“You look pretty,” says a deep voice next to me. I glance up and catch the UCLA logo on his shirt and enough of his smile to recognize flirting.
“Pretty fast,” I say back. He laughs, so I turn my head away, not wanting to engage more conversation. I wore my pink dress with buttons on top and a flair just above my knees. It was supposed to be for my graduation, but since that’s not happening for another six months, I figured I’d break it in. Holly told me it made me look smart.
I tuck the skirt under my legs and sweep my hair behind my ear, my palm shading my eyes from the lights while I look out to the few people behind the cameras. Holly came with my mom. She said she wanted to support me, but I know my friend better than that. She wants to ogle the male swimmers.
She can—every one, but this one.
My head falls to the side, and his blue eyes are waiting.
“You got this,” I mouth.
His lip ticks up and he raises a thumb.
“That Will Hollister?” my UCLA friend asks me.
“That’s him,” I say, finally meeting my flirtatious friend’s eyes. He looks like every other guy here—broad chest and shoulders, arms filling his sleeves, thigh muscles about to rip through his pants. They’re bred this way, and they all come out the same, but it’s that stuff inside that separates them. Will…he has just a little bit more than they do.
Mr. UCLA ends our conversation there, but I count the times he glances down our row to Will. I’m sure there’s a part of it that’s Will’s story—his survival is hard to believe unless you see him sitting in front of you. But there’s also an edge of fear with the way my neighbor’s leg bounces, his hands twisting in his lap. The more he looks at his competition, the more my Elvis lip twitches, until I can’t help but laugh to myself.
Will…he has that extra something, and this guy—he’s dead in the water.
The questions come at him like bullets, and Will handles every single one with grace. He memorializes Evan, and he speaks with reverence about his parents, recounting the first time they came to my parents’ club, the practices his dad drove he and his brother to, the way his mom would always try to make sure they both felt like winners—even if one of them lost.
Nobody asks about me until the end, and when the question comes about our friendship, a hint of innuendo in the reporter’s tone, Will says exactly what I told him to if that question were to come up.
“You’ll have to ask Maddy about that.”
His response gets some teasing “oooohs” and some laughter, but after a few minutes, the reporters move on to my dad and the rest of the coaching staff. It’s clear that there’s a division there, too—some people ready to embrace Will, hoping to see him dominate in the water, others not. My father leaves no question about his loyalties, telling the room that our best shot at a medal is with Will swimming anchor, and that response makes my friend sitting next to me squirm in his seat. My instincts tell me that he’s a freestyle sprinter, too.
For a while, I think I might skate by, but eventually the floor comes around to the Star and Tribune. My hometown papers have watched me grow up, and they’ve covered my swimming from high-school championships to US titles at Valpo. While I’m surprised to see the familiar faces here in Omaha, I’m also flattered that my story is worth it. I’m grateful for this platform, because as much as Will intends on outright winning every race he swims, leaving no question up for debate—I also see no harm in adding just a little insurance.
The microphone squeals when I lower it, and I notice several people in the room hunch their shoulders at the sound.
“Sorry,” I say, holding my hands out and slowly backing them away from the mic, as if I’m balancing a house of cards. I smile out to the cameras and my friend and mom, who I know are somewhere behind the lights. “That’s what you get for talking to all the boys first, though. I had to make this thing a girl’s height,” I laugh.
A few people snicker with me.
“Maddy, it’s John Tucker, from the Star. I covered you at nationals last year,” the first familiar face begins.
I offer him a closed-lip smile and brace myself.
“Nice to see you, John,” I respond.
His questions are basic—nothing I haven’t answered in one-on-ones before. My training and preparation, what I think my chances are, how much my parents have influenced my swimming life—questions I answer by rote, the words coming out ready to print, perfect sound bites.
His counterpart steps in with a few more questions, picking up on a few things my dad answered earlier—about the impending closure of the Shore Club, and how this week was its last hoorah. The local papers care more about this angle, so I give them the heartfelt answers they deserve—words I mean.
“No place will ever feel the same,” I say, glancing over and catching my dad’s sad smile.