Swim Recruit Read online

  ~*~

  Mesmerized by the progressive rainbow lights that bounced along the ceiling in a glittery electronic array, I almost tripped when the moving sidewalk ended. I quickly regained my footing and resumed walking with my head held high, pretending nothing had happened. I was thankful the Northwestern coach had missed my klutzy moves. Sometimes swimmers didn’t fare so well on land.

  Once I reached O’Hare’s baggage claim, I scanned the area until my eyes rested on a dark-haired man in a purple parka. His eyebrows lifted when I approached. “Abby Donahue?”

  I shot him a nervous grin. “That’s me.”

  He smiled back, reaching behind me for my bag. “Welcome to Chicago. I’m Eric Landon, the assistant coach. My car’s just a short walk from here if you want to follow me.”

  On our trek to the parking garage, we dodged busy travelers, including a couple in the throes of PDA. I was simultaneously appalled and jealous when the guy groped the girl’s butt during their kiss.

  I’d wanted a boyfriend my entire high school career, but a suitable one had yet to materialize. Looked like I was going to prom yet again with Anthony Jackson, a nice but nerdy boy who was one of the only seniors ahead of me in class rank.

  I looked over to find Eric staring at me, and I realized I’d missed his question. “Uh, sorry?”

  “I asked you how your flight was.”

  “Good. My mom was freaking out ’cause we were supposed to get freezing rain, but I guess it held off or something.”

  “That’s lucky.” Eric nodded. “We don’t get much rain here in the winter — too cold.”

  As if on cue, I felt a blast of icy wind gust through the parking garage, and I eyed his Northwestern Swimming parka longingly while tugging up the zipper of my jacket. So this was the reason he willingly wore a coat that made him a shoe-in for Grimace. I wondered if Hamburglar was sneaking around here too.

  “Suzie’s running practice right now, so she couldn’t come out to the airport,” Eric explained as we turned down a row of cars.

  Suzie Thomas was the women’s head coach, and I was anxious to meet her. “Oh. I thought there was a meet this afternoon.”

  “Yep, we’re swimming Illinois at two.”

  I scrunched my forehead. “So the practice is more like a meet warm-up?”

  He considered my question. “An extended one, I guess you could say — about six thousand yards. Haven’t you ever had practice on a meet day?”

  “Sure.” I nodded. “Especially for dual meets when the other team sucks.”

  He chuckled.

  “But I thought you guys would rest for a Big Ten meet.”

  Eric shook his head. “We train through most meets. The challenge is to step it up even when you’re tired.”

  He aimed his remote key at a white Ford sedan, and the trunk popped open. I noticed Northwestern University etched in purple on the side of the car. After he secured my bag in the trunk, he walked around and opened the passenger door for me.

  I sat quietly, letting him concentrate on paying the parking garage attendant, and soon we merged with traffic on the highway. “So, Abby — do you go by Abby?”

  I nodded.

  “How do you handle that challenge?”

  I darted my eyes around the vehicle, trying to discern what the heck he was talking about. “What challenge?”

  “Oh, sorry — I was continuing the conversation from before. How do you perform in-season? How well do you step it up when you’re tired?”

  I blushed, debating whether to tell the truth, and winced when the words popped out. “Not well at all, actually.”

  My penchant for brutal honesty had won once again. The same honesty had led me to call my dad some really cruel names, right to his face. I could still remember the wounded look in his eyes as he’d said goodbye back in August. Now it was January, and we hadn’t spoken since he’d moved out.

  Eric looked at me expectantly, and once again it seemed I’d missed his question. I had to stop thinking about my life in Cincinnati and start focusing on my future in Evanston. Though Northwestern had some nega­tives — namely an association with my father — I didn’t want to blow it, especially if they were going to offer me a scholarship. “I’m sorry, Eric. I’m so excited to be here I’m acting like a ditz. What’d you say?”

  He waved his right hand noncommittally. “No worries. I know you’re bright — you’re an excellent student. You’re a fantastic swimmer too. We have some women on the team who struggle in dual meets but really shine when they’re rested. You’re more of a taper swimmer?”

  “Yeah. I love taper.” I grinned, anticipating the period of rest that would begin soon, prior to the Ohio high school state meet.

  Eric looked sideways, studying me without really removing his eyes from the road. “I bet you need a longer taper than most.”

  “Wow — how’d you know that?”

  “Because you’re quite muscular. Swimmers with more muscles need more rest.”

