26. Matthias

26

MATTHIAS

E verything was going to shit.

"What the hell to do you call that, Vaulteneau?"

"Swimming, Coach," I answered.

"Like hell it was," he exploded. "My hundred-year-old nana can swim faster than that, and she's fucking dead, Vaulteneau."

Coach Anderson was yelling at me daily. During swim practice, my times were getting worse and it got to the point where he started throwing things at me—his whistle, pens, goggles, and once the telescopic pool cleaning pole, which managed to hit several of us in the water.

My teammates started avoiding me, lest he transfer his transgressions to them.

"Do you think that was a Nationals-worthy lap just now, Vaulteneau?" Coach Anderson chided multiple times during each practice.

"No, Coach," I said each time, because to say anything else might have him jumping in the pool to pummel me about the head and shoulders.

"Do I need to send you back to a Water Bugs class?" he taunted at the edge of the pool. He was making it clear that he thought toddlers could swim better than me before making the entire team swim laps to the point of exhaustion as punishment.

After a few days of this, my brothers-in-swim-arms were giving me hell, especially after Coach seemed to be on a warpath. "Breathe less or we start over!" Coach would yell in order to put the fear of God into our tired asses.

"Dude," Filipe said Thursday after a particularly brutal practice where three people threw up afterward. "Coach just might kill us all. Did you sabotage Zoey's acting career or something?"

"No," I said from the showers, wrapping a towel around my waist. She'd texted a few times to plan our outing this weekend, but I hadn't been in the mood to reply. "But I've been meaning to reply to her, but haven't."

"Dude," Filipe repeated with meaning as he got dressed, wincing as he threw a shirt over his head. "Tell him about the injury, por favor. I've been falling on my face the second I get home. Joan has needs, Matty, and she's been threatening to leave my ass to find comfort in Ciaran's bed."

I laughed but Filipe gave me a quizzical look, as if he didn't believe my laughter rang true.

I'd done my best to avoid Ciaran all week, but he'd been coming down to the kitchen every morning just to witness me grunt at him in passing, even though I didn't think he needed be up that early.

"The world cannot withstand an unsatisfied Joan," I teased.

Even Jason, who'd been avoiding me like the plague since the fiasco at Pirate's Cove Saturday night, pulled me aside for one of his pep talks.

"How are things at home?" Jason asked as we left the gym and stumbled with dead muscles to the student parking lot. He was an excellent swimmer and on his own path toward Nationals. He also had this annoying ability to instantly turn on his "captain's" hat for moments like these. "Getting enough sleep? Eating enough?"

I could have said that my home life had been disrupted, that I was not sleeping well, and no, I probably was not eating enough. I was doing the best I could under the circumstances.

As much as I believed Jason was being genuine, I instead said, "Things are fine, Jason. I'm off my game. It happens to all of us."

"Getting in your own head?" he asked. He tried to put an arm around my shoulder but I moved out of the way.

"Probably."

"Been there, done that." Jason offered a bright smile and I was reminded of how I was into him last year. It was no surprise that Ciaran found Jason attractive at Pirate's Cove. That just made my mood darker. Jason was still talking when we reached my SUV. The sun was sinking into the western sky and my stomach grumbled. "Let off some steam, Matty. Go get laid. Is your shindig still on for tomorrow night?"

"It is if Coach doesn't kill me between now and then."

On Friday morning Coach Anderson pulled me into his office and closed the door. Even before he sat down behind the desk, my shoulders slumped.

"Zoey says you haven't finalized plans for the weekend yet," Coach said, his fingers steepled. I remained standing. His office was full of pictures of his Olympic glory days. He'd brought three swimmers to the Olympics since he'd started coaching, with all three of them medaling.

Coach Anderson was the real deal. He knew this sport inside and out, and he knew how to get you into the Olympics if you had enough talent. He also wanted to make it worth his while.

After Coach Anderson caught me snorting cocaine, I figured it would be his word against mine, but Coach was savvier than that. He had photographic evidence and was only too happy to show me the video on his phone.

He had enough money, so it wasn't like he was asking for a payout; but my family had the right social connections into Hollywood. That's how our deal came about.

And why he was pissed at me.

My potential ability to make Nationals made my compliance a sure bet. Without that—if I couldn't cut it—then my desire to uphold my end of the bargain was slipping through his fingers.

"Things have been rather chaotic at home, Coach."

"Bullshit, Vaulteneau. People at your level wave away chaos the way I'd swat away a gnat." He leaned forward. "In case you think I'm stupid, you're doing a piss-poor job hiding the shoulder injury. The fact that you haven't trusted me with the information makes me think I'm not the right Coach for you."

All the air left the room.

Coach knew how to keep me trapped on his hook. If he yanked the carrot, then I'd fall flat on my face and wouldn't be able to try out for the Olympic U.S. Swimming Trials again for another four years.

"It started as an overuse injury that has gotten worse," I admitted since the jig was up.

"Fucking idiot," Coach Anderson seethed. He chewed on his inner lip, deep in thought. "The photos from last weekend were brilliant."

His switch of topics gave me mental whiplash. "Coach?"

"Several outlets featured Zoey's pictures and her soundbite. Even you looked like you'd had a good time. Why don't you do more of that over the coming weeks?"

"Zoey is great, Coach," I said carefully. "But for me this is a business deal. We are not really dating."

"Real, not real, that's not my concern. I'm benching you for two weeks. The only water I want touching your shoulder is from a shower or a hot tub."

"But Coach?—"

He stood suddenly and I was aware of his large stature. He filled the office like his collection his ostentatious statues.

"No buts, Vaulteneau. No swimming. No surfing. Wear a sling and jerk off with your other hand." His face darkened and he pointed a finger in my chest. "If you listen to one thing I say, it's this: elite athletes know when to rest." He tapped his temple. " And they know when to trust their coach. It's time to start thinking like an Olympian and not a rich little shit from Malibu. Do you want your own glory or do you want scraps from your daddy's table?"

He dismissed me before I could get in another word.

The thing was, Coach wasn't wrong. I wanted my own glory and not something handed to me from my father. Except I was fucking it up with no solution it sight.

I could, however, remedy one thing pretty quickly. On the way home I called Zoey to invite her over tonight.