Total pages in book: 170
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 168980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 845(@200wpm)___ 676(@250wpm)___ 563(@300wpm)
It’s another checkmark in the Reasons Not to Date a Hale, Cobalt, or Meadows category. I worry about my relationship leaking even more. Everyone is fretting about how I’d handle the media pressure, but my boyfriends grew up totally out of the spotlight.
I don’t want the loss of privacy or Negative fucking Nancies to take a toll on their mental health either. But fear of the danger ahead isn’t depriving me of the greatest love I’ve ever experienced.
Fuck fear.
Fuck the media.
Fuck the dirty mole.
My stopwatch goes off, jolting me from my thoughts.
I see the time and Garrett Winthrope still swimming the backstroke in his lane. His flutter kick has improved since day one, but his body roll from side to side has major issues. His head should be steady and still, and right now, he looks like a bobblehead dunked in water. On a clipboard, I jot a note next to his name.
Needs to isolate head while shoulders and hips rotate – backstroke sucks.
He’s definitely not in contention to qualify for the Olympic team.
Being fucking frank, only two people here are good enough to make it. Frankie Hansen taps the edge of the pool and pulls off her goggles. A Warwick swim cap hides her platinum blonde hair. “How’d I do?” she asks Coach Reed, who’s keeping track of her times.
“Four seconds faster than your last lap. Good work.”
She frowns, water dripping down her fair, white skin. “Yeah, but how far from the record?”
He winces. “Still fifteen seconds behind.”
She blows out a frustrated breath. Know that feeling. Her eyes flit to me, catching me staring.
“Oh hey, you’ll get there,” I encourage. That’s what coaches do after all, right?
She smiles a little. “Really? You wouldn’t mind me beating your record?”
My stomach flip-flops. Yes, I would very much fucking mind all my hard work being destroyed in just a few years. Those words stay at the back of my head. I’m a coach now. Encouragement over pride. That’s what my dad told me when we chatted at the cottage.
The two days I spent there, we actually had good talks…about swimming.
Yeah, I was a fucking coward and we avoided all conversation about Banks and Akara. I just really wanted him to know that I was doing well on my own. Boosting up my independence felt more important. Like a steppingstone into him being cool with my boyfriends.
“If you can beat my record, you’ll qualify without a doubt,” I tell Frankie, skirting around her question. “So it’s a good goal to fucking shoot for.”
She smiles wider. “Thanks, Coach Meadows.” She hops out of the pool to take a start again on the block.
I suck in air tightly through my nose. Why does it feel like baby rhinos are kicking me in the gut? My eyes graze the blue water, the lanes, and empty stands. Chlorine floods my senses in such comfort and familiarity. I remember Disney’s The Thirteenth Year and the weekend Moffy and I watched the swim movie five whole times.
While Luna couldn’t wait to turn eleven to be sorted in a Harry Potter house, I couldn’t wait to be thirteen and see if I’d grow gills and a fin.
Taking in Warwick’s aquatic center for another moment, I imagine people filling the stands, chatter echoing off the glass dome, the sound of “take your mark” and the beep, the cheering and splashing, and I almost feel like I’m back home.
The pool tries to beckon me closer like I’m starved for an unquenched feeling. Being so close to the water and not swimming is harder than I expected.
I’m stuck here. On the sidelines with a clipboard in hand.
Also, the wild animals kicking my gut keep on kicking. Literal pain cramps my lower abdomen, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Please don’t be menstrual cramps.
Please don’t be cramps.
After seeing a new gynecologist, the doctor prescribed me a new brand of birth control, and I’m banking on this being the magic fucking pill.
I blow out a measured breath and try to ignore my contracting muscles.
Where I stand, another swimmer pops up from their lane. I click my second stopwatch, and my eyes bug at the time. Holy fuck.
“You’re fast,” I tell the twenty-one-year-old. Ravi Chawla climbs out of the pool, water beading down his reddish-brown skin and lean abs. He pulls off his goggles to try and read my stopwatch, but water gets in his eyes. He rubs at them.
“Yeah, but how fast?” Ravi asks. “Like Kingly fast or qualifying fast?”
I snort. “Qualifying fast. No one is faster than Kingly.”
He lets out a heavy breath. “Come on, someone has to knock him off his throne.”
“You think it’s going to be you?” I size-up Ravi. He’s tall with a good-sized wingspan for swimming, but he lacks Kingly’s size 15 flipper-like feet.
“Yeah, it’s going to be me, Coach Meadows. Watch it happen.” He stomps towards the starting block. Coach Reed watches him and then rotates to me.