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“If you feel any worse, let us know,” Akara says.
“Aye aye.” I fist-bump him, then bump Banks’ knuckles. Right when I turn towards the lanes, Coach Reed approaches.
Oh fuck.
I’m usually 100% concentrated.
Knowing my focus slipped at work is embarrassing. My face is hot, and I flip fast through my pages of notes for the swimmers.
“Sullivan,” he says.
“Sulli,” I correct like I have since Day 1. “Do you need my critiques?”
“Later, I’d love to look over them with you.”
“Great.” I let the pages fall flat on the board.
“That was amazing work with Ravi.” He jabs a thumb towards the lean-cut swimmer who dives off the block.
“Really?”
“Yeah, I haven’t seen him that motivated in months.” He hugs a binder of his own. “We should talk about strategies for Ravi and Frankie. I know you have experience when it comes to qualifying, and since the Olympic Team Trials are in June, we’ll need a rigorous training schedule to make sure they both make the team.”
“Agreed.” I can do this. Maybe my goal isn’t to land on the team, but helping someone else make the cut has to be equally rewarding.
Coach Reed smiles, absentmindedly touching his black gauges. “How about Michelangelo’s Pizza at nine?”
“Works for me.”
“See you tonight, Sullivan.” He leaves for the office just as practice ends.
I’m in charge of giving out more pep talks (shitty ones) and then I hand out a workout plan for each swimmer, modified personally by me to focus in on their weaknesses. Pain meds kick in, my cramps milder and easier to push aside.
“Do these at home before the next practice,” I tell the team.
Ravi reads over his sheet. “Seriously? Flutter kicks?”
“It’ll help your core and boost your endurance, which you’re lacking.”
“My endurance is better than everyone’s here,” he refutes. “I’m not lacking anything.”
He’s being a cocky a-hole, but I get his complaints. He’s the hardest working male swimmer at Warwick. Stays late, comes in early. But if he wants to be the fucking best, he has to realize he’s not the best. There is always someone behind him, chasing after his records.
I try not to glance at Frankie, who’s chasing after mine.
“Your endurance isn’t better than your competitors outside of Warwick,” I tell Ravi. “You want to swim the 1500 meter freestyle? You can’t gas out after five-minutes, which you did today.”
He studies the sheet more.
“Any other complaints?’
He mumbles, “No.”
Frankie smiles brightly. “Looks great, Coach Meadows!” She practically hop-skips to the locker room. That’s unsettling.
The team departs, and Akara and Banks follow as I grab my gym bag off the stands. I’ve already asked my boyfriends not to carry my bag for me.
Not because of secrecy or anything. Bodyguards often do carry shit, but at work, I want to stay professional and as normal as possible.
Most people don’t have bodyguards at their beck and call. And I want to be treated like a coach and not like the famous Olympian.
I sling the strap over my shoulder and spin to them. “Is it weird I relate to Ravi more than Frankie?”
“No, because you are more like Ravi,” Akara says while we all walk to the exit. “Motivated by tough love.”
“I wish I could understand her though. She’s going to be on the same women’s Olympic swim team that I was on…if she makes it.” I shake my head. “She will make it. Of course she will.” Why does that toss my stomach? I’m her coach…a horrible coach.
A jealous coach?
Akara pushes open the doors.
Unlike my cousins, no hordes of paparazzi wait outside of my workplace to pounce on me. There’s just Earl from a sports blog. He frequently shows up to catch me leaving.
“Hey, Sulli! How was practice?” he calls out, notepad in hand.
Akara and Banks both sidestep and block him from approaching too close.
“Pretty good,” I reply, walking a short distance across campus to the nearest parking lot. “Top secret though.”
“One of these days I’ll get that interview!” Earl yells because he doesn’t ever follow me to my Jeep. He stays a respectable distance.
I don’t know…I kinda like Earl.
I smile as I climb into the backseat of Booger. Only when the doors shut—Banks behind the wheel and Akara in the passenger seat—do I sense a long, drawn-out silence.
Weird, awkward silence that has no origin.
Does it have an origin?
Did I miss something?
“Are you two mad at each other?” I ask tentatively, trying not to panic. What the fuck happened?
24
BANKS MORETTI
“We’re not fighting, Sul,” Akara says while glaring out the windshield. “I think Banks and I are on the same page on this one.”
Yeah.
We were right fuckin’ there. Side by side. Witnessing something at the pool that whiplashed me to the day where we watched as Will Rochester hit on Sulli at the Avondale Club. Good for her, I should’ve thought back then. She has an admirer.
That wasn’t coursing through my head today.
