I frown. “That’s not—I don’t—I’m fine. I don’t need anyone’s help.”
“Not true,” Beth says. “Every swimmer needs help. That’s what coaches are for.”
“I mean, I don’t need help from you.”
Guilt hits me before the words are even out of my mouth. She’s trying to be nice, and I’m acting ungrateful. But I’m not her swimmer, and the sooner I make that clear, the better.
“Dave is my coach,” I say, more gently this time.
“It’s not unusual to have multiple coaches, Susannah. Most swimmers do.”
“Yeah, but I don’t.”
Beth holds up her hands in surrender. “I get it. I had the same coach for most of my career, too. Sometimes people get attached.”
I’m not attached to Dave; I just know I can’t win without him. But there’s no point in trying to explain that to Beth. I’ve made enough of an ass of myself already. This is not how I wanted this conversation to go. I wanted to thank her, and I’ve messed it all up.
“Anyway. Yeah. So... I hope you enjoy the cookies,” I say, heading for the door. “If you’re going to keep them here, hide them. They’re Dave’s favorites. He’ll eat them all when you’re not here.”
“Noted,” Beth says. “Thanks again, Susannah.”
I nod, then book it right the hell out of there before I make an even bigger fool out of myself.
* * *
On my way to the locker room, I see Harry at the south end of the pool, helping a few of the younger swimmers clean up the equipment we used during practice. It’s part of his punishment for the whole rubber duck thing.
Well, in theory he’s helping—in actuality, he’s teaching the boys how to punt the kickboards into the wire bins where they’re stored. They’re not great at it, so there’s a lot of hard foam flying through the air, then skittering across the deck.
Harry manages to get one in the bin and the group erupts in a cheer. He’s pumping his fists in triumph when he looks up and sees me watching. His arms come down and he gives me a more dignified but no less enthusiastic wave.
He cups his hands over his mouth and shouts, “You’re coming to the party tomorrow, right?”
The boys have abandoned the kickboards and are now beating each other with pull buoys, but they break to laugh at Harry.
“Is she your girlfriend?” one of them teases him. Harry gives him a light shove.
“Maybe!” I call back to Harry. “I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
Harry presses his hand against his chest like he’s been shot in the heart. The boys fall on him like wolves on a wounded deer, using the foam pull buoys like mallets to hit him all over his back and shoulders. He grins at me, then does a graceful dive into the water to escape them. I duck into the locker room before he can surface.
Under the hot needlepoint spray of the shower, I play what just happened with Harry over in my mind. Did I flirt with him? I never flirt. I didn’t even think I knew how to flirt. But with Harry it came so easily, like floating in water, like breathing. And it felt great.
I am in so much freaking trouble.
CHAPTER FIVE
309 days until US Olympic Team Trials
What do you mean you’re NOT GOING?
IT’S SATURDAY, and Amber and Jessa have been texting me all afternoon, asking if I’m going to the party at Harry’s friend’s house and if they can come with me and if I’ve thought about what I’m going to wear and if I want help applying “some actual makeup for once in your life” (Jessa). I kept putting them off, because I honestly could not make up my mind, but around six p.m. I decided: I’m skipping it.
That did not go over well.
I’m finishing up the last of my homework when my phone rings. It’s Jessa. I put her on speaker.
“Did you hit your head?” she asks.
“I don’t think so. Maybe I did and it erased my memory, like in a telenovela. Why?”
“Then what possible reason do you have for not going to this boy’s party?”
“It’s too much pressure. He’s too cute, and too nice, and too...just too too, okay?”
“Wow, that’s a lot of toos. You’re spiraling.”
I sigh. “Yeah.”
“Okay, so, counterpoint: you don’t have to marry the guy. It’s just a party. A little flirting, a little kissing, maybe, then you go home and enjoy the fact that a boy you like likes you back for a couple of days. Plus, I bet he’s not even that nice. They never are in the end.”
“What happens after a couple of days?” I ask, ignoring that last part. Jessa has always had a take-no-prisoners approach to love. She treats it the way she treats everything else: like a battlefield.
“You move on to another boy. At least, that’s what I do.”
“I know. The pool deck is littered with the shards of your exes’ broken hearts.”
“Don’t be melodramatic. They can’t be exes because they were never boyfriends. They were crushes. There’s no harm in a crush, but no boyfriends till next August.”
For Jessa, boys are a healthy distraction from the rigors of training, but only in a noncommittal sort of way. She has this superstition that being in a relationship would compromise her chances at making it to the Olympics.
As superstitions go, it’s not that unreasonable, but this is the first time I’ve given it much thought. I’m no casual dater—I’m no casual anything—and I’ve never liked a guy enough to consider something more serious.
With my slowdown putting my career in jeopardy, right now doesn’t seem like the time to start.
“Note that she didn’t say anything about girlfriends,” Amber chimes in. “I can have as many girlfriends as I want. Not that I have any, but in theory.”
“No girlfriends, either,” Jessa says.
“Damn,” Amber says with mock-disappointment. She’s always telling me not to take what Jessa says so seriously.
“Hey, Amber. I didn’t realize you guys were together. What are you doing?”
“Going on a mission,” Amber says in a low voice that I guess is supposed to be mysterious.
“What kind of mission?” I ask. This is suspicious.
“You’ll find out very, very soon,” Jessa replies. Then she hangs up.
A second later, my bedroom door flies open and Jessa and Amber storm in. Frick and Frack, who were napping on my bed, startle and streak out of the room. Frida whistles from where she’s perched on top of her cage. She loves visitors. “Hola, Bela!” she chirps.