24. Nineteen years old
Nineteen years old
Sam
“Are you asleep?” Austin elbows me.
I grunt and drag my brain back from where it was—namely that weekend with Kath, and how she’d curled closer to me in bed without even realising.
Instead of remembering how her legs had ended up tangled with mine, I focus on the projector screen at the front of the room, and the professor who’s gesticulating wildly as he paces back and forth.
This lecture is frying my brain. We finished most of the introductory modules last term and whilst I could keep up with Shakespeare, this series we started in February on ‘Literary Morals; Can You Distance the Art from the Artist?’ is veering into philosophy in a way that’s making my head spin.
I love the diversity of the courses here, but it’s so different from back home.
I’ve always wanted to focus on literature and history, but I’ve had a chance to do courses on geography, some extra maths and even a sports management course.
It helps that I share classes with so many of my friends; a whole bunch of the other swimmers have sports scholarships too.
“That was complicated,” Austin sighs as we exit the lecture hall. “Fletch, we’re definitely going to need to study together for this assignment.”
I nod. I miss Kath. She was the best study partner. And she had colour-coded timetables.
I pull out my phone to text her, and get an almost immediate response.
Kath: I’m sure Austin will be a good study buddy. What was the seminar on?
“How’s Kath?” Austin asks as we go to our room to grab our kit.
“She’s good.” I reach for my bag and start searching under the bed for my missing sliders before sending her another reply.
“When’s she coming to visit?”
“A month. Just after the NCAA Championships. It’ll be nice for her to be here when training isn’t so intense.”
“You’re not going back home after, are you?”
I shake my head. It’s too expensive to be continually flying to and from America.
My dad does fine as a police officer, but not well enough to fund me taking multiple transatlantic flights per year.
The silver lining is that I can get a job on campus and do some house hunting.
Seb, AJ, Austin and I are planning on finding somewhere together and at least I can scout out some options for us.
It’s also more time training with Coach Miller. He’s amazing. Even in a few months, he’s completely changed my approach to dryland training and how I think about the technical aspects of the races.
“Well, it’ll be fun to finally meet her.” Austin grins at me. “The famous Kath.”
I elbow him. “You’d all better be on your best behaviour when she arrives,” I grumble.
“As if I would be anything other than the perfect gentleman,” he says. “It’s AJ you need to worry about. That guy doesn’t know which thoughts aren’t meant to leave his head.”
He’s right. AJ’s a loose cannon. Living with him next year might be an interesting experience.
Our training session is technical enough that it forces me to focus on the pool rather than Kath’s upcoming stay.
I love the burn I get in my muscles when I push myself on a sprint.
The satisfying feeling of looking at your stopwatch and knowing you’ve done a good job.
Unlike so many things in life, it’s quantifiable.
Coach Miller waves me over after we finish. “Your underwaters are looking smoother. How are they feeling?” I try to towel dry my hair so it doesn’t drip onto his feet.
“They feel better,” I tell him. “Austin gave me some tips too, stuff about having more power in my hips; it was really helpful.”
“You guys are gelling well.” He nods. “I like to see the team getting along.”
I smile. It’s true. After a few months here I no longer feel like an outsider. I like the guys on the team. I like the courses. I even like the Florida weather. The only thing I miss is my dad, my friends from home and Crunchie. And, of course, Kath. Always Kath.
“Still feels like a bit of a culture shock some days,” I tell him.
He grins. “I wanted to talk to you about something else. I was thinking of putting you in the breaststroke leg of the next relay race. You need to improve that stroke for your IM.”
I gulp. I know he’s right, but it’s one thing doing breaststroke at school swimming galas in the UK and quite another doing it on a university team.
“Come to one of the specialised training sessions with Austin,” he continues, ignoring my discomfort. “I think it’ll be the push you need to really focus on it. And then I’m sure you’ll start seeing the difference in the IM.”
“Sounds good.” I swallow my nerves.
“See you tomorrow… Oh and Sam. Make sure you stretch out that shoulder.”
He always knows. I don’t know how he managed to spot that my shoulder twinged slightly on those last few laps. I barely noticed it myself.
I finish stretching and then attempt to study with Seb and Austin. But after a few hours of scratching our heads over the assigned reading I decide that my concentration is shot. Instead of reading the next chapter in the textbook I duck out to call Kath.
“Hey, how are you?” Kath’s voice comes through the speakers.
“Good.”
The phone’s on my bed and I wander around straightening things in my room. Though there isn’t much to tidy. My half of the room is tightly tucked sheets and neatly stacked books, whilst Austin’s side is chaotic piles of protein bars and lonely socks on the floor.
I sigh and pick up some of his pens that have fallen off the desk before turning back to my phone. It’s mid-afternoon for me, but evening for her. The time we usually call.
“How was training?” Kath asks.
I launch into the new plan for me to swim the breaststroke leg at the next meet, knowing that she’ll get it.
That she’ll understand that part of me wants to do it, because I’m desperate to improve, but that another part of me is nervous I’ll let everyone down.
She listens to me ramble and then points out that Coach Miller wants to win championships, so he obviously trusts my breaststroke enough.
Or he trusts that I’ll push myself to get better.
Our conversation flits between lectures, friends from home, her parents, the dog, a film she watched recently.
“Crap.” I look at my watch. “I said I’d go to the cafeteria with Austin soon.”
As if on cue, he knocks on the door and pushes his way in.
“Hi, Kath.” He smirks at me when he sees my phone is on speaker. He doesn’t even need to ask who I’m calling.
“Oh, hey, Austin,” she greets him. They’ve never met but constantly end up chatting via my calls. “Don’t worry; it’s getting late here anyway. I’ll let you and Austin get some food.”
I hear some noise through her side of the call and the sound of another person’s voice.
I’m just about to wish her goodbye when the other voice yells, “Katherine Ford, did you agree to go on a second date with Cam? And if so, why didn’t you tell me?”
I forget what I was about to say.
“Flo,” Kath scolds.
I feel sick.
“So, a date?” I attempt to sound nonchalant.
“Um, yeah.”
“Have I met him?”
There’s a pause before she answers, I can imagine her fiddling with her ponytail and staring at the phone. “No, I don’t think you met him when you came to visit. His family are from just by Sheffield and he’d already gone home for the holidays.”
“Right,” I mumble.
“But yeah, we went on a date last weekend. Just for a coffee, and then for a walk around the park and along the river.”
I thought walks were our thing. Though that sounds stupid even in my head. Kath can go on walks with people that aren’t me.
“Sorry, Sam; I’d better go,” she says.
“Sure.” I fill my voice with false bravado. “Talk soon.”
I end the call and turn to the chest of drawers, buying myself time by looking for a jumper, that I almost certainly don’t need. I allow myself one deep breath in and out before turning back around.
“Ready?” I ask Austin.
“You want to talk about it?” He’s looking at me with downright pity in his eyes.
“Nope,” I say. “Let’s go.”
But when I’m lying in bed that night, I realise that I need to do something to move on from Katherine Ford… if that's even possible. It’s just like my breaststroke. I haven’t been trying hard enough.
This is what you wanted, I berate myself. You wanted her to move on and not wait for you. You wanted her to have a normal university experience instead of sacrificing for you, the way she always does. You’re not enough for her. That’s why you’ve never pursued something more.
But things you want don’t usually feel this hard.