  When my non-swimming friends commented on my strong shoul­ders or cut calf muscles, I had mixed feelings. Part of me was proud of my strong body, culled through endless hours of training, but part of me was embarrassed I didn’t look like them. I wasn’t petite and willowy, batting my eyelashes at boys and giggling at their jokes. But when Eric pointed out my physique, I felt elated. A college swim coach thought I was muscular!

  I decided to ask him a question. “How long have you been at Northwestern?”

  “Four years. I started as a grad assistant coach and decided to stay.”

  “What’d you get your master’s in?”

  “Exercise science.”

  “What made you stay?”

  He glanced at me, appearing amused.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Normally I have to ask the questions with prospective student-athletes, not the other way around.”

  My cheeks reddened. “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s not a bad thing,” he insisted. “I like it. It shows you’re interested and involved. Anyway, Suzie’s the reason I stayed. I learn a lot from her every day, and as long as I’m learning, I’ll be here.”

  I debated internally again, wondering if it would be all right to ask another question. But as usual the debate was short-lived. “What have you learned from her?” I blurted.

  He maneuvered the car through the traffic. “Well, she’s quite knowledgeable about stroke technique and exercise physiology. She’s designed a really effective training program, and she tweaks it each year. Last year the women swam about seventy percent lifetime-bests, so we were super psyched. We hope to top that at Big Ten’s next month.”

  I was impressed. My high school coach, Tim, had drummed into me the importance of improving my times each year — much more important than winning. I wanted a college program that would help me continue to drop time. My mom was worried swimming would begin to feel like a job if I got a college scholarship, and this program’s emphasis on each swimmer’s individual improvement comforted me.

  “Suzie does a great job with the women on a personal level too,” Eric added. “She’s very direct.” He chuckled as if remembering something. “But also caring. She cares about her swimmers as people.”

  I was a little skeptical about this second claim. My former teammate Erin was now a freshman at another university, and she’d told me stories about her new coach being a total jerk in recent months, even though he’d pretended to be sweet and kind on her recruiting trip. I’d have to judge Suzie’s touted caring for myself.

  We were now entering Evanston, passing by homes and churches with roofs weighed down by blankets of snow. The white stuff coated each limb on trees lining the streets, making them picturesque against the pale blue sky. Eric had put on sunglasses, and I was wishing I’d brought some myself as I squinted against the glare.

  “Is it usually this sunny?” I asked.

  He gave me a sideways glance as he pulled into the natatorium parking lot. “You were honest wi
th me, so I’ll return the favor. The answer is no.” Eric grinned as he parked the car. “It’s cold and cloudy here in the winter, but at least it’s flat. No icy hills to slide down like in Cincinnati.”

  We exited his car and collected my bags to take with us.

  “I’m especially happy it’s sunny today for your visit,” he said.

  When I gave him a questioning look he added, “You’ll see what I mean when we get inside.”

  He took me in a side entrance, and a blast of warm air and chlorine assaulted me. I inhaled deeply, instantly relaxing at the familiar scent. The pool deck was unusually bright, lit by an entire wall of windows overlooking Lake Michigan. The sun bouncing off the frozen lake made the fifty-meter pool like a tropical paradise — a welcome contrast to my dingy, windowless high school pool back at home.

  “Wow.”

  “Told ya you’d like a sunny day here.” As he led me to his office, I noticed a few swimmers from the men’s team heading to their locker room. They’d evidently just finished practice. I stole a few looks at their manly forms — much more appealing than the scrawny builds of my high school teammates. It sounded like the guys were arguing, as I overheard a few choice words being slung around.

  Eric ignored them and parked my bag near his desk. “Suzie’s at breakfast with the team. Can I get you something to eat?”

  “I had a bagel on the plane.” My mom had packed me an egg sandwich.

  “Okay. Rec swim should be starting about now. Would you like to get a workout in?”

  I nodded vigorously. Tim had told me I’d better not let my recruiting trips interfere with training.

  Eric looked at his watch. “Suzie should be back in a couple of hours. How ’bout I show you the women’s locker room, and you come back here before noon?”

  “Sounds good.” I unzipped my roller bag and dug around for what I needed. I stowed my suit, goggles, and some toiletries into my backpack and followed him out of the office.

  He pointed out the locker room, as well as the storage area for kick­boards and pull buoys, then left me to my own devices. I certainly knew my away around a pool. One had been my second home since I was seven.

  After changing in the locker room, I stuffed my long hair into a swim cap, adjusted my goggles, and set my equipment at the end of a lane. There were already a couple of older adults in the pool, and I was pleased to have a lane to myself.

  Diving in enveloped me in cool, crisp love — the ideal water tempera­ture. I took fluid freestyle strokes with a steady six-beat kick behind me. I was in a foreign city with no one I knew, feeling the pressure to sell myself to a tough coach, and on the verge of tears about my messed-up family, but this familiar environment instantly calmed my inner turmoil.

