Water rushes across my skin as I slice through it, keeping my eyes forward. I don’t need to know where my teammates are. I’m sure I’msomewhere in the middle of the group, which isn’t exactly where I want to be, but my brain and my body won’t let me go any faster than this.
After completing the last flip turn, I increase my speed and propel myself to the opposite side of the pool. Even with a slower pace for ninety percent of practice, lactic acid threatens to cramp my legs. I used to love the burn when swimming. Now it terrifies me.
My fingertips slap the pool’s edge, and I rip off my goggles, tossing them onto the tile. As my eyes adjust, blue tennis shoes step into my vision. I look up to find Coach Brown looking about as happy as I feel, and I know exactly why.
“You’re sandbagging, Kenneth. Care to tell me why?”
I yank the cap off my head and shake my hair. Not this today. “I’m not sandbagging. I’m negative splitting, which is exactly what you trained me to do. Dominique does it and it’s fine.”
“No. What you and Dom are doing are two completely different things, and you know it.” His voice is tired. This isn’t the first time we’ve had this conversation. And it probably won’t be the last.
I pull myself out of the water, and my mood darkens like the fabric of coach’s shoes I soaked. Mumbling an apology, I straighten. Coach Brown is six inches shorter than me, but two feet wider. There’s no getting around him.
“You’re swimming scared. Negative splitting is a technique that can be used to improve performance, but that’s not the way you’re using it. You’re half-assing.Sandbagging. Trying to avoid hurting, and you know damn well that 1650 yards is a long way to go with no pain. You’ve got to let that one bad race go, because it’s dictating the rest of them and ruining you.”
Years of club swimming is what put me on Coach Brown’s radar, giving me a partial scholarship for Clear Lake University’s Swimming and Diving team. Freshman year was a dream, improving race after raceuntil I made it all the way to the top and qualified for the National Championship meet. I was on top of the world, surrounded by the best collegiate swimmers in the country.
Until I took off too fast, and my body turned to stone halfway through the race. I went from third, to fifth, to eighth.
“Are you not upset about last week’s race?” he continues. “You’ve got conference in two weeks, and I’m starting to think you don’t even want to move forward.”
“I do, Coach. I’m just—”
“Scared,” he finishes for me.
I nod, because I’ve been scared since the moment Coach pulled me out of the pool after the race that changed everything.
“I get it,” he says, his voice more gentle than earlier. “But we both know that swimming scared isn’t going to get you back to the big stage for redemption. The only place it’ll get you is watching from home, and you’ve only got a few more meets to get it together. The fear will pass, Kenneth.”
While I know what he’s saying is true, forcing myself to believe it is the hard part.
“Fear doesn’t win championships. Confidence does. The Kenneth Gray I signed years ago wasn’t afraid of anything. That kid swam to the beat of his own drum, even if it meant he didn’t win. I need him to make a reappearance.”
My throat tightens. “Coach, I’m—”
He raises a hand to stop me. “I know you’re trying. I know, but I need the captain of this team to get it together. I believe in bad races, bad days, and bad seasons. What I don’t believe in is letting it hold you back forever. Physically, you’re ready to win it all. Mentally, I’m worried. I made you an appointment for tomorrow with Dr. Jacobs. He said youhaven’t been going to your sessions. If you miss this one, you won’t be traveling to the meet this weekend.”
His sneakers squeak along the wet tile as he marches away, the lecture ringing loudly in my head.
Of course I’ve been skipping my sports counseling sessions. There’s something truly terrifying about being back in the headspace of the moment I lost myself.
“Ouch,” a country accent drawls behind me. Grant hands over a towel and my bag. “I’m sorry, man. You know he means well, even though it sounds rough.”
People who don’t know Coach Brown might call him mean, which is far from the truth. He may act and sound like a drill sergeant, but if you listen carefully, each word is laced with a nurturing softness. Still, it feels like a punch to the jaw.
“I’m in a major slump, G.”
Grant slips into the hot tub and stretches his legs out. “You could always switch to a sprint.”
Flinging water at him, I laugh. “No thanks. I just need to find a way out of this. It’s like the moment I touch the water, my brain revolts. It knows that slow is safe.”
“What are you going to do?”
I sink down until my shoulders are below the surface, a jet massaging my right shoulder. “No clue. Hope I don’t suck this weekend.”
We sit in silence, letting the steamy water rejuvenate our sore muscles. The pool door opens, and a familiar voice breaks the calm. The baseball team uses the smaller pool for recovery once a week. Cade loves it because he gets to show off the skills Nan taught him years ago. Even though the guys give him crap, he still uses his swim cap.
“Kent!” Cade yells.
