Page 59 of Whistle

He was serious?

“Rule two. No missing practice. If you have to miss, I need a doctor’s note or a damn good excuse.”

“I’m not swimming.”

“Rule three. Missed practices will be made up.”

I started to get up.

He blew his whistle. “Sit!”

I sat.

“Rule four. No drugs of any kind. No drinking.”

I scoffed. “I’m in college.”

“No drinking.”

Whatever.

“You have a physical scheduled for day after tomorrow. Drug and STD testing is mandatory.” He wrote a time and address on another yellow sticky and passed it to me.

I stared at it incredulously. Then I sneered. “Is that a rule for everyone or just fuck-ups?”

“You aren’t a fuck-up,” he said. The vehemence in his tone surprised me, and my eyes widened. “And yes, an annual physical is required for all my swimmers.”

“Five.” He went on, still handing out rules the way I handed out insults. “No fighting.”

“I have a right to defen?—”

“Six. No skipping classes.”

An inkling of offense whipped through me. Once upon a time, I was actually a good student.

But now, nothing about me was good.

“Seven.”

I groaned. “If I throw a stick, will you leave?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You will make an effort to bond with the team.”

I laughed. “No.”

“I don’t know how you did it in Pembrook, but here, team is family.”

My stomach quivered. “They hate me.”

“Elite does not hate you.”

“That’s not what Win said this morning when he followed me into the locker room.”

Coach stood so fast his chair skidded across the floor and smacked into the wall with a loud bang! “He did what?”

His outrage made me happy, and I wiggled down into the chair, suddenly very comfortable. “Mmm,” I hummed. “Him and Max. And the one with the good pants.”

“The good pants?”

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