Hold My Breath (24 page)

“You have to let him compete,” I say, my eyes snapping to his.

His head shakes, but I fight on.

“You have to, Dad. Will deserves this,” I say, breathing out a desperate grunt through my nose.

“His DUI, Maddy…the recreational drug use, and the drinking. He’s like one of those rock stars or child actors that your mom tells me about when she flips through tabloids in the grocery line, and sponsors don’t want to jump on board with big risks,” my dad argues. “I need to bring in the money. The greatest coaching in the world is meaningless compared to dollar signs. Will is a risk I can’t afford—at least not past the trials. His story buys him a shot, but one race…that’s all the risk people are going to want to take.”

“But that’s not Will’s whole story,” I defend.

His mouth closes tight, and he breathes in through his nose, his chest lifting slowly, like he’s building a shield against any argument I can throw his way.

“He’s doing this goddamn interview for
you
, Dad!” I finally let that out, because my father has to see—he must know this is the last thing Will wants to do. “He’s going to walk through the most horrific moments of his life on camera, because you asked him to, Dad. That…
that
has to count for something!”

“That makes the Cumberlands happy,” my dad shrugs. His face is growing pale, and I think it’s from shame.

My mouth curves in disgust.

“They want his story on primetime, because the world loves gossip,” I shake my head, walking away from my father.

“Maddy, I love that boy like a son,” he says to my back, a last-ditch effort to cover up his own desperation and greed.

I pause with my hand on the handle for the door, and I speak my words, unable to turn and look at him. For the first time in my entire life, I can’t look at the man I’ve idolized. I’m ashamed of him.

“No you don’t. But I love him, and maybe that will be enough to change your mind,” I say.

I step inside and shut the door behind me, then fight my instinct to rush up the stairs and take Will by the hand and beg him to just run away. We could run away from it all, and our lives would be amazing. But there would always be unfinished business. I’m supposed to win. He’s supposed to race for real.

I just need to find a way to make that happen so it doesn’t ruin life for everyone else.

* * *

T
he lights are always hot
.

That’s the one thing I remember from those interviews after the crash. I remember that, and I recall how fast the questions came. I was the human form of a speed bag, the reporters pummeling just fast enough that I had time to catch my breath and say words at their next intrusive question.

“How are you coping?”

Words, words, words.

“Are you in any pain? Will you ever swim again?”

Words, words, words.

“You must feel a tremendous amount of guilt. It’s natural; can you share a little about that?”

Words, motherfucking words!

I know why Curtis is pushing for this interview—I bring buzz, and that gets airtime, which equals revenue. As painful as the interview is, I feel like I owe him for this shot, and if it can help secure him as head coach—
a coach,
at the very least
—
then one afternoon of misery on my part isn’t so unbearable, especially when I look at it in context with the big picture of four years of grief.

I have one nice suit, and I’ve worn it once already since I’ve been back in Knox. Either my muscles have doubled in size from a few weeks of workouts, or that panic I thought was reserved for airplane rides is starting to bleed into other areas of my life. Either way, this collar is fucking tight. I slip behind the counter at the club’s small snack bar and tug my tie loose, fumbling because, well…fucking panic, when I feel her cool hands glide over mine and take over. I let them.

“Thank you for doing this,” Maddy says, her thumbs dusting across my knuckles. I stop her and work my fingers through hers, nodding lightly and blinking once. Bringing her hands together, I press them between mine and turn her wrist to kiss the inside. She sighs. She’s worried about me, but she doesn’t realize how many interviews like these I’ve survived.

I let go of her hands and she goes to work retying my tie, a little looser, so I can breathe.

“There are probably going to be some questions…some
things…
that you don’t want to hear. I’ve done dozens of these, and they like to talk about Evan, about his
path to greatness
getting cut short. It just…it might be hard to hear,” I say, partly preparing myself to hear the awful regurgitation of events I’m only now starting to overcome. For Maddy, this will be the first time she has to hear the story knowing about Tanya. It makes it hard to sit quietly and listen without choking out a laugh every time they compliment his great character.

“I’m staying,” she says, her eyes focused on her hands at my neck. Her mouth is set in a hard line. I figured she would stay, but I felt like she at least deserved the warning.

“They’re ready,” Curtis says. Maddy walks away the second her father walks beside her, and we both turn to watch.

“She’s just mad because she thinks you’re forcing me to do this,” I say, giving my attention back to him, his brow low and his eyes not blinking until his daughter steps outside.

