Cold slid down my spine.
Losing the apartment was one thing.
Losing consistent access to this pool, this coaching, this training environment, was another.
At this level, a disrupted routine didn’t just slow you down. It ended careers.
“Coach.” I shook my head. “I can’t move backward right now. Not when the US National Championships—the World trials—are four months away.”
Four months.
One shot to prove I belonged on a deck with the best swimmers in the country.
One shot that I might not get again if I lost momentum now.
“I get it.” Her voice softened. “But the lease is tied to the program. Without the stipend, you’re responsible for the full rent. And with your training schedule …”
Meaning: I didn’t have time for a first or second job to make that work.
My throat tightened. I could almost feel the future I’d been chasing slipping.
“What are my options?”
“Not many,” she admitted. “You could move into the shared housing the university offers visiting athletes.”
Shared housing was a generous term. It was basically dorm living for grown adults. Thin walls, communal kitchens, and neighbors who thought heating fish at midnight was reasonable.
“That won’t work,” I said immediately.
“I know.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “There is … one other option, but I’m not recommending it.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
“Because it technically exists.” She cleared her throat. “The university still offers a domestic partnership grant for married or civil-unioned athletes in training programs. Comes with guaranteed on-campus housing and a living stipend.”
I stared.
“Coach. I’m twenty-six.”
She shrugged. “People your age get married.”
“Not for housing.”
“Sometimes for housing,” she said, like that somehow helped.
“I’m not getting married.”
“I didn’t say you should. I’m just saying the option is there.”
“Great. Super helpful.” I scrubbed both hands over my face. “And who exactly do you think I might marry? I don’t even date.”
Mainly because I didn’t have time. And because dating meant energy and effort and vulnerability—things I poured into training, not another person who could walk away whenever they felt like it.
Did I sound bitter? Maybe. But after my last relationship? Yeah, no way. I’d spent two years building something I’d thought was solid, only to have her end it like it was nothing. LikeIwas nothing. I wasn’t stupid enough to let that happen again.
Dating wasn’t just off the table. The table had been flipped and set on fire.
She gave me the kind of look you give a man whose boat is sinking but refuses to grab a life preserver. “All I’m saying is you need a backup plan.”