  I started with my favorite warm-up: thirty lengths mixing freestyle and backstroke. I reveled in the freedom of writing my own workout for once. Though my legs were tired from the grueling sprint kick set I’d done with the high school team on Thursday, I actually felt pretty good in the water. The sunshine seemed to buoy me. I tried to make my strokes perfect, wondering if Eric was watching me through the window of his office.

  After finishing six thousand yards — if it was good enough for a college team it was good enough for me — I hit the showers.

  I decided to dry my hair in case Suzie planned to take me outside to get to our meeting. Wet strands lightened to their natural blond as I planted my head under the wall-mounted blow dryer. Brushing in long strokes in front of the mirror, I remembered my dad telling me how much he loved my pretty hair when I was a little girl.

  I felt a sudden desire to dye it the deepest black I could find.

  There was no answer when I knocked on Suzie’s door just before noon, and I had the same result at Eric’s office. I guessed the coaches were running late. Not knowing what else to do, I plunked myself down on one of the chairs in the hallway and tapped my foot. Would Suzie be as intimidating as advertised? I took a notebook out of my backpack and looked over some questions I’d written, wanting to be prepared for our meeting.

  Rising voices in the office across from Suzie’s interfered with my con­centration. They were male voices, two of them, I thought, and one sounded younger than the other. The older voice — the men’s coach? — was the one increasing in volume. I couldn’t quite understand what they were saying.

  Then the coach got so loud I heard every word. “Do you care at all about this team?” he roared. “The seniors? The captains?”

  The other voice, murmuring up to this point, now met his loud pitch. “Do you even care what kind of people those captains are?”

  “Tell me!” the coach shouted. “Tell me what kind of people they are.”

  There was silence.

  I stared intently at my notebook, but still flinched when the office door yanked open. I peeked up to catch the profile of an older man in a black polo shirt and dark jeans. He held the doorknob and looked back into the office.

  “You refuse to answer — you refuse to help yourself,” he said harshly to the swimmer still inside. “Sit out here while I figure out what to do with you. I can’t stand to look at you right now.”

  “Yes, sir,” came the resigned reply, and out walked a thin young man. His sheepish, hunched stance made it hard to determine his height, but his fried hair was adorably mussed and shaggy, with some mineral green tones mixed in with the honey blond.

  The coach closed his door with a huff.

  Once the swimmer saw me sitting in the hallway, he straightened with surprise, and I gaped at his true height.

  I must have continued staring because he exhaled grimly and spoke.

  “Guess you heard that, huh?”

  I shrugged.

  “Figures a pretty girl overhears me getting chewed out by Coach.”

  My face lit up with pleasure. He had my full attention now, and I caught a glimpse of his mischievous aquamarine eyes before he ducked his head, seeming to realize after the fact how bold he’d been.

  “He sounded kind of mad,” I offered.

  He sighed as he took a seat next to me. “Yeah.”

  His closeness made my heart skip, but his soap-and-chlorine smell reassured me, empowering me to keep the conversation going. “So why is your coach mad?”

  Another big sigh. He gazed at me, seeming to assess my trustworthiness. I had to admit I didn’t mind his intense eyes roving over my body, though I did worry he’d find my shoulders too broad or my boobs not broad enough. I slouched self-consciously.

  He drew up a hand and scrubbed his messy hair. His limbs were long and gangly, like he’d grown several inches in the past year and hadn’t quite filled out yet. Finally he turned to me. “He found out I told a recruit not to come here. The guy’s an awesome ’flyer, and we need him for our relays next year since Adam’s graduating. But the recruit turned down the scholarship after I talked to him.” He frowned. “Coach isn’t too happy with me.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Oh. Sorry about that.”

  He grunted, continuing to look dismayed.

  “Why’d you tell the recruit not to come here?”

  “I’m not telling you that,” he said with a suspicious glance. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “I’m Abby.”

  His gaze continued to be wary. “You’re interviewing for a lifeguard job or something?”

  “Huh?”

  He pointed at Suzie’s office door. “Suzie’s in charge of the pool. She hires all the college lifeguards.”

  “Oh.” I shook my head. “No. I don’t go to school here.” Yet, I added silently, taking in his striking swimmer body. I then felt even more elated when I realized he thought I was old enough to be in college.

  “So then why are you here?”

  I smirked. “I’m a recruit.”

  He blanched, then leaned back in his chair, thudding his head against the concrete wall a few times and mesmerizing me with his prominent Adam’s apple. “Crap,” he moaned. “Who knew I co
uld fit my size-fifteen foot all the way into my mouth.”

