Chapter 31 Twenty years old
Twenty years old
Kath
Morning sun filters through the hotel blinds, casting a striped shadow across the starched white bedsheets.
I’ve been up for an hour, but I haven’t had the heart to wake Sam yet.
After how much he drank last night, he needs the lie-in.
I ended up bringing him back to my hotel room because, in his state, I didn’t trust him to find his own. He passed out almost immediately.
Now, as I sit on the edge of the bed, I remind myself, again, where the lines of our friendship are.
Where they should be. The problem is that when we’re together everything feels easy and the sharp edges start to blur in my mind.
And the way he stroked my hair and danced with me last night?
That isn’t helping. Nor is the way his nose grazed the side of my throat, or how his hands felt on my waist. Or the things he said to me; about how much he missed me, and that he was thinking about the summer before we went to university.
Still, it’s not just that. I’m worried about him.
I know drunk people say things they don’t mean, but as I wrestled him out of his shoes before he collapsed into bed, he kept mumbling that he didn’t deserve good things.
And something about his mum, how she wouldn’t be proud of him.
I wasn’t exactly sober myself, but I know what I heard.
Now, in the cold light of day, I don’t know how to bring it up.
Especially not when he’s this hung-over.
Sam groans and rolls onto his back, scrubbing a hand over his face.
“Morning,” he mutters, eyes cracking open. “What time is it?”
“Just past nine.” I hold out a glass of water. “This is the longest lie-in you’ve had in ages. Surely you should feel amazing.”
He glares at me. “That’s just cruel.” He sits up and takes the glass, draining it in one go before groaning. “I feel like someone’s playing the drums in my skull.”
“You’ve just won a few medals; I think you have permission to feel a bit rubbish.” I smile. “You need to shower before your media block, it starts in just over an hour. Can you handle some breakfast?”
“Ugh.” He sinks back down onto the pillows. “I forgot about that. Kath, I can’t do it. I get so nervous and always say stupid things.” His face has turned from relaxed to panicked in only a few seconds.
“Up, up, up,” I chivvy him. “You can’t cancel this. You have two minutes to get out of bed before I refill this glass and tip it over you.”
“Fine,” he grumbles, pushing himself up and stretching out. OK, I take back what I said; even dishevelled he looks unfairly good. I try to clamp down my feelings again.
Friends, Katherine. Just friends.
Whilst he showers, I try to work out when my feelings shifted.
When did I go from knowing we were only friends to feeling something more?
Was it that summer? Was it when he visited Exeter, and I realised how much I missed having him around?
Or have I always felt like this and been kidding myself since I was fourteen?
I’m worried it’s the latter.
“Why do you get so nervous about interviews?” I ask over breakfast. He still looks green and is eyeing his second slice of toast like it was involved in the events of last night and can’t be trusted.
I’ve always been curious. Sam isn’t exactly wildly extroverted, but I don’t think he’s as shy as he worries he is.
He never had any problems making friends at school, and from what I can tell, he has a large group of friends in Florida too.
I’ve watched him give interviews before, and he hasn’t ever said anything stupid.
“I always feel like I’m going to mess up.
” He runs a hand through his hair. “People have so many expectations of me, or versions of me that they’ve created based on watching me previously.
One of the youngest Olympians. The British swimmer who trains in America.
The guy who’s meant to break the records. But no one actually knows me.”
He manages a wry smile. “But if I’m just myself, I’m not living up to the persona that they’ve created.
Being in America the majority of the year, I’m not up to date on things I feel I should know about.
Like, I don’t know much about the state of community pools in the UK anymore, or about the swimming charities and stuff.
But if I don’t mention them, I’m letting them down because the work they do is so important. ”
I get it. Sam always wants to be the best. To do the right thing. It’s just hard to know what the right thing is when you're juggling the expectations of thousands of different people.
He pauses. “Sorry. That was definitely a hung-over ramble that made no sense.”
“No, it made sense.” I sip my tea absentmindedly. “I guess I don’t know what it’s like. No one would ever recognise me in the street or think that they know me. There are no expectations of what I should or shouldn’t say.”
He pushes the plate away, most of the food untouched.
“But, Sam.” I push the plate back towards him. “That’s on them. Just be yourself and people will like it. I like you as you are; you don’t need to change into a different version of yourself. You love what you do. That’s more than enough.”
