20. Lane Assignments
Lane Assignments
Maren steps out of her office and takes a deep breath.
She has always loved the smell of chlorine; it makes everything feel clean and new.
It is the first day of practice for the summer season, as swimmers old and new start to make their way into the pool area.
A couple of the high school swimmers came in early and are pulling the lane lines across the pool for her.
She grabs the wrench off her desk and tosses it down on the deck.
She has taught them exactly how tight they need to be.
Slowly, the kids start to trickle out of the locker rooms; she directs them to a set of bleachers on the deck to have a seat.
This first practice is always a little chaotic, mixing the seasoned swimmers with the newbies.
She goes down the row, giving high fives and checking in with each of them.
As she ducks back into her office to grab a stopwatch, the door opens again.
There is a rush of noise, footsteps, and commotion.
Maren looks down the deck to see Rowan Callahan running right at her.
Maren puts her whistle to her mouth, and Rowan slows instantly back down to a walk.
She didn’t have to blow on it. That is either instinct or her mom has already warned her, Maren thinks to herself.
“Hey Coach!” Rowan yells as she gets closer. “Sorry I’m late. There was a train, it was blue and green and had eighty-two cars, and I counted them all.”
“It’s okay. Just go get yourself changed and join us on the benches.” Maren smiles. Turning towards the pool, away from the other children, Maren whispers to herself, “Guess some things don’t ever change.”
Rowan changes faster than any kid Maren has ever coached.
One minute, she is hurrying into the locker room with her hair pulled into a crooked ponytail as she is trying to smash her swim cap on over it.
She bounces on her toes as she hurries over to the group on the bleachers, talking at the same volume as the kids who have been here for years.
Before Maren can call the team to attention, Rowan is already pointing to a stack of kickboards, at the lanes’ edge, asking if she gets one of the blue ones.
Maren steps forward and taps the clipboard with her pen.
“Looks like you are in lane two today,” she says.
Rowan beams like lane two is the best possible thing that could have happened to her.
The other kids slide from the bleachers and go to their assigned lanes.
As Rowan jumps off the bleachers, Maren motions to her to come closer for a moment.
Stepping into her office, Maren reappears with a small bottle of baby powder.
“Hey, kiddo, can I see your swim cap?” Maren asks Rowan.
Rowan pulls her cap off her head with a sharp snap. The sound echoes off the benches behind them. Maren opens the cap and shakes a tiny bit of the powder into the cap, then hands it back to Rowan.
“There you go. Now try sliding it on, start at your forehead and push it back.”
Rowan grabs the cap, opens it up, and lines the middle up with the middle of her forehead, pulling the cap straight back. It slides into place without any resistance. Rowan’s face is one of pure shock and amazement, as if Maren had just shared the secrets of the universe with her.
“Now all you have to do is tuck in the strays, and you are good to go.” Maren can’t help but smile down at this girl, who is starting to remind her more of herself at that age. “Go get into lane two, and we will start practice.”
Rowan walks off towards the pool, turning to shout over her shoulder. “THANKS, COACH!”
Rowan takes off toward lane two with the kind of confidence only a nine-year-old can have, weaving between the older swimmers who are stretching on the deck.
She pauses at the edge of the pool and looks back at Maren as if to make sure she is really allowed to be here, then slips into the water with a small splash.
Maren watches her for a moment longer than she means to.
Rowan lifts her goggles, adjusts them twice, then presses her hands to the water like she is introducing herself to it.
There is something almost sacred in the way she does it, a tiny ceremony of belonging, and it nudges at something in Maren, something she hasn’t felt in a long time.
Maren forces herself to turn away from the pool before she lingers any longer.
She walks back over towards the bleachers to gather the stragglers, clipboard tucked under her arm.
As she walks, a flicker of movement catches her eye from across the pool.
Someone stands at the far end of the bleachers, leaning back against the blue tile, half in shadow from the overhead lights, watching the pool with a stillness that doesn’t belong to the kids.
