A Matter of Heart (12 page)

I
'm nervous. The guys' 100-yard free is about to start. I've got my spot on the fence to watch with Jen next to me. Horizon has pulled ahead, so the race doesn't mean a lot in terms of points or team standings, but you wouldn't know it from the tension in the air, the way the fence line is crowded with watchers.

Connor is shaking out his arms and pacing along lane 4. Alec is fitting on his goggles next to him in lane 5. The other swimmers line up—Ian Flynn is in lane 3, and he's fast, but I hardly spare him a glance. This race is between two guys. Teammates.

Enemies.

The ref blows three short blasts on his whistle and everyone moves to just behind their block. He sounds the whistle again—the cue to climb up. “Take your mark,” he calls, and a second later the guys are bent low over the blocks, crouched and ready. The buzzer rings.

Go!

Connor shoots into the pool like a bullet, coming up halfway down the lane. It's a beautiful thing. I get this feeling…I can't describe it. I'm proud and I'm smug, because he's mine. How can we belong to anyone else? No one else is fast enough to keep up.

And then I see Alec. His dive was shorter but his strokes are longer. He's alongside Connor and I'm afraid to blink as they make another turn. Connor is smooth; he's always so smooth, just letting his heavy arms pull him through the water. Alec is straining, water flying up off his kick. I don't breathe as they come off the wall for the final lap. It's so close…too close.

And then.

“I think Connor got it!” Jen yells, rattling the fence.

I nod, sucking up needed air. I love watching Connor at the end of a race. I love the way he hits the wall, then shoots up as sleek as a seal. He peels off his cap and goggles and shakes his head back so drops of water sparkle like prisms. He immediately looks at the scoreboard; it's that close. But the times aren't flashing there like they should. There are delays sometimes, but why now?

I can't help but look over to lane 5. And then…I can't look away. Alec's chest is rising and falling so fast. His face is set in an expression of such intensity, I swallow. I think back to the interview and remember Alec talking about the scholarship.

Is he thinking about the scholarship now?

Instead of giving a confident head shake like Connor, Alec grips the cool deck. Everything about him screams tension. He's competitive, I know. Everyone who gets to this level is competitive. But with Alec it feels like the kind of competition that comes from the heart, not the head. The kind that eats away at your guts if you're not the best.

The way it is with me.

My stomach knots as I watch him. I don't know why I care. He's an ass. But I'm still watching him when the scoreboard flashes. I can see the results in the way he freezes, just for a second.

“Connor did it!” Jen says, rattling the fence again with her grip.

Connor explodes with a watery fist pump.

He won. I wanted him to win. But I can't help noticing when Alec dips his head back under the water.

My insides twist tight. I used to do that when I lost a race. I'd slip back in the water and feel the coolness wipe away the heat of my tears. I'd imagine the water washing away the disappointment and pretend I'd come up fresh and new and ready for whatever came next.

Alec comes up. He doesn't look fresh and new. He looks like maybe he was crying. A crazy mix of emotions stirs inside of me. I don't like Alec. But I feel like I know him. And at least in this one thing, I understand him. His heart was in this race.

In some bizarre, inexplicable way, I'm disappointed. I wanted Connor to win. But somehow, I don't like the sight of Alec losing.

I
'm standing by the fence waiting for Jen to pack up for the drive home when I hear a pair of flip-flops coming my way. J.D. I can smell the coconut a mile off. I think it's his shampoo but Jen says he slathers himself with coconut oil so his tan will glow.

“Abby Lipman,” he says, coming up next to me.

“Hey, J.D.”

He holds out his knuckles and I give them a tap like we're buds. I can't help thinking Coach would never do that. Coach would never strut around without a shirt and his shorts hanging off. Coach would never wear mirrored sunglasses even outdoors. But Coach won't let me swim.

“So what's going on?”

“Not much.”

“Why aren't you swimming?” A hint of eyebrow appears over his sunglasses.

“I thought Connor already told you.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

“I got dizzy. Coach has me sitting until next week.”

“With State coming up?”

“I know when State is.”

“Maybe Rick doesn't. Because if he did, he'd have his best swimmer in the water.”

“He wants me in the water,” I say. I can't believe I'm defending Coach.

He nods at me with his chin. “Well, if he doesn't, I do.”

I look out at the pool, the water calm now. I never even tested the temperature of it. “You don't care what a doctor says?”

“Should I?”

“You're the coach.”

“Listen, Abby,” J.D. sneers, a glint of bleached teeth showing between his lips. “Doctors say all kinds of things, and half the time they're wrong. What did he tell you, anyway?”

I wedge my flip-flop into a link of fence. “I may have a heart thing. A murmur.”

“That could mean anything,” he says, the next question there in his voice.

“It's a condition called an enlarged heart.”

He surprises me by laughing. “Hell, yeah, you have a big heart. I could have told you that. You don't compete the way you do without one.”

I rattle at the fence long enough to get control of my smile. “I'm getting a second opinion next week.”