“I guess so.” He still looks nervous. “I just don’t want to let people down. You’ve heard what the commentators say. The expectations are high.” He takes another cautious bite of the toast.
“You aren’t letting anyone down. We still have an hour before you need to go to the studio. Do you want to practise a bit?”
“Can we? Just to settle my nerves?”
“Of course.” I stand and smooth down my shirt. “Let’s go back to yours and prep. Then I can pack up our stuff when you’re doing the interviews. By tonight, it’ll all be a distant memory.”
“Promise?”
“Pinky promise,” I tell him. “And we both know that’s legally binding in pirate’s code. Anyway, we’ll literally be on a beach this evening, so you’ll definitely be having a good time.”
“And I need to text Coach Miller,” he mumbles. “My memory’s coming back and I think I left him four voice messages last night.”
I cackle. I’m not sure how much he can remember.
He tried to do a handstand on the dance floor with one of the diving guys.
And he didn’t just leave four voice messages for Coach Miller; he also sent him a whole string of texts.
Mostly about how much he appreciated him.
I tried to stop him, but he was very insistent.
And he danced with me almost all night and kept telling me how my eyes reminded him of melted KitKats, which is probably one of the strangest compliments I’ve ever heard. I turn away before he can see me blush.
***
Many hours, one bus and a ferry later, we’re finally at Ilha Grande, one of the islands of the coast. It’s the location of our week of holiday before we have to get back to Rio for the closing ceremony, and it feels a world away from the Olympic Village.
We’ve found a spot at one of the bars that overlooks the sea and are sitting unwinding after dropping off our bags and showering away our very sweaty trip.
I try to stretch out the cramps in my back from the journey as I take in the scenery.
It’s an unbelievably beautiful place. A forested island with white sandy beaches all around it.
I feel like I’m in a paradise or, at the very least, the front cover of a travel brochure.
Palm trees. Sand. Crystal clear water. And my best friend beside me.
Who, despite all his fears, did survive being interviewed.
“Feeling relaxed now?” I sip my cocktail and watch as he grimaces at his beer before taking a quick gulp. Maybe his hangover hasn’t worn off quite as much as I’d thought.
“Definitely. The interviews weren’t too bad. And you were right, realising that no one was trying to trip me up helped.”
He does look infinitely more relaxed now we’re out of the Olympic Village and all the people trying to take photographs of him. No one recognises him here. Away from the crowd of athletes, we’re suddenly just two tourists enjoying a holiday together.
“Nan just texted telling me that she watched you on BBC Breakfast and that the whole of Sidmouth are going wild about you mentioning you used their community pool when you were training for the last Olympics.”
“It was fun. I enjoyed our holidays there.”
“Me too.” I take a sip of my drink. “But life moves on.”
“Not all of life,” he says, nodding at me. “I’m pretty sure you’ve had that shirt since we were fourteen.”
I look down at the black tank top I’m wearing. “How on earth do you remember that?”
“Because I distinctly remember being at the beach and realising you had boobs when you wore that shirt.” He holds his hands up. “Don’t hate me.”
The answer is so disarmingly honest I can’t help but laugh. Loudly. I’m probably startling people at nearby tables.
“Ah, teenage hormones.” I sigh dramatically once I catch my breath. “So chaotic. So powerful. Anyway, how’s the beer treating you today?”
“Still OK.” He grimaces. “But I’m worried I’m going to end up a mess like last night.”
“You weren’t that much of a mess.” I try not to smile too hard. “And you deserve to let loose every once in a while. You need to have some fun. Let’s toast. To your Olympic success—and to teenage me’s boobs.”
He clinks his glass against mine. “They’re still great boobs.”
“Thank you,” I say, as graciously as one can while sipping a cocktail in response to a toast for having gone through puberty. “I’m honoured to have the official Olympic seal of approval.”
“Did I say anything stupid last night?” he asks after he takes another sip.
“No, you were just really happy,” I reassure him. “You kept telling me how amazing I was, actually. It was a great ego boost. Austin thought it was hilarious. And then you became obsessed with my hair and kept stroking it.”
He groans. “Of course he thought that was hilarious. Sorry, Kath. I didn’t mean for you to have to spend the night listening to me or fending off my flowery advances.”
“It was funny. And quite sweet.”