“Yeah, probably,” he says, shaking his head and turning to me, our feet squared with one another as I stand straight. He puts a palm on either shoulder and brushes out twice before patting and squeezing. When he’s done, though, he doesn’t let go, and the way he looks me in the eyes feels off, but then again, so does everything in my life.

I reach forward with my right hand and pat his arm, squeezing and nodding to let him know I’ll be okay, and his mouth curves into a tight smile.

“I’m happy to help, Curtis. You taking a shot on me…that means everything, and if I can help you in return, I’m glad,” I say.

His cheeks tick higher, and while his mouth smiles, his eyes dip and look sad. His hands fall from my shoulders. I nod to him one more time before sliding around him and moving to the deck area, which is now covered in lighting equipment and a play-back station on a cart. The chair I’ll soon be sitting in is centered on the TV screen. Maddy is sitting in one of the chairs by it, her feet pulled under her legs and her hands in her lap, twisting.

I stop just long enough to run my hand along her back and bend forward to kiss the top of her head. She grabs my arm as I walk by and her hand slides down from my elbow to my fingers, clinging to them until I step completely away. That one touch fills my lungs, and I know I can do this.

The Cumberlands are standing nearby, and as I slide into the tall chair and raise my chin to let the nervous college-intern guy clip a mic to the inside of my tie, I see Curtis move between them, the same look on his face as before. I wait for his eyes to hit mine, and when they do, I smile and give him a thumbs up. He reciprocates, but the hard line on his face doesn’t change at all. I know the look—it’s guilt. He thinks he’s making me do this, but what he doesn’t get, what no one gets, is
I
make myself do these things. I was allowed to survive. I owe the universe many favors.

“Will, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Donna Morris,” a tall woman says as she reaches her palm forward to shake mine. We shake, and her grip is strong. My lip ticks up on one side.

“Former swimmer?” I ask.

She chuckles and nods. She looks to be in her late forties, maybe early fifties.

“I had my time. College, but never the big stage. I wasn’t as good as you and Maddy Woodsen,” she says, pausing before sliding into her chair to glance up at my eyes. “Or your brother,” she adds.

That’s obligation speaking. Evan was talented for a college swimmer, but he was never Maddy. Death makes people greater than they were.

I nod politely and glance over to Maddy, her thumbnail between her teeth and her eyes intent on the TV screen.

“We’ll start slow, some general questions about your training and workouts here, then move into a little bit of your history. The questions will sound weird because this airs with next weekend’s race, and portions with the trials, so we’ll be pretending it’s the future, sound good?” she says, not really looking at me. She’s focused on the stack of cards in her lap with subjects she’s been told to bring up—the gory ones people tune in for.

“Whatever,” I shrug, shifting in my seat enough to put my feet on the ledge below and folding my hands in my lap.
Future
—how does that sound? I glance back to Maddy and think the word in my head, my mouth following my thoughts, curving up as my chest warms. I haven’t looked forward to a future in quite some time, but I do now.

I catch a glimpse of my uncle near the far back just beyond Maddy, and he holds up a hand. I nod to him, glad to see where he is—just in case I need to look someone in the eye that I know, without doubt, is in my corner.

The lights adjust, and Donna runs through a few sound checks. I lift my hand to loosen my tie, but catch myself, knowing I can’t touch a thing now that I’m miked up.
Prison
begins in three, two, one…

“America loves swimming dynasties. The Hollister brothers were well on their way to becoming one, until tragedy struck. Four years ago, on Christmas Eve, the Hollister family—made up of father Robert, his wife Nan, and their two college-aged boys, Will and Evan—boarded a plane to make a trip up north to a cabin in Wisconsin. It was an annual tradition, a flight Robert had made dozens, if not hundreds, of times over his life as a pilot. This trip…would be their last. Weather, a glitch in the mechanics, and the slightest shift in direction were all blamed in the FAA report, and for months, the sporting world mourned the loss of one of its most promising swimmers.”

My eyes shift to Maddy, her body curled tighter in the chair. I can’t see her face, but for a small glimpse of her profile. She shouldn’t be hearing this, no matter how badly she wants to be here for me. No one should hear this story, yet people keep telling it.

“Will Hollister, the oldest brother—and while often not as
flashy
as his younger brother Evan, certainly just as talented in the pool—survived. He endured months of rehab, and when his physical road to recovery seemed to straighten out, his mental one took a turn. Rumors of drug use, evidence of alcohol abuse, a car totaled when it ran into a tree just outside of his hometown, between Knox, Indiana and the nightlife of Indianapolis. The headlines told the story of a lone survivor busting at the seams.
Survivor…
perhaps that’s the key word, though, when talking about Will Hollister.”