  I glanced down at his white gym shoes, which resembled boats. When my eyes returned to his face, I noticed he was blushing.

  “I’ve got flipper feet,” he confessed.

  My jaw dropped. “That’s my line!”

  “What?” He appeared confused.

  “My friends and I say that all the time!” I cried, holding aloft my elongated foot. “I wear size twelve, and I can’t find shoes anywhere. My friends joke that God must’ve wanted me to be a swimmer ’cause He gave me flipper feet.”

  His full lips widened into a grin. “Those are some clodhoppers you got there.”

  I glared at him. “Back off, Sasquatch.”

  He smiled knowingly. “I bet you’re a backstroker?”

  Those blue-green eyes examined me, and I nodded dumbly, entranced. “How’d you know?”

  “Backstrokers have a great kick. It’s where flipper feet really come in handy.”

  I nodded happily. “Well, I also do IM, so I guess clodhoppers help all the strokes.”

  “Nice.” He stretched out the word, and his full smile showed off his white teeth.

  “Do you swim individual medley too?” I asked.

  “No way. My breaststroke’s the pits.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “And breaststroke comes at such a pivotal place in the IM. My coach, Tim, helped me a lot with my kick, and now it’s much better. Maybe you need to get your knees in closer for the whip kick? That helped me anyway…”

  His scrutinizing gaze was unnerving, and I suddenly realized I was babbling.

  “What’s this?” he asked in a teasing tone. “A recruit giving a college swimmer advice?”

  My face felt hot. What the heck did I think I was doing giving stroke lessons to the older hottie next to me? “Sorry,” I squeaked.

  “That’s okay.” His smile faded. “My stroke technique won’t matter much anyway if I get kicked off the team.”

  “You might get kicked off?”

  He sighed. “Especially if I don’t explain why I told the recruit not to come here. Apparently my ‘loyalty’ is in question.”

  “So why don’t you tell them?”

  “I can’t. It’s complicated.” He looked down. “I shouldn’t have to anyway,” he added, anger creeping into his voice. “If their team isn’t good enough to make me want to sell it, that’s their problem.”

  I looked down at my notebook. Unfortunately I hadn’t prepared a question for this type of scenario. “Is there something wrong with the team I should know about?”

  His head snapped up. “Forget what I said, Abby — Northwestern’s a great school, a great team. The reason I spoke out against it has nothing to do with the women’s team.”

  “Then what is it? You can tell me.”

  A female voice interrupted us. “Abby!”

  I looked up to see a medium-height woman in a violet dress shirt and knee-length black skirt staring at me. There was a swimmer in a parka behind her, carrying some food and drinks, and both women eyed my conversation partner with disdain.

  “I’m Suzie Thomas.” She stuck out her hand, and I stood to shake it. “Sorry we’re late. C’mon in to my office.”

  She ushered me in, and I tried to look back to say goodbye to the guy — I didn’t even know his name — but the female swimmer came in right behind me, closing the door and blocking my view of the hallway.

  Suzie gestured to the swimmer, who set down the food on the desk. “This is Amanda, your host for the weekend.”

  We exchanged hellos, and I noticed how slender she was.

  “Amanda needs to go warm up, but I wanted you to meet her first. You’ll be staying with her tonight.”

  Amanda studied me. “Ignore whatever Reese told you. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “Reese?” I asked.

  “That guy out there.” Amanda yanked her thumb over her shoulder, pointing to the hallway. “Total loser.”

  “Let’s not bother Abby with the men’s team drama,” Suzie said, moving to the interior window and peeking through the closed blinds at the pool deck. Below her black skirt, her calf muscles were enormous. “Looks like Illinois is arriving.”

  Amanda took the hint and made her way to the door. “See you after the meet, Abby!”

  “Good luck,” I called after her.

  Suzie smiled at me as the door closed. “Sorry I was late — meet days are always so hectic. I went to pick up some lunch for us. I thought we could eat while we talk?”

  “Sounds great.” My stomach was beginning to rumble as I smelled the turkey sub she handed me. Unfortunately swimming made me ravenous.

  She pulled up a chair for me, and we both sat by her desk, munching quietly.

  “Eric picked you up okay from the airport?”

  I nodded, chewing.

  “And I hear you got a swim in. Tim will be pleased.”

  I covered my mouth while smiling, hoping there wasn’t any food stuck in my teeth. “He said to tell you hi.” Tim and Suzie had both been high school coaches in Chicago at one point, and Tim thought I’d love swimming for her.

