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“Hope you didn’t want us to hear anything you have to say,” Jamie muttered.
Coach ignored him. “It seems I need to make something clear. I could give you all the PC, Westbrook-approved, LGBTQIA-friendly spiel—”
“You forgot the plus sign at the end, Coach,” Kruger added.
Coach’s face turned purple. “Are your brains all water-logged?” he roared. “Show some respect!”
“I am. That’s why you gotta add the plus sign.” Kruger defended himself.
People snickered. Jamie was one of them.
“For the love of God,” Coach prayed. “LGBTQIA-plus.” He corrected himself.
Kruger nodded like all was right in the world.
“Way to be an ally, Coach.” Jamie congratulated him.
“Owens, if you say one more word, you’re cleaning toilets.” Coach threatened him.
Everyone fell quiet. Cleaning toilets was no joking matter.
“We are all here for one reason: to swim. You don’t have to be friends. But you will respect each other. That means all this in-house bickering and bullying stops right now. It’s beneath you.” He shot a pointed look at Rinkin. “What you all do in your personal lives outside this pool is just that—personal. As long as none of you are causing trouble on this campus or hurting this team, I don’t give a shit, and I don’t want to hear about it.”
No one said anything.
“Does anyone have a problem with that?” Coach asked.
Again, silence.
He cleared his throat. “And, ah, more specifically, if I get wind of any Elite members giving other members trouble about their sexual orientation, you’re out.”
I sucked in a breath.
Coach nodded. “I will not tolerate bigotry.” He glanced beside me. “You got that, Rinkin?”
“But, Coach—”
Coach cut off his sniveling with another excessively long tribute on his whistle. My ears were ringing when he finished.
“Didn’t you learn from your buddy Hughes? You want to be the next one off this team?” Coach roared. “I said that’s enough! Now give me ten laps.”
“Ten!”
“Want to make it eleven?”
Rinkin stood up. “Whatever.” He started toward the pool.
“Rinkin,” Coach intoned. “You owe Sinclair an apology.”
The swimmer’s shoulders hiked up to his ears. At his hips, his hands fisted. When he didn’t turn around, I thought about letting him off the hook and telling Coach to forget it. I didn’t want a forced apology, especially since it would be insincere.
I opened my lips to say just that, but Coach shook his head at me.
“Clear out your locker,” Coach said.
Rinkin spun. “No way!” He fumed, angry eyes snapping to mine.
A fissure of unease coiled through me. Calling Rinkin out, forcing him to apologize, and practically booting him off the team were only going to create more friction.
