with an angular masculine face, darkly tanned and with dark brown wavy hair--I could date (and sleep with) widowed 60-somethings every night of the week. The condos on the beach are full of them. Or I could pick up blonds at the local watering hole. But that's not my scene.

Besides, I've got Keith to consider. He's a middle-schooler at a STEM charter school which is very selective—and he has lots of homework. Unfortunately, it's nearly a 45 minute commute from our house—each way. So we rise early for the swim practice. Then he leaves at 7:45 and gets home after 4.

We'll be bringing Sean Morrissey, Keith's best friend and classmate, home with us after practice. Sean's Dad, an ER doc, had dropped him at the pool on the way to the hospital. Sean will come home with us, have breakfast and the two boys will be picked up by a small bus at the gated entrance to our community for the long ride to the school. This is our routine four days a week since "Dr." Chris Morrissey works a Monday-Thursday 6:30 a.m. to 6:30 p.m. schedule at the ER of Sacred Heart Hospital. On Friday's, Chris does the pool duty, and I get to sleep in. And we often car-pool to the Saturday meets.

The Morrissey's live in our neighborhood, just a block away, but in a somewhat larger house on the Intracoastal. The boys are in the same class, and given our last names, have often been seated together in classes. They are best friends.

Chris is divorced. His situation was stereotypical: med school romance with a nurse, an unexpected child, falling out after his ER residency because of long hours and his priorities, divorce and joint custody of the boy—until Sandy, Chris' ex, fell in love with a Californian and moved, leaving Sean with his Dad. (Florida law wouldn't have permitted Sandy to move out of state during joint custody.) So Chris had to make the arrangements for child care to continue working. He hired for someone to be at his home when Sean got home from day care and later from school. She also cooks dinner; then leaves. By middle school, the routine had been established, and Maria was a fixture in their life.

So the boys often spend time at Sean's place after school. I of course work for myself. Thus my schedule is flexible. But, I'm often called on for "emergency" duty. The real estate market is booming and I'm really busy these days, mostly remodeling and building since nobody seems to want to sell.

This routine has worked wonderfully for us and obviously means that Chris and I are friends. We spend many evenings together until after dinner when Keith and I head home. He's a very nice guy, easy to talk to. If I think about it, I guess I like him very much.

Chris is a dual-national, British/American, with typical British looks: he's tall and slim, with red curly hair kept fairly short, light skin, and freckles. He's a year older than I am. I guess he'd be considered handsome in an aristocratic sort of way. (Think Prince Harry without the facial hair—which would be an issue for an ER doc's masking.) He speaks with an upper-class accent which gives him an air of superiority; although I know from experience, he is tentative and down to earth. He came to the US out of frustration with the deficiencies of the universal health system in the UK. Obviously he'd be a catch. He has a very dry humor, loves football (soccer--Chelsea), is devoted to his son, and is comfortable financially. I'm told that Chris is really popular at the ER. Nurses attempt to hook him up all the time. Most of the time he is dressed in oversized scrubs, even on weekends, which hide his body. I'm not even sure he's got any other clothes. So it's hard to tell what condition he's in. I've never seen him exercise. And, as far as I can tell, he's celibate—or at least very discrete about his liaisons. In that sense, both of us seem to be more into our sons and professions than dating or sex.

This has been our routine for about two years now and we seem to be settling into a comfortable mid-thirties routine. We can talk about anything. We make sarcastic remarks about our incompetent or evil politicians and deprecating jokes about one another—his humor is very acerbic. But really, we're a pretty good team.

Chris often invites us to stay for dinner—which Maria, his "housekeeper," has prepared. When we do, the boys do homework after as we talk quietly, sipping on wine and watching the sun set—relaxing in each other's quiet company after frantic days—until we get a call from one of the boys for help (which frankly, we rarely are able to give).

We alternate weekend barbeques, as the boys splash in the plunge pool, and get to an occasional Marlins or Dolphins game with the boys. We share swim practice responsibilities. Watch sports. And enjoy some alcoholic beverages from time to time. We occasionally talk about personal stuff, but never anything about our exes. With two boys at this stage of life, we do compare notes on their development, their mood swings, their occasional periods of non-communication and seemingly unprovoked outbursts. It's become a bro thing between us: guarded, relaxed affection, almost like a family.

I was on my way home around four-thirty on a Tuesday afternoon a few weeks ago. My cell rang—and I feared that I might have to return to the office. We were waiting for an important bid to come in. But no. I punched "answer" on my steering wheel, hoping it wasn't spam. It was the County Police. (The rest of this, I pieced together later.) The boys' school bus had dropped them at the community gate—which required them to cross a major north-south street. They were talking, struggling with heavy back packs and generally tuned out to the world around them. A car had run the red light and ignored the school bus STOP warning. Keith had been hit and thrown some 15 or 20 feet into another car, which fortunately was stopped. EMT had transported him to the ER at Sacred Heart. Nothing more was known.

