Page 72 of Diving In
“I guess so.” He still looks nervous. “I just don’t want to let people down. You’ve heard what the commentators say. The expectations are high.” He takes another cautious bite of the toast.
“You aren’t letting anyone down. We still have an hour before you need to go to the studio. Do you want to practise a bit?”
“Can we? Just to settle my nerves?”
“Of course.” I stand and smooth down my shirt. “Let’s go back to yours and prep. Then I can pack up our stuff when you’re doing the interviews. By tonight, it’ll all be a distant memory.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky promise,” I tell him. “And we both know that’s legally binding in pirate’s code. Anyway, we’ll literally be on a beach this evening, so you’ll definitely be having a good time.”
“And I need to text Coach Miller,” he mumbles. “My memory’s coming back and I think I left him four voice messages last night.”
I cackle. I’m not sure how much he can remember. He tried to do a handstand on the dance floor with one of the diving guys. And he didn’t just leave four voice messages for Coach Miller; he also sent him a whole string of texts. Mostly about how much he appreciated him. I tried to stop him, but he was very insistent.
And he danced with me almost all night and kept telling me how my eyes reminded him of melted KitKats, which is probably one of the strangest compliments I’ve ever heard. I turn away before he can see me blush.
***
Many hours, one bus and a ferry later, we’re finally at Ilha Grande, one of the islands of the coast. It’s the location of our week of holiday before we have to get back to Rio for the closing ceremony, and it feels a worldaway from the Olympic Village. We’ve found a spot at one of the bars that overlooks the sea and are sitting unwinding after dropping off our bags and showering away our very sweaty trip.
I try to stretch out the cramps in my back from the journey as I take in the scenery. It’s an unbelievably beautiful place. A forested island with white sandy beaches all around it. I feel like I’m in a paradise or, at the very least, the front cover of a travel brochure. Palm trees. Sand. Crystal clear water. And my best friend beside me. Who, despite all his fears, did survive being interviewed.
“Feeling relaxed now?” I sip my cocktail and watch as he grimaces at his beer before taking a quick gulp. Maybe his hangover hasn’t worn off quite as much as I’d thought.
“Definitely. The interviews weren’t too bad. And you were right, realising that no one was trying to trip me up helped.”
He does look infinitely more relaxed now we’re out of the Olympic Village and all the people trying to take photographs of him. No one recognises him here. Away from the crowd of athletes, we’re suddenly just two tourists enjoying a holiday together.
“Nan just texted telling me that she watched you on BBC Breakfast and that the whole of Sidmouth are going wild about you mentioning you used their community pool when you were training for the last Olympics.”
“It was fun. I enjoyed our holidays there.”
“Me too.” I take a sip of my drink. “But life moves on.”
“Not all of life,” he says, nodding at me. “I’m pretty sure you’ve had that shirt since we were fourteen.”
I look down at the black tank top I’m wearing. “How on earth do you remember that?”
“Because I distinctly remember being at the beach and realising you had boobs when you wore that shirt.” He holds his hands up. “Don’t hate me.”
The answer is so disarmingly honest I can’t help but laugh. Loudly. I’m probably startling people at nearby tables.
“Ah, teenage hormones.” I sigh dramatically once I catch my breath. “So chaotic. So powerful. Anyway, how’s the beer treating you today?”
“Still OK.” He grimaces. “But I’m worried I’m going to end up a mess like last night.”
“You weren’t that much of a mess.” I try not to smile too hard. “And you deserve to let loose every once in a while. You need to have some fun. Let’s toast. To your Olympic success—and to teenage me’s boobs.”
He clinks his glass against mine. “They’re still great boobs.”
“Thank you,” I say, as graciously as one can while sipping a cocktail in response to a toast for having gone through puberty. “I’m honoured to have the official Olympic seal of approval.”
“Did I say anything stupid last night?” he asks after he takes another sip.
“No, you were just really happy,” I reassure him. “You kept telling me how amazing I was, actually. It was a great ego boost. Austin thought it was hilarious. And then you became obsessed with my hair and kept stroking it.”
He groans. “Of course he thought that was hilarious. Sorry, Kath. I didn’t mean for you to have to spend the night listening to me or fending off my flowery advances.”
