Hold My Breath (31 page)

It’s my joy.

I found it.

* * *

“
A
re there always
this many people at a press conference?” I clear my throat after I speak, extra nervous now that I hear the rasp in it. I’ve been fighting a cold all week. It won’t matter in the water tomorrow. I can convince my body it isn’t sick for two minutes. But speaking to a crowd, to lights and cameras? I’m not so sure I can muster enough energy for that.

“No idea. My first one, really.” My father shrugs with his response as I work to straighten the knot on his tie. His movement forces it askew again, and I let my hands fall in defeat with my sigh.

“Sorry,” he grimaces, pulling both ends loose and holding them out for me to try again. “You know your mom can’t tie them either.”

“I know,” I say with a roll of my eyes, pausing with my eyes giving him a sideways glance. I laugh lightly and tug both ends of his tie, forcing them straight.

“You had interviews and stuff when you and Mom went to trials…and at the Olympics,” I say, tugging one last time, satisfied that at least I no longer could see the half of his tie that’s hidden in the back.

“It was a different time. We had the press, guys with notebooks, and maybe
a
camera. Today’s world is on people’s phones, though. Have you looked at that podium?” he asks.

I glance through the curtains, where the spotlight shines down on the wooden stand with a single mic, the surface covered in cellphones.

“That’s how they do it now,” my dad says, shaking his head.

I walk with my dad to the edge of the stage, a few other swimmers filing into their rows of seats. Only a few of us will get questions—me…
Will.

“Can he handle this?” my dad asks.

Will was a different man all week. He was driven like he was that first time I saw him race when we started camp weeks ago, but his spirit was lighter. He still got lost in the moment—and those things he fights for, they’ll probably never go away. His brother…his parents—they’re his ghosts, and ghosts don’t leave. They only fade.

“We talked a lot last night, about the questions he knows are coming,” I say.

“Can he talk about Evan? Without feeling defensive?” My father quirks a brow at me, his hand gripping the rope near the stage curtain.

I smirk at him, realizing as I do—
Elvis lip.

“He’ll say nicer things about Evan than I will,” I say.

My father puts his arm around me, urging me to step toward the stage with him.

“You and me both, sweetheart,” he says, a rumble of a laugh coming from his chest.

I step up on my toes and kiss my father on the cheek, then find my way to my seat. My palms are sweating—I wish instead of this press conference I would just swim extra laps for the public while people filmed me. That’s what I’m good at. Cameras…they’re…invasive I guess?

“You look pretty,” says a deep voice next to me. I glance up and catch the UCLA logo on his shirt and enough of his smile to recognize flirting.

“Pretty fast,” I say back. He laughs, so I turn my head away, not wanting to engage more conversation. I wore my pink dress with buttons on top and a flair just above my knees. It was supposed to be for my graduation, but since that’s not happening for another six months, I figured I’d break it in. Holly told me it made me look smart.

I tuck the skirt under my legs and sweep my hair behind my ear, my palm shading my eyes from the lights while I look out to the few people behind the cameras. Holly came with my mom. She said she wanted to support me, but I know my friend better than that. She wants to ogle the male swimmers.

She can—every one, but this one.

My head falls to the side, and his blue eyes are waiting.

“You got this,” I mouth.

His lip ticks up and he raises a thumb.

“That Will Hollister?” my UCLA friend asks me.

“That’s him,” I say, finally meeting my flirtatious friend’s eyes. He looks like every other guy here—broad chest and shoulders, arms filling his sleeves, thigh muscles about to rip through his pants. They’re bred this way, and they all come out the same, but it’s that stuff inside that separates them. Will…he has just a little bit more than they do.

Mr. UCLA ends our conversation there, but I count the times he glances down our row to Will. I’m sure there’s a part of it that’s Will’s story—his survival is hard to believe unless you see him sitting in front of you. But there’s also an edge of fear with the way my neighbor’s leg bounces, his hands twisting in his lap. The more he looks at his competition, the more my Elvis lip twitches, until I can’t help but laugh to myself.

Will…he has that extra something, and this guy—he’s dead in the water.

* * *

T
he questions come
at him like bullets, and Will handles every single one with grace. He memorializes Evan, and he speaks with reverence about his parents, recounting the first time they came to my parents’ club, the practices his dad drove he and his brother to, the way his mom would always try to make sure they both felt like winners—even if one of them lost.

Nobody asks about me until the end, and when the question comes about our friendship, a hint of innuendo in the reporter’s tone, Will says exactly what I told him to if that question were to come up.

