Deep End(55)

“So, you stole my spot.”

My heart sinks, but I point at Coach. “Please, direct your complaints to HR.”

She motions me closer like she really, truly wants a hug, and . . .

“I’m so happy you’re here,” I whisper in her ear. I wish to go back to before she got hurt. A simpler, more balanced time.

“Me, too, Vandy.” We move back at the same time. She glances between Pen and me, sighs dramatically, and says, “You two really suck at synchro.”

I flinch.

“Ouch,” Pen says.

“Here’s the deal. I’m never going to dive competitively again, synchro or individual. And it’s fucking horrible. And I’ve spent the last two weeks sobbing into the Get Well Soon hedgehog stuffie my cousin Cece sent me. But.”

I cock my head.

“The magnitude of which you both suck is larger than I ever suspected, and it’s my civic duty to reduce it. And there is an open volunteer coach position . . .”

I’m nodding desperately.

Next to me, Pen seems to be tearing up. “God, please. Save us from ourselves.”

“Then it’s settled. I mean—” She shrugs. “It’s not like you could have said no after a fucking three-centimeter gap between crash mats ravaged my lifelong hopes and dreams.” Victoria widens her arms, and Pen and I walk into what could very well be the first three-way hug of my life. “And hey,” she mumbles into my hair—or Pen’s. “Maybe I’ll get a Nobel Prize or something, if I help create the world in which you two suck a bit less.”





CHAPTER 30


OUR FIRST DUAL MEET OF THE SEASON IS AT HOME, AGAINST UT Austin.

It’s a huge relief: traveling is fun in theory but exhausting in practice, and usually requires us to skip classes. I’m “too much of type A dictator freak” (Maryam’s words; probably the truth) to rely on other people’s notes, and “too much of an antisocial turd monkey” (also Maryam’s words; certainly the truth) to have made reliable friends within my major, which makes every absence a huge hassle.

In preparation for the meet, practice has been ramping up, and I’m pleased with how much my body has recuperated and its ability to produce clean dives and controlled entries. Still, it’s hard to be optimistic when I know that an inward dive will be required, and that my failures will reflect on Pen during synchro.

“Did you discuss it with her directly?” Barb asks me when we FaceTime.

“Yeah. Well, kind of.” Pen has been nothing but great, and I feel even more guilty for dragging her down like a giant anvil wrapped around her neck.

It’s just preseason, Vandy.

Dual meets don’t mean that much .

The last thing I want is for you to feel like you’re disappointing me.

“I had this idea,” I tell Barb. “You know how people who suffer from insomnia are told not to toss and turn, and instead to get out of bed? To avoid forming negative associations with it?”

“I did not know that.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Must not have come up in my orthopedic surgery residency.”

“Well, I’ve decided to stop trying to force my inward dives for a few days. Avoid negative associations with the platform. Might help, like a factory reset?”

“What does your therapist say about this?”

“She’s not against it.” Because she doesn’t know. In fact, I had to cancel our session because of a lab this week, and never bothered rescheduling.

I’m doing to my therapist what Lukas is doing to me. I’m just not sure Sam and I are going anywhere.

“I’ve always hated this preseason malaise,” Pen says on Tuesday night in the dining hall. “The constant reminder that we’re about to start something. Like a pimple that’s ripe but cannot be popped yet.”

“What delightful imagery.” Victoria drops her fork into her mashed potatoes.

“What I’m saying is, I’m ready to squeeze that white goo out of my body, and I’m glad UT’s coming.”

“I beg you. Less pimple-popping philosophy and higher hurdles, okay?”

Pen’s right, though. Exhaustion and anticipation are in the air. Everybody’s training harder, and Avery is full of wincing steps, athletes guzzling post-workout coconut water, overworked PTs. I’m not immune: my shoulder is holding up, but my back seems to be in a May-December relationship with the rest of my body. Cold baths help, but they’re hell in liquid form, and I can only stomach them if they’re followed by hot ones. Bree and I usually take them together, but the more strenuous training gets, the more I find myself lingering afterward. “I’m pruning,” she tells me on Wednesday morning, stepping out of the Epsom salt tub. “You’re really staying longer? Are you sure you’re not going to . . . deliquesce?”

I laugh. “How’s that chemistry class going?”

“Like shit. Did I use that word right?”

“Almost.”

She sticks her tongue out, and I’m left alone in the recovery room.

The tub is a medium-sized, rectangular sunken pool. I turn, leaning my elbows on the deck and leaving the lower two-thirds of my body submerged. I put on my AirPods and spend about ten minutes looking through the PowerPoint for my psych lecture. Once I’m done, I turn off the music, roll around, and nearly drop my phone in the water.