Page 30 of The Last Five Yards

Maren reaches out, palm gentle, pressing through the slick latex to check for a bump. Nothing. Relief spreads through her chest like a warm wave. The smell of chlorine slings to her skin, sharp and clean.

“Do you want to work on this, Sam?”

The little girl nods again, lips quivering with determination.

“All right, when you’re swimming backstroke, what’s your stroke count?” The girl looks up at Maren blankly. “How many strokes does it take you to get from the flags to the wall?”

Sam shrugs, voice small. “I don’t know, Coach Maren.”

“Well, we’ll fix that right now.” Maren smiles, voice bright with encouragement. “Go out halfway and start your backstroke in. When you pass under the flags, start counting. I’ll be here at the gutter, and when you’re close, I’ll yell ‘wall’, so you know when to stretch.”

Sam pushes away, feet slapping against the wall, ripples breaking across the surface. She glides to the halfway mark, turns, and begins her stroke in. The rhythmic splash of her hands and the slap of the water fill the space between whistles.

As she crosses under the flags, Maren calls out, “One, two, three, four, five, six – WALL!”

Sam stretches, fingertips grazing the gutter, the sound of her touch echoing softly off the tile. She pops up, water dripping from her cap. “Coach! Coach! I didn’t hit my head!”

“No, sweetie, you didn’t. And now you know that when you hit six strokes, you either stretch for the wall or flip for your turn. Let’s do it again to make sure.”

Sam kicks back out, her feet flicking trails of foam. The splash from the pool faintly smells of sunscreen and chemicals. As she passes under the flags, Maren counts again, louder over the hum of the filters. “One, two, three, four, five, six – WALL!”

The girl touches perfectly this time and bursts into a grin.

“Okay, Sam, I think we’ve got it. This time I’m not going to count out loud. Just come in and hit your finish.”

Sam nods, pushes off again, and swims out to the middle. She looks back once, nervous but steady, then rolls onto her back. Her strokes are smooth, water sliding off her shoulders in silver sheets. She slips under the flags, lips moving as she counts. At six, she stretches, fingertips finding the wall clean.

Maren drops to one knee beside the gutter and raises her hand. “I think we got it, kid. What do you think?”

Sam’s wet hand slaps hers, sending droplets across Maren’s face and shirt. The shock of the cold makes her laugh. She grabs a deck towel from the bleachers and wipes her face. Thankful that it is a clean one and not already damp and musty-smelling.

“What do we say about the last five yards, Sam?”

“It’s where the race is won, Coach Maren!” The girl sings, voice echoing through the humid air.

Maren smiles, heart light and full. When she looks up, her eyes catch Reese’s. Reese has moved down a step on the bleachers. Afternoon light filters through the tinted windows, bruising across her face. She’s leaning forward, elbows on her knees, gaze locked on the pool.

Maren turns away, picks up a stray kickboard, and tosses it toward the equipment room. The splash echoes like punctuation. She can’t get pulled into this, not now.

Her watch buzzes against her wrist. Almost time for free time.

Maren keeps herself busy on deck for a few more minutes as the last of the kids finish their final set. She calls out reminders about the meet next Tuesday and the invitational sign-ups for next weekend. When she finishes, she steps back and brings the whistle to her lips.

The sharp blast cuts through the air, so clean it makes the hair on her arms stand up. From the soles of her feet to the crown of her head, she fills her lungs and yells, “FREE TIME!”

The word echoes across the pool. The kids shout it back, voices tumbling over one another in an avalanche of noise. Some of the older ones start planning a game of sharks and minnows. A few of the younger kids practice handstands against the lane lines, and one of them just floats on her back, eyes closed, carried by the noise and the current.

Maren takes a slow breath in. One, two, three, four. She holds it for two counts, then exhales through her nose. She can’t help but notice the air tastes like chlorine and summer heat, and she can feel the whistle hanging heavily against her chest.

It’s now or never, she thinks to herself.

She starts across the deck. Each step lands louder than the one before, slides slapping against the wet tile. The laughter and splashing have now faded into the background for her. The closer she gets to the bleachers, the thicker the air feels, like walking into another time.

Maren sets her clipboard on the bench, her keys resting on top, and sits beside Reese. The cold metal of the bleachers seeps into her legs, a rush of chill that cuts straight through the warmth of the air.

Reese reaches over and picks up the keys sitting between them. The metal clinks softly in her hands. “You still color-code everything?” She asks.

Maren glances over, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. “Didn’t realize you remembered.”