I re-routed instantly and was at the hospital 20 minutes later. I rushed in and identified myself. After the typical delay and confusion, I was told Keith was in the OR theatre of the ER. No further information was known—but they did require me to head for the admin section to sign waivers, permissions, and provide financial responsibility information. Then I was directed to the waiting room—knowing nothing more.

When a nurse walked by, I approached. "Would you please do me a great favor? Would you tell Dr. Morrissey that Slade Morris is here and that my son has been injured and is here as well?"

She scoped my body from head to toe, smiled in approval, and instantly decided to help. (I was dressed "Italian-sharp" since it had been a client marketing day.) "Of course, Mr. Morris. I'll get word to him immediately." A few minutes later she returned. "Dr. Morrissey is aware of the situation. He was the admitting physician for Keith. His own son was injured, but is doing fine. Dr. Morrissey has asked that you wait in his office. Let me take you there. Can I help you in any other way?" (She added with an inviting smile.)

Chris' office was large, but cluttered. (He needed Maria here too apparently.) There was a black leather sofa from which I cleared a few piles of papers and sat down to wait. Minutes later (it seemed like hours), Chris arrived. His scrubs were blood-soiled, and he looked tired and haggard. It was obviously near the end of his shift. I stood. He gripped me in a tight embrace. "He's badly injured. Both legs have broken bones. One knee is shattered and will likely need replacement. A shoulder is dislocated. A few ribs are bruised and cracked. He has a concussion, but there doesn't seem to be any internal bleeding. He's breathing on his own, but because of the rib condition, we have a ventilator on stand-by. He's in a coma right now—and we may keep him in that state for a day or so because of the pain. But, he'll survive. And my prognosis is he'll heal in time."

"Sean has cuts, bruises and a sprained ankle—they're fitting him with a boot right now."

Chris released the embrace, but I took him back in my arms and pulled him close, tears falling on his shoulders. Then, I turned my head toward his and my lips touched his. He was soft and yielding and his arms came back around my waist. His hands reached down to my butt cheeks and he pulled me into him. My lips opened and I tentatively probed with a tongue. His met mine and soon we were breathing together. I couldn't move away. I was grateful to this man. He was life support. And I thought at that moment that I might even be in love with him. We held tight to each other. I could feel his hardness through the thin material of the scrubs. At that second, I knew we were way more than bros. I think maybe he felt the same way.

Finally, Chris pushed me onto the sofa and sat beside me. His arm remained on my shoulder as he detailed the injuries, what they had done, and what they expected in the coming days. I began to calm down. Chris got up and handed me a bottle of cold water. I've still got almost an hour on my shift. I don't think you're in any condition to drive. Leave your car here. I'll take you home when I leave. Keith is not going to wake tonight—but in a few minutes you can go and sit in the ICU waiting area. He'll be in the pediatric ICU by then. He's going to be all right."

"Thanks, Chris. But, I'm not going to leave Keith alone here. I'll just wait."

"Let's see."

Chris left to return to his responsibilities as I remained on the sofa. My mind was moving at cyclonic speed. At first it was all about Kevin. He was my life and I was worried. But, I trusted Chris and he had said it would be okay.

And then it hit me. I had hugged and kissed Chris. And then hugged him again. He had responded. And I did feel his wood under those scrubs. What did this say about me? Or him? What would this mean for our friendship? Was this just a professional providing comfort to a seriously injured patient's Dad? I think maybe it went beyond that. Then, I tried to run through the times Chris and I had been together. Had he been signaling? Had I?

Within a few minutes, it hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks. I had been so blind—so typically man-blind. My EQ was near zero. Chris had always complimented my clothes and how my swimmer's build showed them off. Often when we had a drink after dinner, he'd sit beside me on the sofa—and there were always open more logical easy chairs in the room or on the lanai. More than once, his arm had spread over the back of the sofa and would occasionally drop onto my shoulders to make a point, sometimes squeezing. He often touched me—my lower back, my upper arm, my shoulders, even my thigh. He often criticized his own body shape due to lack of time for exercise, but always in connection with praise of mine. I never responded, never made a move. Shit, he was in to me! How did I feel about that?

Well, I'm not gay. I did fool around a bit with my college roommate and a fellow member of the swim team. Swimming is a sport with a lot of nudity and a lot of touching by teammates, coaches, and benefactors. I do enjoy looking at a nice man's body. And I do watch porn when I jerk off, my favorite being bi-threesomes (MMF).

