He scowls at me like I’m a speck of dirt on his shoe. I’ve grown a lot in the last year, but I’ll never be as tall as him. No matter how old I am, he’ll always look down at me.
“It will happen again,” he snaps. “Or something else will. For the past year it’s been one problem after the next, except this time, it’s not just you—your teammates are suffering because of what you did. That win was theirs, and you lost it.”
“The win was ours,” I remind him. “And so was the loss. I swam that race, too.”
“You might as well not have. I could’ve put one of those plastic duck toys in the pool in your place and it probably would’ve had better splits!”
I’m used to getting dressed down by Dave. It happens all the time. But the insult hits me so hard that I take a step back, reeling like he’s smacked me.
“I had a good swim,” I protest.
“You had an average swim,” Dave sneers. “Which was worthless because it didn’t count. Most of the time, you can’t even manage that. You’d better figure out if you really want this, Susannah, because it doesn’t seem like it. And even if you do, I’m starting to wonder if you have what it takes. I really don’t think I can help you.”
Dave points at me with his clipboard. “You,” he says, “are becoming a waste of my time.”
Then he turns and walks away. I feel flattened, but I can’t just stand here—I have to get out, now.
I head for the locker rooms with my gaze locked on the tile, determined not to look at anyone, afraid they might be looking back, that they might see how upset I am. How ashamed. There’s a sign in Dave’s office that says Feel your feelings all you want, just don’t feel them in front of anybody else. It’s an unofficial GAC rule: on the pool deck, only triumph is welcome. You deal with failure alone.
Of course, that applies only to swimmers. Dave can feel and do and say whatever he wants, whenever he wants, wherever he wants, and we’re supposed to take it. Rage at the injustice of it tears at my throat as I hurry to get someplace I can be alone. I’m barely watching where I’m going and I almost slam into someone outside the girls’ locker room.
Large hands wrap themselves around my shoulders to prevent impact. I glance up reflexively to see who they belong to, then wish I hadn’t.
The guy is a stranger, mostly. I don’t know his name, but all the swimmers my age in this region tend to look familiar after so many years in the endless wash, rinse, repeat cycle of elite competition. And he is a swimmer; if the racing suit didn’t tip me off, his body would have. He’s tall and lean, long-limbed and broad-shouldered, sleekly muscled in the way of those who are born for the water.
Okay, so he’s hot; a lot of swimmers are. I’m not oblivious, but I don’t spend seven hours a day, six days a week in the pool for the eye candy. I don’t need another distraction. There’s enough getting in the way of my swimming as it is.
Right now, this particular swimmer is getting in the way of my escape.
“Sorry,” I mumble, avoiding his eyes. I step back, and he releases me. “If I could just—”
I gesture toward the entrance to the locker room.
“Sure,” he says, stepping aside to let me pass.
His voice is so rich and deep it surprises me. Curiosity momentarily supersedes embarrassment and I take a good look at him.
Despite the voice and the body, which make him seem older than he can be if he’s competing in this invitational, there’s something endearingly boyish about his face. His cheekbones are so high they have summits, but there’s a soft roundness to his jaw, and his blue eyes are wide and expressive. His hair is a gorgeous red-gold color that flares under the natatorium’s bright fluorescents.
He’s more than hot—he’s handsome. Which, for some dumb reason, makes the fact that he’s caught me at such a low moment so much worse.
“Hey, are you o—”
I brush past him and dart into the locker room before he can finish his sentence. In an empty bathroom stall, I sit and cover my face with my hands. The air is heavy with the scent of chlorine and the smell of towels left to molder on a bathroom floor. It makes me gag, but I force myself to take long, ragged breaths through my nose. Tears threaten, but they don’t fall. I refuse to cry about this.
When I went through puberty and started slowing down, I decided the only way I was going to get back on top was by becoming a machine: ruthlessly efficient, tireless, relentless.
Machines don’t cry. They just tick on, ever forward. So that’s what I’m going to do.
CHAPTER TWO
330 days until US Olympic Team Trials
MY PARENTS HAVE never seen Dave go off on me before, and they’re furious. They’re all fired up to call and give him hell as soon as we get home from the invitational.
“He can’t talk to you like that!” Dad fumes, crashing around our kitchen in search of the GAC phone book. Our eight-year-old mutt, Lulu, follows at his heels, confused by all the excitement. She barks and whines until Dad snaps, “¡Cállate!”
I grab Lulu and bury my face in the long, caramel-colored fur of her neck. Not much has the power to cheer me up when I’m feeling bad, but my animals always do.
“I think you need a bath, Lu,” I whisper in her ear. She kind of stinks. I’ll wash her tomorrow, even though it’s Nina’s turn.
Lulu licks my hand and turns to look at me, and I swear to God she smiles. I love dogs.
Dad mutters something to himself in Spanish, then shouts, “You’re just a kid! I could kill him!”
And he’s my levelheaded parent. Mom looks like she’s about to punch someone.
“It’s not a big deal,” I insist. It hurt, and it was embarrassing, but if I crumble after every setback I’ll never make it through the season, let alone to the Olympics.
“It’s a big deal to us,” Mom snaps, so sharply that I wince. Her expression softens and she puts a gentle hand on my wrist. “We’re trying to protect you, mija.”
“I don’t need protection,” I say. Lulu whines and rests her head on my knee. “Dave’s right. I keep screwing up. It’s like I’m not good anymore.”
It costs me a lot to admit that to them. My parents have always been supportive of my swimming, but wary of it, too. They think it demands way more than someone my age should be expected to give.
They’d never say it, but I know there’s a part of them, deep down, that wishes I’d quit.
“You’re still good, Susannah,” Dad assures me, but I can tell he’s only half listening. He’s too busy digging around in the bottom of a junk drawer.