Page 86 of Beyond the Stroke

Owens isn’t only my coach, he’s like family, so I’m surprised he’s made an official decision without discussing it with me first. I can’t help but feel like the decision was made without my input because I might not be here in the next year. Out with the old, in with the new.

“I know what you’re thinking. Connor isn’t a replacement. He’s an addition.”

“As my coach of twelve years, I respect your decisions, but this isn’t going to be easy.”

“I’m not expecting you two to be best friends, but you are the team’s captain and with that comes a responsibility to be an inclusive leader.”

“When’s he coming?” I ask.

“He’s already here.” Coach nods toward the hallway, an indication that Connor is somewhere in the aquatic center.

I’m even more blindsided.

“Seriously? Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”

“I didn’t want to ruin your wedding.”

“How thoughtful of you.” A tight smile strains against my lips.

He motions to the wedding band on my left hand. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” I fidget with the wedding band, twisting it around my finger. It’s foreign, yet comforting.

“Now go get your warmup in.”

I stand and exit Owens’ office.

My close friends on the team know about my issue with Connor. The media thinks we’re rivals because he snagged a sponsorship deal that had originally been offered to me. Some say I’m bitter because Connor is younger and will likely eclipse my record for all-time most Olympic medals, but my issue withConnor has nothing to do with hardware, and everything to do with honesty and integrity.

Out on the pool deck, I walk over to lane four. My lane.

At the other end of the pool, I can make out the swim cap of another swimmer warming up in it. I yank off my shirt, pull on my cap and goggles, then dive off the blocks.

The water is a cool balm to my heated skin. I slip through it easily, fine-tuned muscle-memory easing me into the warmup. After a few strokes, I can sense the other swimmer’s approach. With both of us plowing forward through the water, we create two opposing high-pressure zones. When we meet in the middle of the pool, the pressure waves collide. The water flow between us is unpredictable as our bodies move through the turbulence of each other’s wake.

Breathing to my left, I catch a glimpse of the swimmer’s face breaking the surface beside me.

Familiar, but unwelcome.

Connor.

Even before our eyes connected, I knew it was him by the sun glinting off his inky sleeve rising out of the water.

Connor is known as the bad boy of swimming. He’s not into drugs or partying, those wouldn’t mesh with our rigorous training, but he’s known for going through women like swim caps.

The upsurge of water his body creates as we move in opposite directions has my body responding with a rush of adrenaline.

We’re warming up, yet when I make the turn, I clock my time well above a casual warmup pace. I shoot off the wall, and a handful of strokes later, we meet again. This time I’m prepared for him and right before we pass, I tilt my chest and angle myself downward, seeking out the small pocket of calmer water underneath Connor’s wave.

On the next lap, my pace increases again. I know it’s fucking stupid and I’m going to regret every second of this when I’m drained before the main set, but I can’t help it. I push on, picking up speed with every turn, keeping my momentum with every pass until I find myself directly behind Connor.

The next turn, I’m right on his heels as he pushes off the wall.

This isn’t the inclusive leadership that Coach talked about but it’s what I need in this moment.

As we ease into the final stretch of the warmup, I glide past Connor and into the wall.

At the pool edge, we surface, each of our arms draping over the opposing lane ropes to rest. Connor lifts his goggles to his forehead.

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