Page 30 of Breathing Under Water

“Hey, do you mind timing me for one last sprint?”

“Now?” She looks down at me, walking closer to my lane. Extra sprints are generally not encouraged at the end of a hard practice. “You know your form’s going to be sloppy now.”

“Just fifty yards. Please?” She’s not wrong that I’m exhausted, but I’m craving the extra bit of release.

“Fine, but if I see poor mechanics, I’m stopping my clock.”

I nod and reposition my goggles down over my eyes before climbing up to the starting block.

“Take your mark,” Marcy calls. “Go!”

And then I’m gliding hard and fast under the water before cutting clean to the surface. As I slice forward in steady bursts, I’m feeling strong and quick. With each rhythmic whip-snap motion of my breaststroke, I’m getting less pissed off about all the extra effort I’ve been putting in this summer. It’s easy to feel like a fraud all the time. Imposter syndrome is so real. But right now, as I’m moving with such power through the water, I feel entirely legit.

When I finish the second length and touch the wall, Marcy calls out my time.

It’s the exact same time I got in the qualifying meet back in February, down to the last tenth of a second.

“What the fuck!” I shout as I rip my goggles off and throw them across the pool deck.

“No, this is great, McKenna. End-of-practice sprint, and you’re right where you were after you tapered. You should feel good about this progress.”

“Progress?” I nearly spit out the word. “This isn’t freaking progress. I’ve been busting my ass the entire summer, and the clock hasn’t moved at all.”

I push myself out of the pool. “Let me see the stopwatch.” I hold out my hand, and Marcy passes me the timer. Glancing down at the numbers, I see the ugly truth of what she said.

“Motherfucking fuck!” I shout as I hurl the stopwatch into the tiled wall across from us. The watch shatters, with plastic pieces flying all over the pool deck. I don’t apologize. I just grab my goggles from where they landed a moment before.

As I turn toward the locker room, I notice Coach Cat standing at the other end of the pool. And from the look on his face, he clearly saw this whole thing.

Barely an hour later, we’re settled at three long tables at Bella Forno, a local Italian restaurant with painted murals on the walls and old-fashioned Neapolitan songs piping down from speakers in the ceiling. With friendly waitstaff and big jugs of wine, the place is packed nearly every time we come. Luckily, whenever Marcy calls ahead, the hostess, Gianna, who also happens to be a Meadowbrook alum, saves these three tables for the team.

I chose the seat that was as far as possible from Coach Cat, but I know I’m going to hear it from him later. Now that I’ve had a little time to process, I can see that Marcy was right. Back in February I never could have made that time at the end of a practice, and that needs to be enough for me. I’m definitely making progress, even if it’s hard to take stock of it.

Coach notices me looking at him and pushes back his chair to stand, motioning me to follow him. I trail behind him as we make our way back to the entrance of the restaurant and then into the quiet parking lot. I don’t wait for whatever he’s going to say before I start talking.

“I’m sorry, Coach. I know I overreacted. I’ll replace the stopwatch.”

His phone rings, and he pulls it from his shorts before answering in a harried tone. “I can’t talk now, Paula.” He’s silent for a beat while she says something on the other end.

“This isn’t the time. I’ll see you at home.” He ends the call and shoves the phone into his pocket before looking back at me.“It’s not about the watch, Sonny. I thought we were finally done with these outbursts of yours. You can’t fall apart every time something you don’t like happens. You have so much potential, and you could have everything you ever wanted if you’d just stop getting in your own way.”

“I know, Coach.” I look down at my feet. The strap on my leather sandal is fraying. I want to tell him about Glory, about how hard it’s been to keep everything together since she moved out, but coaches don’t want to hear excuses. That’s what my mom drilled into me the second time she got sick. She was so worried about her illness derailing my swim career, and I promised her I wouldn’t let it. I have to keep pushing forward now, same as I did back then.

“I promise, Coach. It was a blip. I’ll do better.”

His eyes rove over my face for longer than I’m comfortable with. He’s probably thinking about how many times in the past I’ve told him I’d do better, keep myself together, calm down, whatever I promised. I actually do feel sorry—not just about being out of line with Marcy, but also about causing Coach any grief. He doesn’t deserve that either.

I’m about to apologize again when he tips his head toward the large windows of the restaurant.

“Let’s get back inside and put this behind us. Tomorrow is a new day, yeah?”

“Okay, yeah.”

With a satisfied nod, he turns back to the glass doors.

When he gets back to his table, he leans down to whisper to Coach Marcy. I think for a second as I take my own seat about the rumor Rae shared, that our coaches were having some sort of illicit affair. But I’m pretty sure he’s just filling her in on ourconversation. Never mind whatever strife I just overheard with his wife. He’s way too obsessed with the team to ever jeopardize his credibility with something like that.

We order a family-style dinner, which is great because it saves us from having to narrow down the choices on the menu. It’s also just another way for me to be close to my teammates, who really have become my family.