“Yes, sir,” I say, mimicking his tone. It doesn’t help my case. His glare drops and his eyes narrow, that flat line on his mouth moving into angry territory.
I dive in and begin my strokes to the other end, a swimmer’s equivalent to running away. I get to the other side and push off to return, but my eyes catch Will and my dad talking. My strokes get sloppy, and without realizing it, I stop in the middle of my lane, reaching for the rope. My dad’s eyes swing my direction, so I pull my goggles down and act like I’m adjusting something until he looks away.
The second their conversation breaks, I start my swim again, and I don’t stop for a dozen laps. It isn’t my muscles making me slow today; it’s my head.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. Today is about speed. We’re going to sprint today, probably until your arms feel like they’re going to fall away from their sockets. Today is all about getting a good start, and all about nothing but you and the wall over there, and getting there as fast as you can. So hydrate, shake out whatever might be holding you back today,” my dad pauses, his eyes moving to me, “and then get on the blocks, ready to go.”
Amber, the girl I met the first day, waits for me near the bleachers, her bag wedged next to mine. I admire her spirit—but small talk, and being an inspiration or team leader or whatever—is kinda the last thing on my possible list right now. My mouth closed tight, I manage to show her a smile as I snatch my water bottle from the side pouch on my bag.
“I love sprinting. I hope I don’t embarrass myself,” she says.
I hold her gaze and smile with my eyes while taking a drink. I have to manage one motivational minute. Amber seems sweet, and the turmoil in my head isn’t her fault.
“You won’t. You wouldn’t be here if you did anything embarrassing in the water. Remember, it’s all about personal bests. Don’t worry about what any of the other swimmers do.”
Wow, that wasn’t half bad.
“It’s you I’m worried about. I watched you swim at Nationals last year,” she says, looking from me to her feet over and over again. “You’re pretty much the reason I’m here. I pushed myself enough to make it into this camp. I honestly don’t even care if I make the team from here. This is so enough.”
She laughs nervously before drinking more water and looking the other way. I’ve never really had a fan before, and it feels nice and awkward at the same time. I sort of feel responsible for her.
“How old are you?” I ask her. Her eyes dart to me.
“Eighteen,” she swallows. That means she’s a new eighteen. Probably fresh out of high school.
I glance from side-to-side before leaning into her.
“Come back here tonight, after practice. Be here by nine,” I say, the right side of my mouth twitching.
“Oh….kayyyy,” she says, her eyes worried, but a glint of excitement in them. I remember when mine looked that same way when the older swimmers took me to The Flour Mill the first time. A perk of growing up here in Knox, the person working the door always knew someone who knew someone who let them in when they were too young.
I leave Amber wondering, and on that fun edge of nervous and excited that I’d give anything to go back to. I take my spot on the blocks, and I wait while the other lanes fill with girls, too. There’s enough of us for two heats, so at least there will be a rest between sprints. The guys line up behind them, enough to fill every lane, and Will has decided to take one, two away from mine. He’s clearly avoiding me, after near skinny-dipping last night. That was a stupid idea. I got caught up. I wanted to remember how it felt to that girl, who had that feeling in her chest like a guy might just want her. I let myself forget who it was I was letting look at me. Will did, too, until something else entirely took him over. The way he moved in the water was almost desperate—like he was fighting for his life.
Maybe he was.
I glance to my right to see Amber take lane one, and I wink at her, smirking when I turn back to face the water. She’ll learn quick—drink fast, grab your lane, because that first one? You’re never going to win from there.
Fifties are my favorites—always have been. My mom liked them, too, and when I’m in my lane, focused on nothing but one arm after the next, the wall, the touch, the kick—it’s seconds where I get to be her, just for a little while.
My dad calls us to get set, so I stretch my arms out, shake away my nerves and take my position, my fingers itching to go the second I anticipate the sound. That’s the secret to a great start. You have to feel it, otherwise your opportunity to be first will pass you by.