Split

Chapter four

I'm late for practice.

The walk from Maya's dorm to the changing room takes less than five minutes, which is really fucking lucky, because I think Lewis would have drowned me had I arrived a second later.

Honestly, she still looks like she's considering it as she goes over the training schedule with me, throwing in twenty laps as punishment for my tardiness.

Mariana Lewis, my coach for the past nine years, has never accepted anything but total commitment. She told me that when I approached her about training at Stanford. She didn't moon over me being an Olympic medalist, like so many other coaches I talked to. She simply asked if I would be prepared to give it my everything and put anything else second. When I said yes, she gave me one of her hard-earned smiles; the rest is history.

Maya is right that I did follow her to California, but she alone is not the reason I chose to swim at Stanford. I could have picked a coach who wasn't affiliated with a college team and could have worked with me full-time, but I liked the idea of having teammates, even in the periphery, and Lewis made the best case.

I trusted her.

Which is why I've done everything in my power to live up to that promise I gave her when I was eighteen and hungry for more victories. I've made swimming my life.

Maya has been in the country for a few hours, and I'm already in danger of breaking it. One minute with her and I revert back to my seventeen-year-old self, who skipped practice because Maya's lab partner bailed on her, and she needed help finishing a project so she could ace her physics class.

Prioritizing Maya has always been as easy as breathing, and spending time with her has always been as enticing as swimming.

But the most important thing this year has to be making it to Worlds. I can't let my team down, I can't let Lewis down, and I can't let myself down.

If we don't place at Worlds, we won't be competing together at the Olympics, and it might be my last chance. Fourth Olympics in a row and a little more than a year before I turn thirty, which is when most swimmers think about retiring.

What I'm going to do then, I have no idea.

"Are you listening to me?" Lewis barks, pulling me from my thoughts. I stiffen my spine, nodding tersely. This is not the time to lose focus.

"Yes, Coach."

Her steely eyes narrow. "Are you going to tell me why you were late today?"

This is one of the last practices we have before the college kids return, and we must welcome the rookies. It's a crucial time to decide on what I'll be working on personally, while Lewis has to split her time between us on the medley team and the Wolverines' swimmers.

"Just helping out a friend," I say off-handedly, my palms beginning to itch.

Lewis's eyes close briefly, and when they open, I see understanding but also a hint of something like disappointment.