grabs everything he needs. I’m antsy now, anxious in a way that I wasn’t, and I have no idea why.
When we get to the main gate leading to the pool area, Alec is there. He’s stretching his lats, his dark hair slicked back from his warm-up. He stares as we get closer. His eyes flicker to Connor before giving me a knowing look.
Oh, please
. Does he think I was just helping Connor shoot up some doctored blood?
I glare at Alec with pure disgust. Connor doesn’t have to take drugs—he’s always been first.
Pneumonia
.
I don’t know where it comes from, but the word pops into my head like it’s been there all along. Connor’s pneumonia in September and the way he recovered so quickly.
Was that when the strange looks from Alec began?
There have been doping scandals in swimming, same as with every other sport. Most people don’t think swimmers dope, because it’s not a sport where you want grapefruit biceps. But performance drugs aren’t just about big muscles—they’re about quicker recovery so you can train harder. Some said there were swimmers using during the last Olympics. But do I think Connor is taking something? No. Absolutely not.
But there are pills you could take in your car before a meet. Pills that help you recover quicker when you’ve been injured
.
Or sick
.
No. I stop myself with a shake of my head. He was eating gummy sharks. Period.
As we pass Alec, I slide my hand into Connor’s and squeeze.
Connor looks at me, surprised. I gaze into his blue eyes and give him a hug. And when I’m next to his ear, I whisper, “Kick Mendoza’s ass.”
21
W hen they call the ladies’ 100 free, my best race, I’m sitting with the team in our warm-up area. It’s like that expression “it’s not over until the fat lady sings.” Well, it’s not over until the bored Team Mom Announcer calls your event. My muscles fire awake and my skin stretches and tingles as if I’m ready to burst out of myself. Part of me is still hoping Coach is going to call, “Abby, you’re up.”
Of course he doesn’t. I head to the fence, slide my fingers around the metal links, and concentrate on holding myself together as the swimmers take their lanes.
Jen is in lane 3—she’s swimming the 100 in my place. Bree is in lane 5. I know all the other swimmers even though they’re from different schools. We’ve been at the same swim events since we were young enough to bring coloring books and nail polishto occupy us between races. Okay, well, we still do the nail polish sometimes.
“Take your mark,” the ref calls.
Jen is on the block. I’m wishing it were me, my feet on the roughened texture, sliding my right foot forward until my toes curl around the edges. The press of my fingers on the block, the slight rock in the balls of my feet…the gathering. It’s like that, a gathering of energy and breath and momentum and focus—all in the center of my chest so that when the buzzer goes off…
Bam!
When the buzzer goes off now, I jolt forward, hard enough to make the fence rattle. I look around. No one’s noticed. Everyone else is pressing forward to watch. Jen looks good. But Grace Evans is in lane 4 and she looks just a little better.
I’m watching them swim neck and neck through the first two turns. It’s going to be close. Coach is checking his stopwatch and pumping a fist while he looks back and forth at Jen and Bree.
Then it’s the last lap and it’s close, so close, and there’s that final push when they all jerk and reach. And it’s over. Grace first. Jen second. Bree sixth.
Ouch
.
I look up, searching, without even realizing I’m doing it until my eyes find Coach. After every race in the past two years I’ve looked for Coach or waited to hear the sound of his voice. And I’m doing it again.
As if he can sense it, his gaze suddenly locks with mine. I want to cry. I thought something had broken between us from what happened at practice on Thursday. But the connection is still there. He knows.
When we get to the main gate leading to the pool area, Alec is there. He’s stretching his lats, his dark hair slicked back from his warm-up. He stares as we get closer. His eyes flicker to Connor before giving me a knowing look.
Oh, please
. Does he think I was just helping Connor shoot up some doctored blood?
I glare at Alec with pure disgust. Connor doesn’t have to take drugs—he’s always been first.
Pneumonia
.
I don’t know where it comes from, but the word pops into my head like it’s been there all along. Connor’s pneumonia in September and the way he recovered so quickly.
Was that when the strange looks from Alec began?
There have been doping scandals in swimming, same as with every other sport. Most people don’t think swimmers dope, because it’s not a sport where you want grapefruit biceps. But performance drugs aren’t just about big muscles—they’re about quicker recovery so you can train harder. Some said there were swimmers using during the last Olympics. But do I think Connor is taking something? No. Absolutely not.
But there are pills you could take in your car before a meet. Pills that help you recover quicker when you’ve been injured
.
Or sick
.
No. I stop myself with a shake of my head. He was eating gummy sharks. Period.
As we pass Alec, I slide my hand into Connor’s and squeeze.
Connor looks at me, surprised. I gaze into his blue eyes and give him a hug. And when I’m next to his ear, I whisper, “Kick Mendoza’s ass.”
21
W hen they call the ladies’ 100 free, my best race, I’m sitting with the team in our warm-up area. It’s like that expression “it’s not over until the fat lady sings.” Well, it’s not over until the bored Team Mom Announcer calls your event. My muscles fire awake and my skin stretches and tingles as if I’m ready to burst out of myself. Part of me is still hoping Coach is going to call, “Abby, you’re up.”
Of course he doesn’t. I head to the fence, slide my fingers around the metal links, and concentrate on holding myself together as the swimmers take their lanes.
Jen is in lane 3—she’s swimming the 100 in my place. Bree is in lane 5. I know all the other swimmers even though they’re from different schools. We’ve been at the same swim events since we were young enough to bring coloring books and nail polishto occupy us between races. Okay, well, we still do the nail polish sometimes.
“Take your mark,” the ref calls.
Jen is on the block. I’m wishing it were me, my feet on the roughened texture, sliding my right foot forward until my toes curl around the edges. The press of my fingers on the block, the slight rock in the balls of my feet…the gathering. It’s like that, a gathering of energy and breath and momentum and focus—all in the center of my chest so that when the buzzer goes off…
Bam!
When the buzzer goes off now, I jolt forward, hard enough to make the fence rattle. I look around. No one’s noticed. Everyone else is pressing forward to watch. Jen looks good. But Grace Evans is in lane 4 and she looks just a little better.
I’m watching them swim neck and neck through the first two turns. It’s going to be close. Coach is checking his stopwatch and pumping a fist while he looks back and forth at Jen and Bree.
Then it’s the last lap and it’s close, so close, and there’s that final push when they all jerk and reach. And it’s over. Grace first. Jen second. Bree sixth.
Ouch
.
I look up, searching, without even realizing I’m doing it until my eyes find Coach. After every race in the past two years I’ve looked for Coach or waited to hear the sound of his voice. And I’m doing it again.
As if he can sense it, his gaze suddenly locks with mine. I want to cry. I thought something had broken between us from what happened at practice on Thursday. But the connection is still there. He knows.
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