30. Swimmers, Take Your Mark - Rowan
Swimmers, Take Your Mark - Rowan
Rowan shuts the bathroom door behind her and leans against the counter for a second, letting the warm light settle the last bit of sleepiness clinging to her eyes.
Her reflection looks slightly rumpled but fixable.
Her braids are a little crooked. Her cheeks are pink from the hot water she splashed on her face.
She takes a breath, slow and steady. Then another. She tells herself she is fine.
She is totally fine.
It is just a meet.
Her first high school meet.
Not a big deal.
Her heart beats faster anyway.
She pulls the braid apart and redoes it, keeping her hands steady, pretending she is not thinking about every possible thing that could happen on the block.
A shaky start. A bad turn. Breathing too early.
Breathing too late. Forgetting which heat she is in.
Dropping her goggles. All of it flickers through her mind like a reel she did not ask to watch.
She shakes her head, trying to clear it.
Her suit feels right, at least. Tight, but not uncomfortable. Her warm-up jacket fits better than she expected when the season started. She looks… almost like the older girls. Sort of. From certain angles.
She checks her meet bag again, even though she has already checked it in her room. Goggles, cap, water bottle, towel, backup towel, protein bar, backup goggles, backup cap. She zips it shut before she can check a third time.
From the hallway, she can hear Reese’s voice, low and warm, and Maren’s voice answering. It is the kind of morning sound she grew up with, steady and familiar. It settles something inside her even as the nerves keep humming.
She glances at herself one last time.
“You can do this,” she whispers.
The words sound small, but they help.
She grabs her bag, slings it over her shoulder, and steps into the hall. The house smells like toast and coffee. The day is officially starting.
Rowan squares her shoulders and walks toward the kitchen.
It is meet day.
Her first high school meet.
And she is ready.
At least, she hopes she is.
Rowan steps into the kitchen and immediately sees the look on Maren’s face. It is the same one she gets before leaving the house for any meet. Focused. Slightly stressed. Coach-mode eyes scanning everything like the kitchen is a pool deck.
“Bag packed?” Maren asks without looking up from her own checklist.
“Yes,” Rowan says.
Maren lifts an eyebrow at her. “Packed or shoved.”
“Packed,” Rowan repeats, trying not to sound defensive. “Mostly.”
Reese snorts softly by the door. Rowan pretends she does not hear it.
They all shuffle into the entryway. Rowan pulls on her shoes, grabs her water bottle, and zips her jacket. Maren grabs her keys from the hook. Reese holds the door open with her hip while trying to secure the lid on her travel mug.
The morning air hits Rowan the second they step outside. Cold enough to bite her nose, sharp enough to wake her all the way up. The sky is still pale and colorless. The kind of morning that always feels like something is about to happen.
They pile into the car. Maren starts it, and the heater clicks on with a tired little whine. Rowan settles into the back seat, pulling her hood up, trying to look relaxed even though her leg is already bouncing.
Reese turns toward Maren. “Your music or mine.”
Maren does not answer. She is already hitting the preset button.
The opening beat of the Violent Femmes fills the car.
Rowan drops her head back against the seat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Maren smiles in the rearview mirror like she planned this moment all week. “Great warm-up music.”
“It came out in, like, the twentieth century,” Rowan says, dragging out the words. “The early part.”
Reese laughs into her coffee, which only makes Rowan groan louder.
“It is classic,” Maren says, tapping the steering wheel in rhythm.
“It is ancient,” Rowan mutters. “I think archaeologists listen to it.”
Reese pats the dashboard. “Come on. It has energy.”
“It has dust,” Rowan replies, leaning her forehead against the window.
Outside, frost clings to the fields. The sun is still low, turning everything pale gold at the edges. Rowan watches it pass in a blur, her nerves humming under her skin. She tightens her grip on her water bottle.
Maren glances back again. “You alright?”
“I am fine,” Rowan says quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired.”
Reese turns slightly in her seat. “You get quiet when you are nervous.”
Rowan’s cheeks heat. “I am not nervous.”
Reese gives her a knowing look. “It is okay if you are.”
Rowan looks back out the window so they cannot see her face. “I said I am fine.”
They let her have the silence after that. At least, mostly. Violent Femmes is still doing whatever it does through the speakers, but neither of them pushes her.
The car warms slowly. Rowan’s leg keeps bouncing. She grips the strap of her meet bag. She watches the frost-covered town slide past them, street by street, familiar but different somehow.
Maren lowers the music just a bit. “You are going to do great.”
Rowan swallows. Her throat feels tight.
“I know,” she says.
And she wants to believe it.
Reese twists in her seat just enough to catch Rowan’s eye. “Hey. You love this. That is the important part.”
Rowan pretends she is looking at something out the window, so they cannot see the small smile that tries to form.
She sits up a little straighter.
She is still nervous.
But she is also ready.
Or almost ready.
Close enough.
The pool is coming into view.
And everything inside her shifts.
The second Rowan walks through the natatorium doors, the air hits her in a way that nearly knocks her over.