Then, there's Diana, my once a month squeeze. She's a good looking, intelligent woman, independent and self-assured. We have a lively conversation over dinner. Then we head back to her place. Lately, it's been more of a chore than anything else. I have to work hard to get her off—and she expects me to do that. And I never spend the night—Keith is waiting. I think we're both headed for a time-out or a good-bye.

While these thoughts were running through my brain, I must have dozed off. About an hour later, I woke and looked in on Keith through the glass window wall of the ICU. He was the same, resting like a small angel in the bed—but an angel covered in monitors and being injected with various fluids, both legs hovering in the air, held by splints and pulleys. Chris popped by just then. It's quiet tonight and I'm about done here. Let's head home. There's nothing more you can do—and they've got your cell. I briefed his hospitaler who knows I have a personal interest in Keith. He'll get the best."

"Chris, we need to talk, but not tonight. I can't leave Keith here alone."

"Well, he's in ICU. There is a waiting room, but guests aren't permitted to see patients after 6, and there are no beds. You can crash on the couch in my office if you want. I know from experience it's not very comfortable. I'll bring you my pass so you can use the shower in the physicians' locker room. There are scrubs there—help yourself. If you're hungry, the café is open for another hour. I'll make sure the ICU nurses' station has your cell and knows you are in my office. I'll be back in the morning. And there's no hurry for the talk. It didn't bother me at all. In fact, I kind of liked it."

I passed a difficult night although no one interrupted me with any news. Keith was out. When Chris arrived the following morning, he had brought a breakfast sandwich and coffee. "One meal of hospital café food is one-too-many. Keith had a very good night. Kids that age are so resilient. We've terminated the IV drug that holds the coma. I'd expect he might be waking by later today, perhaps even later this morning. You can see him now. Incidentally, I sort of like you in those tight scrubs and with the scruff. You're quite the handsome devil, Slade. All you need is a Marlboro hanging from your lips to complete the tough cowboy image—but not in my hospital!"

I laughed in spite of myself. He handed me a hospital amenity kit, and I headed off to clean up as he started his day. I spent the morning waiting and putting out a few fires at the office. Nothing that important. Just before lunch, Keith awakened and I was there. He smiled a weak one. He looked up at his white-encased legs. "Looks like I'm not on the swim team this year." I took his hand and squeezed it.

"It's good to see you joking already." By the end of the day, many of the monitors and attachments had been removed, but he was in some pain. His clavicle had been dislocated, but repositioned, some ribs had been bruised, maybe cracked, and he was rigidly bound. Both legs had been put in soft casts, one from the hip to ankle, the other just the lower leg, both being held elevated above the bed.

Chris dropped by repeatedly. "Sean went to school today. Maria insisted on driving him both ways. He's going to have his 15 minutes of juvenile fame today I think. He sends his best to his bro."

The rest of that day was pretty routine. Keith slept a lot and seemed to be improving by the hour. However, I didn't leave the hospital. By the end of the day, Chris had taken charge and made all the necessary arrangements. Keith would be released the next the morning, but he'd need home care and probably a tutor. He wouldn't be out of bed for at least two weeks, probably more, and homebound for some time after that. Chris had made a proposal, and having no alternative to suggest, I agreed.

We were going to move into Chris' house—which was larger than ours. Maria was going to go full time and would care for Keith when we both had to be away for work. There was no argument. Chris was very persuasive, demonstrating a dominant decisiveness which I had never before experienced. He was the Doc accustomed to giving orders.

Later we left Keith in the care of several doting nurses and Chris drove me home—my car would be there at the hospital in the morning to transport Keith home at that time. I was already wondering about the logistics of that move, even with my large SUV. But, I needed some clothes and a night's rest in my own bed.

I wanted to broach the subject of the previous afternoon, but the traffic was heavy and Chris seemed pre-occupied. Soon we were home—his home. "You and Keith will be spending the next two weeks here. Simple precaution and expediency. You know where the guest room is. Get a shower. We're going to put Keith in the room next to Sean on the other side of the house. I'm having a mechanical bed delivered tomorrow morning. I've left you a set of scrubs so you can get out of those work clothes. Dinner in 15. We can go by your place and get you some other clothes later. Keith won't need much for some time." Chris went in to check on Sean who was already engrossed in homework, but excited that he was going to have a sleep-over companion for a couple of weeks.

Just before dinner I emerged in the scrubs, dark hair still glistening with moisture, dipping down over one eye. "These fit pretty well. A little tight across the chest and around the thighs, but pretty damn comfortable." I noticed that Sean didn't look at me. "Sean. It was an accident. It was not your fault that some idiot ran a light and disobeyed the no passing school bus rule. Keith's going to be okay. Please don't blame yourself."