Luckily, I manage to work off my punishment by the start of my fourth week at Dunbridge Academy, so now I no longer spend my afternoons helping the caretaker and clearing out storerooms or scrubbing floors.Instead, I’m doing tennis training with Kit twice a week and boxing my guts out in the fitness center whenever I need to.Sometimes with Kit, other times just me and the punching bag.Although it’s kind of better when there are two of us.
Sometimes I creep into the room with the piano in the afternoons and FaceTime Cleo.Today I don’t get there until the late evening, not that it’s a problem, given the time difference.But Cleo doesn’t pick up.I try again, then remember it’s Wednesday and she’s probably already at her gym class.Shame, but there we are.I play songs at random, out of my head, for a while, but it doesn’t bring me the usual relief.I was thinking about grabbing my lighter earlier, even though I’ve managed several days without it now.Which is better, because I don’t want to risk getting caught.Luckily, I can hide my scarred ankles under my socks when I wear shorts for games, and I don’t go into the communal showers if anyone else is there.You do what you can.
All the same, I feel the urge tingling in my fingers as I eventually stroll back toward my room.The halls are dark and everywhere is quiet, except my head, where it’s incredibly loud.I know that it’ll only get worse if I lie down now and shut my eyes, so I head right past the stairs to the east wing and wander on.Through the arcades and then the gate onto the path to the sports facilities.The air is cool, the gravel crunches under my feet, and my thoughts gradually quiet.I’m not heading anywhere in particular as I pass the windows of the swimming hall.As ever, the pool is lit up at night, and then I see her.Olive Garden is crouching at the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the water.I freeze, even though there’s very little chance of her seeing me.
She doesn’t move either, just squats there for an eternity.When she eventually leans forward and stretches out her hand, her dark hair cascades over her eyes like a waterfall.For reasons that I can’t explain, I shiver as her fingers dip into the pool.I find myself imagining her running them over my body.I just have to.I have no choice.Olive Garden’s slender shoulders and elegant neck, she’s somehow not a swimmer at all now, yet I picture her athletic body gliding through the water, swimming away, leaving them all in her wake.She’s not even my type, but that doesn’t stop the blood rushing between my legs at the idea of her touching me.
There are basically only two options now.One, I turn around, go back, and leave her in peace.Or two, I carry on from where we left off, back in that dark storeroom.Nobody can tell me there was no attraction between us when Olive Garden switched off the light and stood next to me in the darkness.So close.I heard her breathing hard—just saying.And I want to hear it again.I want to hear it with her standing in front of me while I press her up against a wall.
I stand out here.I watch her as she lifts her hand out of the water again, clenches it into a livid Olive Garden fist.A fewdroplets fall from her fingers into the pool.She shakes them off.I turn away.
Olive
It’s been another stressful day.It was packed with classes, physio, and an hour’s tutoring from Henry, when I nearly cried as I understood how far ahead he and the others in the upper sixth are now.Dragging myself down to the swimming center to help Ms.Cox out at training didn’t exactly help either.It was fun to encourage the others and give them tips, but it’s just not the same as swimming myself.
After dinner, I was totally knackered, but of course, by wing time, there was no chance of sleep.So I came back.To the swimming center.There’s total silence here now, and with nobody else around, it feels like a completely different place.
I remember my first gala, swimming for the Dunbridge team, back in the juniors.Mum and Dad watched from the stands and, maybe, everything really was fine in those days.I remember going up into the senior team even before I got to the sixth form, the only girl of my age.Because I was good.Because I was really good.Some people call you arrogant if you’re aware of your strengths, but I don’t see it that way.I know what I can do, and I know what I can’t.Swimming was always my thing.Training sessions were my favorite part of the day.They were all too often my reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
I never had to ask myself why I was doing it.The discipline,going without, constantly saying no when my friends went into the city, had midnight parties, went off for the weekend, while I was driven with the rest of the team to pools all over the country, to throw heart and soul into the two hundred meters again and again, to stand on podiums, to have medals hung around my neck.I loved winning, but that wasn’t really what it was all about for me.The adrenaline that drove my body on to perform when I positioned myself on the starting block and waited for the signal.Pushing off, tensing, flying, diving under, flying again.My arms splitting the water, my body feeling weightless.The burning in my lungs, my heart thumping.You could say I was addicted to that feeling, which would explain why everything’s been so shite since none of that has been part of my life.I’m going cold turkey.Although that would mean the first few weeks were the hardest and after a while it should start to get better, but there’s no sign of that.
You have to give yourself time, Olive.
Yeah, but how much?
I shut my eyes and take a deep breath, then bend down and dip my hand into the water.I know I could try a few lengths if I really wanted to.Swimming would be a great form of rehab for you, Olive, as soon as the skin graft is fully healed.Low impact.But I don’t want low impact.I want to be able to give it my all and push my body to its limits, like I used to.There’s no point in anything else.
I clench my fist and shake off the water, then dry my hand on my jumper.In a way, I don’t want to believe the doctors who told me I’ll never be able to swim at that level again.I mean, who do they think they are?God?They don’t have a fucking crystal ballto see into the future.But it’s hard to convince myself that they’re wrong when my own dad is a doctor and tells me at great length that their prognosis isevidence-based, not just plucked out of thin air.And that makes me feel like even Dad’s given up on me, even though the sensible part of me knows that’s rubbish.Emotions are seldom rational—that’s the whole problem with them.
I’m so deep in thought that the sound of a voice makes me jump.
“So what shall we smash today?”
I whirl around, even though there’s no need.His voice kind of echoes in here, but I know it right away.I force myself to breathe first, then speak.I have to beat Fantino at his own game.“Are you following me?”I ask with the bored tone I learned from him.
He laughs like he knows perfectly well how hard I’m trying to sound unfazed.I’m afraid he knows me well enough by now that that’s probably true.
“Would you like that?”
I roll my eyes as he comes closer.“Can’t think of anything else to say?”He’s actually grinning.
“How did you even get in here?”I ask, because only the coaching staff and swimming team know the code to the door.
“It wasn’t quite shut.Wasn’t that meant as an invitation?”
“No, actually.”
I keep sitting there as he comes over.Don’t want him thinking I’m intrigued by his presence.Because I’m not.Not in the least.
“So, Olive,” he says, looking at the pool.I fight back the urge to correct him.That’s Olive Garden, thank you.It isn’t, but apparently, I’ve got used to Fantino calling me that.Without that little extra,my name sounds almost naked from his lips.“What do we have here, then?The diving board?Could be tricky—everything in a swimming pool is kind of robust.”
I give a derisive snort as he looks at me.
“Or there’s the glass here if you’re feeling hardcore?”
“Are you nuts?”I yell as Colin walks from the poolside and knocks his hand on the window.I’m immediately pissed off with myself for giving him the satisfaction of getting a reaction out of me.He grins with smug triumph.
“Oh, Olive Garden, what do you think of me?”
