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I wanted so desperately to give Win what he needed even if what he needed was in direct contrast to what I did. Maybe it was a toxic trait, loving someone more than myself and thus sacrificing my own needs for theirs. It made me wonder if I was sentencing myself to an entire lifetime of misery.
“I’m taking a shower.” Rush’s words refocused me in the present.
“Ja,” I said, slipping into the Swedish agreement.
“You wanna use it first?” Rush said, thumbing toward the small bathroom.
I half smiled.
His face turned suspicious. “What?”
“Everyone thinks you’re such an ass. You really aren’t.”
He made a rude sound. “Oh, I’m definitely an ass. Most people deserve it. You’re cool though.”
“And you think Walsh deserves it?” I asked, curious. I hadn’t brought up the somewhat rival he had going with Ryan before. I didn’t want to be involved; confrontation made me queasy. But I was curious because I thought Ryan was a good guy. He’d even taken me to the pizzeria like he said he would and introduced me to the owner.
Rush’s upper lip curled. “Walsh thinks he runs Elite. Thinks he’s better than everyone else. Guys like him are dangerous, and I’m not going to just fall in line like he expects me to.”
I nodded. “I understand wanting to be your own person.”
He grunted. “You want the shower or not?”
“No, go ahead.”
He shut himself in the bathroom and a moment later the sound of the shower running filtered through the door. I got up and brewed myself a coffee using the machine I brought from Sweden. The same machine Win came home and bought.
With the room quiet once more, the nerves I felt for the meet today came back full force. I was swimming well here. My times were good. Swimming always was a great outlet for me to get out all my stress. Even so, I was nervous, the need to prove myself a constant hum in the back of my head.
Coach wasn’t budging on letting Kruger off the bench, and that meant I was the fastest backstroke swimmer on the team. I had to perform today. I had to get top time.
Swimmers aren’t even real athletes. Swimmers are just posers who couldn’t hack it on a field. You couldn’t even pick a hard stroke. You just want to walk around in that tiny speedo and show off like a whore.
Coffee sloshed over the cup, onto the back of my hand when I flinched from the onslaught of thoughts that came out of nowhere.
I licked it up, not willing to waste any of my brew, and then forced the thoughts back and got out of bed to pull out the ivy-green windbreaker and matching pants we had to wear to meets. I didn’t notice the scent of chlorine anymore, as it clung to everything I owned.
Once I had my gear I reached into my messy drawers for a change of clothes for later, shoving them into my bag. I didn’t bother folding them, I didn’t have to.
A short while later, Rush grabbed the keys to his Corvette. “Come on. I’ll drive you over.”
The closer we got to the pool, the busier campus got.
“Is this all for the meet?” I asked, my nerves skyrocketing even more.
“Of course.”
Tents were being set up on sidewalks, booths with Westbrook T-shirts and sporting event stuff like giant foam fingers and flags with Elite written on them. There were a few booths selling food—one with coffee, which I gazed at longingly.
“They didn’t do this back in Sweden?” Rush mused.
I realized my nose was pressed to the window as I stared out incredulously, and I forced myself back into the seat as we passed someone who was handing out programs.
“No. This is like football-level stuff.”
“You mean soccer.”
“What?”