“You’ll have to ask Maddy about that.”

His response gets some teasing “oooohs” and some laughter, but after a few minutes, the reporters move on to my dad and the rest of the coaching staff. It’s clear that there’s a division there, too—some people ready to embrace Will, hoping to see him dominate in the water, others not. My father leaves no question about his loyalties, telling the room that our best shot at a medal is with Will swimming anchor, and that response makes my friend sitting next to me squirm in his seat. My instincts tell me that he’s a freestyle sprinter, too.

For a while, I think I might skate by, but eventually the floor comes around to the
Star
and
Tribune
. My hometown papers have watched me grow up, and they’ve covered my swimming from high-school championships to US titles at Valpo. While I’m surprised to see the familiar faces here in Omaha, I’m also flattered that my story is worth it. I’m grateful for this platform, because as much as Will intends on outright winning every race he swims, leaving no question up for debate—I also see no harm in adding just a little insurance.

The microphone squeals when I lower it, and I notice several people in the room hunch their shoulders at the sound.

“Sorry,” I say, holding my hands out and slowly backing them away from the mic, as if I’m balancing a house of cards. I smile out to the cameras and my friend and mom, who I know are somewhere behind the lights. “That’s what you get for talking to all the boys first, though. I had to make this thing a girl’s height,” I laugh.

A few people snicker with me.

“Maddy, it’s John Tucker, from the
Star
. I covered you at nationals last year,” the first familiar face begins.

I offer him a closed-lip smile and brace myself.

“Nice to see you, John,” I respond.

His questions are basic—nothing I haven’t answered in one-on-ones before. My training and preparation, what I think my chances are, how much my parents have influenced my swimming life—questions I answer by rote, the words coming out ready to print, perfect sound bites.

His counterpart steps in with a few more questions, picking up on a few things my dad answered earlier—about the impending closure of the Shore Club, and how this week was its last hoorah. The local papers care more about this angle, so I give them the heartfelt answers they deserve—words I mean.

“No place will ever feel the same,” I say, glancing over and catching my dad’s sad smile.

I start to worry that I waited too long—that my opportunity was slipping by as the
Tribune
reporter hands away the mic—when the public’s insatiable appetite for gossip and romance comes to the rescue.

The reporter, the same one who finished with Will, stands tall, waving her hand in desperation for the microphone. I don’t recognize her, but I can tell she’s with one of the entertainment outlets—the sports reporters all have a different look about them, less…
polished.
She stands, brushing a wave of blonde hair over her shoulder as her eyes lower toward me and her smile creeps up. She’s probably expecting me to evade romance rumors, too—which she’ll simply turn into juicy gossip that won’t have anything to do with how we swim tomorrow. I’m about to do her one better.

“Hi, Maddy. Sheila Vargas, Z-TV,” she says. I give her a closed-mouth smile, raising my brow, welcoming it. She looks giddy. “Will told me I should ask you about the rumors that you two seem to be forming a…
special
bond, so let me just put it out there—are you and Will Hollister…dating?”

I look down to my hands, folded near the mic, and I start to tilt my head because as ready as I am, the blush still hits me hard. I wait for my cheeks to feel it, for the smile to be unstoppable, and then the wave of attention passes enough that I can talk without messing this up.

“We train so hard, Sheila. Hours in the water, and the hours out of the water are all spent on mentally preparing yourself for something that for most of us lasts less than a minute—that might last
eighteen seconds
,” I say, that last part for Will and my dad. I don’t even have to look to know they’re both smiling. “When I first started competing, it was Will Hollister pushing me to be my best.”

I glance over my shoulder to find his eyes waiting, his head tilted slightly, his uncle sitting next to him for support.

“I love him something fierce, Sheila,” I smile, turning back to face the reporter, her eyes glowing with the gem of a story I just gave her. I hold her gaze on mine for a few seconds, and she lowers the mic, satisfied and probably already mentally putting together the six-o’clock package I just wrapped up with a bow. I’m about to sprinkle it with glitter. “We’re in this together, and if Will doesn’t swim for Team USA, neither do I.”

I step back when I finish, my eyes glancing down at my hands as my fingers drum once on the wooden surface. I can’t avoid Will’s gaze as I walk back to the seat, but I avoid my father. I went off script for that, and neither of them are going to like it. It means Will’s just going to have to win. It just so happens, though, that I have an incredible amount of faith in him.

* * *