“In the meantime, Rick's got you sitting?”

The foam of my shoe is wedged so deep into the fence, it folds in two. “Doctor's orders.”

He pulls off his sunglasses, and for a second I see something serious and even intelligent in his expression. “Ab, you're not the first athlete who's gone to a doctor and found out they have a medical condition that might affect their performance.”

My pulse jumps as I listen.

“Look at the sports world. You got professional football players taking hits to the head that could cause brain damage down the road. They get concussions in the first quarter and they're back by the third. You think the doctors are telling them to go back out?”

“Maybe not,” I say slowly.

“You ever watch hockey? Those guys break their ribs and they're back out there knowing full well a broken rib could puncture a lung.”

I don't say anything, but hope surges through me.

“There's danger in any type of competition.” He sweeps an arm across the whole area and I catch a glimpse of Jen across the grass. She's got a hand over her eyes like a visor, and she's looking right at me. “Damn right there's risk,” J.D. is saying, “but that's part of competing at a high level. Now, maybe you've got something worse than most to deal with. I'm not saying you should ignore the doctor. I'm just saying if athletes quit every time a doctor told them there was some danger, they might as well all take up knitting.”

His eyes are locked on mine. He's got blond eyelashes that nearly disappear into his tan skin. It makes his stare more intense.

“If you want to swim, Abby, then swim. This is your chance.
I saw the time you posted last weekend. If you want to go after it at State, and you want to chase that Olympic dream, I wouldn't be the one to tell you no.”

Jen's got her bag over one shoulder and she's headed our way. At a jog. J.D. smiles. I guess he's seen her too. “Just think about it,” he says. “Where there's a will, there's a way.”

He winks and then spins on a flip-flop and walks off. Okay, so maybe J.D. stretches the Cool Dude routine, but he was a great swimmer and he's coached the Aqua Athlete swimmers to major wins in regional and national competitions. He knows his stuff. And he was right about the things he said. Other swimmers compete with all kinds of problems.

You could die
.

I shake free of those words. I have a mild case.

Besides, I'm not going to do anything stupid. I'm not going to put my life in J.D.'s hands. But he's reminded me that I have options. And he was right about one other thing: I do need to get back in the water. I've been putting it off, waiting to let my body adapt to the medicine. It's a mental thing, I know, but I keep thinking about the summer I went with Jen's family to a cabin in the Colorado mountains. The first day we went for a run and I thought my lungs would explode from the altitude. It freaked me out at first, but after a few days, my body adjusted and I was fine. Maybe this isn't the same thing, but I still find myself taking a few deep breaths every day as if I'm adjusting. Still, enough is enough. Tomorrow I go back in the water.

Where there's a will, there's a way.

I
t's Sunday morning, and I wake up with a purpose. I'll be at Lifeline to teach my usual class, and then it's time to find out what these pills do.

I stretch my toes and my arms and wonder if the blood inside my veins is any different than before. Today I'll take my third pill and I haven't felt a change. I'm not sure what I expected, but I still feel like me. Same as before.

But what if I'm not?

Even though I won't say it out loud, that doesn't mean I haven't been thinking it.

Constantly.

My right hand stretches wide over my chest, pressing to feel my heart, as I imagine the medicine pumping in and pumping out. I've read all about it online. Beta-blockers are great if you've got
heart problems or suffer from depression. They're not so good if you're an athlete. They slow the heart, which is why they're used to curb anxiety. I even read that suicide bombers take beta-blockers to keep them calm—which is creepy and scary. I don't want to be calm and relaxed. I don't want to lose my edge.

It's mental. I know that's all it is. So rather than thinking of the beta-blockers as this poisonous thing slowing me down, I've started visualizing the medicine as Icy Hot in my veins. Cool and soothing, but ready to heat up. It won't make me slower. It'll make me steadier.

It's time to prove it. Swimmers swim—and I'm a swimmer.

When I stride into the kitchen, I'm ready to take on the world. Mom and Dad watch from their usual places.

“Good morning,” Mom says.

“Morning. Can I take the car?”

Mom and Dad exchange looks. “Of course,” Mom says. “You'll be home after class?”

I grab the milk from the fridge. “Not right after. I'm going to stay and swim.”

I'm not facing them, but I hear both chairs creak as if they've just straightened.

“You sure?” Dad asks.

“Yeah, I'm sure.” I concentrate on pouring the milk into my mug, but I know why he's asking. He's read the same articles I have. I checked the history on his laptop the other night. He doesn't think I can swim with the beta-blockers. Not really. Which explains why there hasn't been a tap on my door since before Dr. Danvers. Why talk about a dream he thinks is over? I'm going to show him, though.

“Don't forget your pill,” Mom says.

The little brown medicine bottle is sitting by the coffeemaker next to my vitamins. She watches while I shake one into my palm and swallow it with my milk.

“You want me to come?” Dad asks.

“Not today. I may have to wait for a lane after my class is over.” I grab a protein bar and a bottle of water. “So I can take the car?”