  She shuddered. “Does he still eat that disgusting brown rice and pickle juice concoction at practice?”

  I giggled. “Yep. It’s pretty nasty.”

  “You practice with the boys at your high school, right?” she asked. “Tim coaches both the girls and the boys?”

  I nodded.

  “The women’s and men’s teams operate separately here. Our practices overlap, but we’re on different sides of the pool.”

  I picked a banana pepper off my sandwich, catching her subtle effort to discredit whatever I’d heard in the hallway. “Reese told me Northwestern’s awesome. He didn’t have any complaints about the women’s team.” I wondered why I was defending him.

  “Northwestern is awesome.” She sat back in her chair, looking stern. “Tell me, Abby Donahue, why do you want to swim here?”

  The directness of her question made me pause mid-chew. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, and all coherent thought vanished from my mind.

  “Um…” I chewed a few times then swallowed.

  She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. “What sets us apart from other schools for you?”

  I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach as my heart thumped loudly. Think, idiot!

  She continued to stare at me, and my cheeks warmed with embarrassment. This dim-witted mental blankness thing had plagued me once in speech class, and I couldn’t believe it was reoccurring on such an important trip.

  “Abby? Are you okay?”

  I searched for something, anything to say and finally managed, “My — my dad went to med school here.”

  Her generous mouth widened into a grin. “Really? I didn’t know that. Is he here with you? I’d love to meet him.”

  I quickly shook my head, trying to breathe. “That’s not the main reason I like Northwestern. Um, Tim…he said I’d like swimming for you. And I want a school with strong academics and swimming.”

  There. That sounded like a smarter answer. I hoped she didn’t think I was totally brainless.

  “What would you like to major in?” Suzie asked.

  “Psychology.”

  She smiled. “A popular major. But why not medicine? Your GPA’s certainly high enough to make it.” My face must have reflected my disgust because her smile faded. “Or maybe you don’t want to follow in your father’s footsteps.”

  My response was curt. “No.”

  “What’s your father’s specialty?”

  “Orthopedics.”

  Suzie looked impressed, and I hoped my dad’s substantial salary wouldn’t interfere with a scholarship offer. He’d promised to pay for my college education, but I was crossing my fingers I wouldn’t need his help.

  “He must be a busy man,” Suzie said. “We have some ortho surgeons who work with our athletes here, and they have long hours. Did your father make it to
your swim meets?”

  I felt a bite of my sandwich lodged in my throat. Every one. Until this year, that is. Those inquisitive blue eyes bore into me again, and my heart resumed its flutter kick. The words escaped my mouth before I could grab them back. “My parents just got a divorce.”

  Her eyes filled with sympathy. “Oh. I’m sorry — Tim didn’t tell me.”

  “Tim doesn’t know.”

  She looked startled. “Your coach doesn’t know?”

  I swallowed. “We’re trying to keep it quiet.” To my horror, I felt my eyes well up in tears. I looked away, blinking furiously, balling my hands into fists in my lap.

  Suddenly she was kneeling in front of me, lightly clasping my wrists. My hands were trapped, unable to wipe away the tears sliding down my face. I was mortified.

  “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” I said.

  She reached for a box of tissues off her desk, and I snatched one gratefully, hiding my face in soft whiteness.

  “It must be so painful when your parents break up.”

  “I — I don’t know why I’m making such a big deal out of it. Parents get divorced all the time.” My throat burned.

  Suzie offered a maternal smile. “Not your parents. That doesn’t happen every day.”

  I sniffed. “I’m sorry I’m crying. This is ridiculous.”

  She got up and returned to her chair. “Of course you’re crying. You just lost your rock, your foundation, right before leaving for college. Nothing’s more important than family. I’d be crying too.”

  I peeked up at her, noticing the kindness in her eyes.

  Suzie turned to her computer, bringing up some swimming results on the monitor. “Did you know your best hundred back time would’ve placed in the top eight in the Big Ten last year?”

  I frowned, dabbing under my eyes with the tissue. “But not in the top three.”

  She laughed. “Love your competitive fire. Just wait till we work with you. One of our seniors, Sarah, has dropped four seconds in the hundred back since high school. That’s unheard of, Abby. And we need a fast backstroker next year for the relays, once Sarah’s gone. You’d make an immediate impact here.”

  Seeing the passion flare in her eyes, I felt drawn in. “What’s the toughest backstroke set you’ve ever had the team do?”

  Her face lit up as she clicked on an icon on her screen. “Let me find it for you. I cooked up a barnburner for Florida training this year. You’ll love it.”

  All worries about my father disappeared, and I leaned forward as we delved deeper into my prospects as a Wildcat swimmer.