Page 164 of Beyond the Stroke

Summer

Good luck, Flipper!

It’s four days.

It’s temporary, I remind myself.

Not being with Summer, but leaving her to travel. The swim pro series national meet in Fort Lauderdale.

It’s been a week since we ended up soaked and freezing in my Jeep. Since she climbed into my lap and completely ruined me.

The way she looked with rain dripping down her hair, shirt clinging to her like a second skin, and her cheeks flushed from the cold rain. It was nothing compared to the way she looked when she took me inside her.

We didn’t talk about what it meant. But the way she looked at me afterward told me what I needed to know. Summer was trying not to fall, but the fact she was trying so hard meant she already was.

The urge to ask her to change shifts at the café and cancel her dog walking clients was strong. But then it occurred to me, she doesn’t need to rearrange her life just because I want her with me.

“Retirement. It’s inevitable and with the toll training takes on an athlete’s body, it’s unlikely we’ll see you back in another four years. Are you thinking coaching? Broadcasting? More commercial work? What’s the dream?”

The press room is too cold, too bright, and too far from the girl I can’t stop thinking about.

I adjust the mic in front of me and force a smile. “Right now, the dream is a good night’s sleep and a solid meet.”

A few chuckles ripple through the room. I glance at the reporters, all waiting for the polished soundbite, the headline-worthy quote.

“But seriously…” I run a hand through my hair. “I’ve spent most of my life chasing hundredths of a second. I’m still proud to be here. Still love competing. But for the first time, I’m starting to wonder what life looks like beyond the pool.”

The words are out before I can second guess them. I haven’t said them aloud before. Not to my coach. Not to my teammates. Not even to Summer.

Another reporter chimes in. “Does that mean this could be your last meet?”

“I’ve got more in the tank. I’m not done.” My thoughts drift to Summer. To the version of myself I see in her eyes. “But, if I stay in the sport, I want it to be on my terms.”

They write that down, of course.

But the real story isn’t something I’m ready to share in a press room.

The real story is a girl with paint under her fingernails and a dog that snores louder than a human. It’s late-night grocery runs and beach days and the jars of pickles she keeps stocked in our fridge.

The real story is that, for the first time in my life, I’m not just swimming toward the wall.

I’m swimming toward someone.

I’m adjusting my goggles when the sharp whistle cuts through the chatter of the warm-up pool.

“Shields!” Coach Owens’s voice carries across the deck. “Get over here.”

I jog over to where Coach is standing and my eyes go wide when I find Charlie on the bench, grimacing and clutching his shoulder while Winnie kneels beside him.

“What happened?” I ask.

“I felt a snap on the catch,” Charlie says, his face contorting in pain.

“Rotator cuff, maybe,” Coach says. “He’s out.”

Fuck.

His words hit like a punch. Not because our medley relay final is in thirty minutes but because I’m devastated for Charlie.

---