2 McKenna
McKenna
Three-tenths of a second. In less time than the blink of an eye, the flick of a light switch, a single heartbeat, I have changed
my life forever.
As my head surfaces out of the water, I hear Coach Catapano’s whoops rising louder than all the others. Yanking my goggles
off, I look toward the digital board hanging above the pool. There it is, the glowing, bright red proof that I’ve done it.
My name is first. I’ve beaten all seven women in my heat, even Maxine Masters, Sacred Heart’s fastest breaststroker. In three-tenths
of a second, I’ve more than likely clinched a spot in the NCAAs for next month, and maybe even Nationals at the end of summer.
I’ve also become Coach Warren Catapano’s newest darling.
I’m only halfway out of the pool when Coach’s large hand envelops my forearm, hauling me the rest of the way onto the deck.
“That’s my girl!” He wraps me in a hug as I try to catch my breath. Neither of us cares that I’m soaking wet. His signature
red polo shirt quickly becomes saturated, the water from my suit and my tired arms turning his top from cherry red to dark
wine.
“Yessss, girl!” Lark is running toward me from the bench, Semira and Rae close behind.
My teammates are all over me, pulling and hugging in a chorus of cheers and laughter.
Someone hands me my water bottle and I take a deep pull, beyond relieved.
Even if we lose the meet, no one will be able to call me the weak link.
There were two of us from Meadowbrook in that race. My teammate Anya pushes her way through the huddle to embrace me, large
rivulets still dripping off her shoulders. I glance at the scoreboard again—Anya beat her own record, so she’s got reason
to celebrate even though she didn’t come in first. And we’ve been well-taught to be good sports. There’s no family closer
than teammates, as Coach likes to say. He tells us all the time, and we know it anyway, that women in sports have it rougher
than our male counterparts—that the expectations are different, that we’re always under a microscope, so we can never forget
the importance of supporting each other. The family bit is what always resonated most with me.
I can’t say how long we’ve been carrying on with our hugging and cheering before one of the meet officials is shepherding
us out of the way so the techs can prep the pool for the two-hundred-yard butterfly. For many, this is the final competition
of the season, and so many futures hang in the balance. Ever since college athletes have been given permission to monetize
our names and likenesses, the stakes have only gotten higher. There’s just no room for error.
“Go rinse off.” Coach motions toward the deck-side shower behind the diving boards. “Then we can cheer Rae on together.”
He shoots me another proud grin before turning back to his other swimmers.
When the final results are in at the end of the night, our Meadowbrook Egrets have come in third overall. It’s better than
we were expecting, to be honest. As we walk out into the dark parking lot, everyone’s in good spirits despite being wiped
out. It’s nearly nine p.m., and the Massachusetts winter air is frigid. I wouldn’t be surprised if small icicles are forming
in my hair as we walk across the lot. We climb into the bus, everyone groaning at the effort. We’re heading back to the DoubleTree
hotel where we’ve been staying for the four-day meet. Most of us are so exhausted from the adrenaline, we’ll pass out in our
seats as soon as the bus starts moving.
I’m making my way toward the back to take my usual seat beside Lark when Coach throws an arm out into the aisle.
“Sonny,” he says, using the nickname he made from the second half of my last name, Jamison. He never calls me McKenna. “Sit
for a sec.”
I lower my body onto the textured polyester of the seat beside him. I’m not sorry to take the weight of my five-foot-ten frame
off my hamstrings.
“That was a hell of a race you swam today,” he says as the bus jerks forward, maneuvering out of the lot.
“Thanks, Coach. I thought so too.” I smirk.
The streetlamps lining our route create a glow around him as he speaks.
His normally neat brown hair is sticking out at odds and ends, which isn’t surprising after the high-suspense races.
But he’s relaxed now as he pushes his eyeglasses onto the top of his head and leans his head back against his seat.
His stubble has grown so thick since the morning that it obscures the usually obvious divot in his chin.
His eyes shift toward me, but he doesn’t turn his head. “Gonna be a lot of work to get ready for Nationals, a lot of extra
training over the summer.”
“Of course.” I’ve spent years in the unforgiving world of competitive swimming. I can’t start complaining now, not when I’m
reaching higher levels than ever before. If I do well at the next meets, it could result in sponsorship opportunities and
real money from sites like Influxer and Fanatics that let college athletes sell branded gear displaying their names.
“Might want to think about cutting down your hours at that diner.”
“It’s all good, Coach. I’ve got it.” I hope I don’t sound too prickly, but I need the extra cash I earn at the Scoop & Sizzle,
an all-day brunch spot near campus that everyone affectionately calls “the Sizz.” For almost two years, the job’s been helping
me pay for so many things I’d never ask my grandmother to fund—like nights out with my teammates, extra Meadowbrook swag,
or salmon rice bowls from the poke place, which are definitely not part of my meal plan. I already had to drop two shifts
when I started clinical hours for my nursing program this semester, and come next year, I’ll probably have to quit entirely.
I need to save as much as I can before that. When I accepted the full scholarship at Meadowbrook, I didn’t expect I’d be the
poorest one on the team. Having a little cash in my pocket goes a long way toward helping me fit in.
“Even if you keep at it for the rest of the semester, you ought to come over to my country club for the summer. I’ll get you a part-time position on staff. You’ll earn double what you’re making at the Sizz. Plus, you could pick up private swim lessons on the side.”
“Wow” is all I manage, as I’m temporarily blinded by the dollar signs in my eyes. I know what my teammates charge for swim
lessons, often making more in a couple of hours than I earn in a full day. “I mean, yeah.” Glory would be thrilled too. She’s
been doing her best to provide for us both since my grandfather died, but I’ve seen her poring over the utility bills at her
little writing desk in the evenings. Every penny counts for us.
“You still have to finish your community service though.”
Coach has been riding me about my service hours all month. As part of the generous scholarship I was awarded, which includes
free room and board, I have to complete forty hours of community service per semester. I’d been training so hard for this
meet that I haven’t done any of the service hours for this semester yet. I figured I could get away with pushing it off until
summer. But now—between training for NCAAs and Nationals and working at the outpatient clinic where I’m doing my rotation—I’m
pretty sure doing anything more this summer would be impossible.
A familiar bubble of anger starts growing inside my belly as I’m reminded yet again of all the ways they make me prove, over
and over, that I’m worthy of the full ride I get. I have to be a model NCAA athlete, keep up my GPA, attend other school sporting
events, stay in line, and complete those service hours each semester. This isn’t the time to let my temper get the better
of me though, so I force the rage back down.
I think Coach is the only one keeping track of whether I really do the community service anyway, and now that I’ve unequivocally become one of his best swimmers, I doubt he’ll hassle me too much if I don’t get every last hour done.
“I’ll figure it out,” I say, telling him what he wants to hear.
“Great. I’ll take care of things with the club.” He nods as if our business has been settled, and neither of us realizes all
the ways my life is about to change.