Warm. Chlorinated. Loud.
The kind of loud that comes from sneakers squeaking on tile and timers clicking and coaches shouting across lanes. The kind of warm that always feels a little too thick but also a little like home.
Her heart jumps. Her legs feel buzzy. This is nothing like the age-group meets she grew up on. This place feels bigger. Older. More serious. The blocks look taller. The swimmers look faster. The ceiling feels miles away.
Maren steps beside her, scanning the deck like she owns the place, which she practically does. Reese is already peeling off toward the stands, blowing Rowan a kiss on the way like she is not being embarrassing at all.
Rowan adjusts her bag on her shoulder and follows her teammates toward the section marked with their school banner. Her warm-up jacket suddenly feels too warm, but she keeps it on.
She tries to look calm. She tries to breathe the way Maren taught her. She tries not to stare.
Which is impossible, because everything is new.
Girls stretch along the far wall, legs extended in perfect lines. A group of seniors laughs near lane eight, their hair in tight braids that looked like they took an hour. Someone cannonballs into the diving well. A coach blows a whistle. A swimmer shakes water out of her ears like a dog.
Rowan drinks all of it in at once.
Her teammate Jess bumps her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Fine,” Rowan says. “Totally fine.”
Jess gives her a look that says she does not believe her but does not push.
They reach their team’s bench area. Rowan drops her bag and sinks onto the edge. She takes everything in again from a seated angle, which somehow makes the pool look even bigger.
Across the way, another team is warming up. Rowan’s eyes catch on someone near lane three. A girl she has never seen before. Tall. Lean. Her cap is half-on as she adjusts her goggles. She moves like she has been doing this her whole life. Smooth. Confident. Not showing nerves at all.
Rowan looks away quickly, pretending she is tying her shoes.
Jess notices anyway. “Checking out the competition?”
“Just looking,” Rowan mutters.
Jess smirks. “Sure.”
Rowan elbows her lightly but feels her cheeks warm. She focuses on her own team again. On the water. On breathing. On anything else.
Her coach, Coach Ramirez, claps her hands loud enough to cut through the noise. “Alright, Wildcats. Suits, caps, and goggles. Warm-up starts in five.”
Rowan stands with everyone else, legs steady but stomach tight. She pulls off her jacket and tucks it neatly into her bag. Her heartbeat speeds up again.
This is real now.
She is here.
She is on this team.
She belongs.
At least, she hopes she does.
She walks toward the edge of the pool. The surface glitters under the bright overhead lights, broken only by the steady back-and-forth of swimmers already warming up.
Rowan crouches, dips her fingers in. The water is cool. Familiar. Ready.
For a moment, she lets the nerves settle.
Just her and the water.
Then she stands.
She adjusts her cap.
She takes a breath.
Warm-ups are about to start.
Her first high school meet is really beginning.
Warm-up goes by in a blur.
Rowan swims her laps, feels the water slide along her arms, the rush of each flip turn, the steady rhythm of her kicks. For a few minutes, she forgets she is nervous. Her body knows what to do. It always has.
But once she climbs out and walks toward the blocks for her first event, the nerves return. Not sharp. Just present. Like a hum under her skin.
The swimmers for the heat before her step up. Splashes echo off the tile. The crowd noise lifts in waves. A timer calls out splits. Someone shouts a cheer across the pool.
Rowan stands behind lane five, adjusting her goggles even though they are already perfect. Her hands feel warm and shaky. Her heartbeat is fast. She tries all the grounding techniques Maren has taught her through the years. Nothing seems to calm her in this moment.
She focuses on the lane in front of her.
The water looks calm.
Waiting.
She lifts her head and scans the stands instinctively.
Her mom is easy to spot. Bright jacket. Coffee cup. Cheering already even though Rowan has not stepped onto the block. She waves when she sees her.
Sitting right next to her is Coach Hensley, hands folded calmly in his lap, eyes steady on the pool.
He looks exactly the same and somehow older at the same time.
Softer around the edges, but still unmistakably Coach Hensley.
He nods toward Rowan when she looks his way, the quiet kind of nod he always gave Maren before her big races.
Rowan’s chest warms at the sight of them together.
Her mom is leaning forward with her usual enthusiasm.
Coach Hensley is solid beside her.
Two anchors in the stands.
She smiles before she can stop herself.
Her eyes move to the opposite corner of the pool.
Maren stands with the other coaches.
Arms crossed.
Attention sharp.
Expression is steady.
When Maren’s gaze finds her, she gives the smallest nod.
Rowan feels it like a hand on her back.
She swallows, tries to feel that steadiness in her own chest.
The heat before her finishes.
Timers reset.
The next group of swimmers steps forward.
Rowan steps onto the block.
The tile feels solid under her feet.
Her hands find their grip.
Her breath steadies.
This is her moment.
Her beginning.
The very first page of whatever comes next.
The official raises his hand.
Rowan closes her eyes for a brief second.
I can do this.
She opens them again.
She leans forward.
She feels everything settle.
This is mine.