It takes Maren a full second to realize who it is.
Reese. Hands in her pockets, hair pulled back in a high ponytail, and gaze fixed on the water.
Like she is trying to memorize every ripple.
Maren stops mid-step. Breath catching in a way that she hopes no one else notices.
She looks away fast, but the damage is done.
Reese Callahan is here, in her pool, again. And she is watching.
Maren forces her attention back to the deck and the handful of kids still sitting and chatting on the benches.
“Alright, let’s go—warm-up time,” she calls, clapping her hand against the back of her clipboard.
The stragglers scramble to their feet, grabbing goggles and caps as they make their way to their lanes.
Maren walks alongside them, silently counting how many kids are in each lane and making sure she doesn’t need to make any adjustments.
She glances over at lane two, seeing Rowan is already engaging two of her lane mates in a heated discussion about whether it would be better to be an otter or a dolphin.
Rowan explains to them how an otter would be superior because they can float on their backs while they sleep.
Maren blows her whistle once and points at the whiteboard where she has already written up today’s workout.
The pool erupts into motion. Still, even over the splashes, there is the echo of voices.
Maren can feel it. Reese’s steady gaze from across the deck is quiet and unshakable.
Maren starts her usual walk along the deck, the one that keeps her moving and keeps her mind where it needs to be.
She checks strokes, calls out a couple of corrections, and watches breathing patterns.
The humidity settles across her shoulders like a familiar weight.
When she reaches the far end of the pool, one of the older boys pops up coughing, his goggles shoved halfway off his face.
Maren kneels in the gutter, adjusting the strap of his goggles, reminding him to breathe out through his nose on his turns.
It should be a simple correction, the kind she can make without thinking, but the air shifts behind her in a way she feels more than she hears.
She doesn’t have to turn to know Reese is sitting just a few feet behind her now, on the bleachers.
The awareness presses between her shoulder blades, warm and steady, and Maren must force her focus back to the boy in front of her.
“Try it again,” she says, giving the goggles a final tug.
When she stands, she keeps her eyes on the water.
She is not looking at Reese. She is not.
Warm-ups begin to wrap up, and the pool quiets into that brief, slippery pause where every kid is trying to decide what mischief they can get away with before the next set.
Maren opens her mouth to call the group’s attention back to the deck, but lane two beats her to it.
Rowan and her two new teammates have started a handstand contest at the end of their lane.
Kicking their legs in wild, uncontrolled bursts that send water slapping against the lane lines.
One of them topples sideways with a snort of laughter, splashing everyone in lane three.
Maren just watches half a second before she brings her whistle to her lips and gives one short, sharp tweet.
“Feet off the bottom of the pool, please,” she calls, pointing at lane two.
Rowan pops upright instantly, pushing her goggles up so far, they almost flip inside out.
“Sorry, Coach!” she says, grinning like she already knows she’s forgiven.
It’s a tiny disruption, the kind every first practice has, but it’s enough.
It lets Maren shift her focus back to what she knows, what she can control, and away from the gaze she still feels warming the space between her and the bleachers.
Maren waits patiently until the giggles from lane two settle before she taps her clipboard again and points back to the whiteboard.
“Alright, everyone back to the wall. We’re starting with two fifties, easy peasy.
One with a kickboard and one without.” A few of the older swimmers nod and push off to reset, already knowing the drill.
Rowan, however, pops straight up in lane two, water dripping off her chin, one arm hooked over the lane line like she is bracing for some life-changing news.
“Coach?” she calls, entirely too loud for someone who is 8 feet away. “How many laps is a 50?” A couple of kids snort and giggle, but Maren bites back a smile. She steps closer to the edge of the pool.
“Two lengths, kiddo. Down and back.”
Rowan nods with the seriousness of someone receiving sacred knowledge, then immediately turns to repeat it to her lane like she is the lane captain.