Dad nods. “Keys are hanging by the door.”

I flip them off the ring and grab the doorknob.

“Abby—”

Dad's voice stops me. I'm halfway out the door, but I lean in. His eyes are shining. “Good luck.”

Tonight
, I tell myself as the door closes shut.
Tonight, he'll come in to talk and we'll dream again
.

Why not? I've got Icy Hot in my veins.

The kids are squirrelly this morning. Someone brought a plastic Shamu and they're tossing it between the first two lanes. Whoever lets it drop gets dunked. The old men are gathered in the hot tub and they call out that I should forget the noisy kids and join them for a soak. I laugh as I wave them off. Then I have to fake my Tough Coach face and holler at the kids to settle down. Really, I want to watch them play and freeze this moment. It's perfect. No one here knows about HCM.

Then the guys' locker room door swings open. Check that last thought. Alec Mendoza comes out on the deck. He's wearing a blue Lifeline tee over a baggy pair of swim trunks. I glance his
way, but I feel uncomfortable. I can't look at him now without remembering his face yesterday after he lost.

He's with Benji, his private lesson, and I wait for them to move past us to lane 6 so I can keep my back to him. Instead, Benji hops into lane 1 and Alec stops next to me.

I glare up at him, eyebrows raised, hands on my hips.

“I'm going to help you coach the kids today,” Alec says in a low voice.

“What? I don't need any help.”

A wave of hair has fallen over his forehead and he smoothes it back. There's nothing to block the knowing look in his eye, and it's obvious he thinks I do need help.

Because of my heart
.

I quickly turn back to the kids, clapping my hands sharply. “Okay. Fifty-yard warm-up. Now.” I wave my hand. “Now!”

As soon as they've taken off, I lower my voice. “I don't know what you think is wrong with me, but I'm fine.”

“You have HCM.”

His words hit me like an icy slap. “Where did you hear that?”

“Jen.”

“Jen t-told you?” I stutter. “No way. I don't believe it.”

“First she told me to dive into a vat of hot oil. But I needed to know what was wrong, so I explained about last week and how you got dizzy during class. With kids in the pool. I told her about Katie puking and asked if she wanted it on her conscience if something worse happened.”

My hands curl into fists and I sincerely want to punch something. Alec mostly. But Jen would work too. “I'm on medicine now and I'm fine.”

“Good. I'm fine too. We can both be fine while we teach the class.”

It hits me all of a sudden that the noise has died down. The kids are back, lined up along the wall watching us. I force a smile. “Arm stretches,” I say. They begin tugging and pulling on their arms. Only about half of them are doing it right.

“What did you tell Mr. Edgars?” I say under my breath.

“I said I thought Benji was ready to join your class, but I'd volunteer to keep an eye on him for a few weeks.”

The edges of my fists uncurl a little. So he didn't rat me out to our boss. Also, I heard his emphasis on
a few weeks
—so this isn't permanent. But…“You trying to tell me Edgars is going to pay you a private lesson rate for a group class?”

“No.”

He bends down in front of Mike. “You're not waving in a player from third base, bud. You want to stretch your lats.”

I stare at Alec's back, confused. He could have made a stink about it, maybe even got me pulled and taken over my class—and the paycheck. Instead, he's giving up the extra money from his private? I'm guessing there's no such thing as “extra money” in Alec's world.

I take a breath and decide it's not worth fighting over. But this is my class, and I run it. “So,” I call out loudly to the kids. “Are we ready? Coach Alec will be helping out today, so you get twice the work.”

Alec stands while the kids jump up and down, splashing in readiness. “What's the program?” he asks.

“Freestyle drills today.”

“Right arm, left arm, catch up, and fist?”

He's named off the exact four drills I'd been planning. I shake my head. “Right arm, left arm, catch up, and then zipper.” Zipper is a drill where the kids drag their recovering arm up the side of the body as if they're pulling up a zipper.

“You want lane one?” he asks.

I nod. “Miley, Lauren, and Billy in lane one,” I tell the kids. “Katie, Mike, Nicole, and Benji in lane two.”

The kids organize themselves and I send them off in intervals.

I'm aware of Alec next to me, which makes me tense. He's close enough that I can smell the water on his skin. Has he already squeezed in a workout? And why am I tied in knots while he looks so relaxed? This is going to be a miserable hour.

Miley is first to finish the hundred. I squat beside her lane as she takes a breath. “Nice work,” I tell her. “Really get those elbows up like your arms are coming over a barrel.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Rest five more seconds and go again.”

I straighten and brush Alec's arm accidentally. The skin on my forearm pulses where we touched, as if I've been singed by his body heat. Is he always so hot? The thought embarrasses me on so many levels; I turn away as if I can hide from myself.

There's a splash as Miley takes off and then Alec laughs.

I turn back to the pool, still feeling unbalanced. “What's so funny?”

“You missed it,” Alec comments. “Miley just gave you an Abby look.”

Before I can even think what that means, there's a scream from lane 2.