“What a difference a year makes. Tonight, the last Hollister will take to the water again in a match-up against some of the best swimmers in the Midwest. The meet is just a
friendly
arranged among some of swimming’s legends, recently anointed as the lineup of coaches charged with leading the US Men’s and Women’s Swimming Teams to the top of the podium later this summer. It’s a practice-run, of sorts, before the real trials happen the following week. But for Will Hollister, the trials begin with this race…they began when he started training again, living in Michigan with his uncle, his only living relative. They began…when that plane took off from an icy runway on a journey that would forever change one of the greatest swimmers in Indiana State University history.”

I feel it coming before she asks. It’s like I’ve rehearsed, though I haven’t—I’ve just been asked these questions enough.

“Will, how have you been coping with the attention? I’m sure you feel the pressure—even here,” Donna says, turning to look me in the eyes. I know the cameras are on me now. I smile, mouth closed, hands clasped in my lap. I am the epitome of calm on the surface. Inside, I am numb.

“This place has always been home. The Shore Club is where I started, it’s where Evan and I trained, where we first met Maddy and Coach Woodsen. It just seemed right to train here—if I was going to really give this a shot,” I say, exhaling when I feel the focus shift back to Donna. She winks at me, a sign that my answer was good. I know it was—it’s what they all want to hear.

“And how do you feel about your shot? It’s been a while since you’ve competed, other than a few small meets leading up to your time at training camp. Do you think you can still find that fire that once drove you?”

I run my palm over my cheek, thinking about her question. I’ve answered this before, but she’s asked it differently. And the time—it’s not the same. Before, I wasn’t sure I’d ever find the water again, and now that I have, I need to find the fire to win. My mouth ticks up on one side at that thought, and my eyes shift to her.

“I think when you’re a competitor, that drive is always there. I just had to wake it up again, remember what it felt like and use it. It kind of comes back to training here, too. Coach Woodsen…
Maddy…
they push me. They always have. And maybe that need to win carries a little more weight than it once did, too,” I say.

“Uh huh,” she hums, leaning forward on one arm, closer to me. Her eyes move from one of mine to the other, and I can tell she’s legitimately interested in my story. It’s probably because she’s a former swimmer, but it sets me at ease a little, and I feel the weight on my chest lift enough that I no longer feel the need to rip my tie from my neck.

We settle in to a pattern, and the questions come as I expect. We talk about Evan; we talk about how hard it was for me to grieve, the guilt I felt, and the pillar of strength Duncan has been for me over the last four years. And then she mentions Maddy.

“You two…you’re close,” she says, her lip curling as she delves into uncharted waters for me and interviews.

“We’re friends,” I correct, my eyes warning hers.

“I can imagine you both lean on one another, especially here. It must be hard not to miss your brother at something you all probably talked about doing together.” The tone of her voice lifts at the end, trying to pull me in with her fake empathy.

“Like I said, we’re friends,” I say, forcing my voice to remain calm and my body to stay disciplined rather than squirm under Donna
Has-been’s
glare and innuendo. I don’t give a fuck if she’s right—me and Maddy, that’s our business. And sharing what we are happens on our timeline.

“Evan would like that you both remained close, wouldn’t he?” she says, crossing one of her long legs over the other and settling into her chair. Donna was probably a mediocre swimmer, but she’s a great tabloid reporter. I’ve reached my limit with her. It’s happened to me before, but it’s never been over questions about Maddy. Usually it’s pot use, my DUI, losing my license—I can’t handle the way the reporters beat my worst moments to death, asking me question after question on the same indiscretion. But I’d do rounds of those questions before I sit here and put that spotlight on Maddy. I don’t like where she’s leading this.

“I don’t really care,” I finally say, crossing my leg over my knee and folding my hands on top of my ankle, tapping my thumbs together while I wait for her to try to salvage this.

She blinks rapidly, flipping through the cards in her lap before looking up at me with one eyebrow quirked.

“You and Evan…did you…get along?”

I smirk and chew at the inside of my mouth. I’m done. All I do is shrug.

Her glare narrows as her lips part. She finally blinks a few times, looking up at her cameraman, drawing a line with her finger across her neck. When he drops his headphones around his neck, I stand and drop the mic pack from my pocket, leaving it in a pile of cords on my empty seat.