Hurt (8 page)

The challenge when preparing for a difficult dive from the ten-metre board, whether in competition or in practice, is always to keep himself from imagining the many things that could go wrong. Today he is practising one of the toughest dives, The Big Front: four and a half somersaults with tuck, and it scares him. But down below, way down below, both his coach and father are waiting, squinting up at him, already assessing his attitude, his confidence, the amount of time it is taking him to psych himself up, and there is only so much stretching and bouncing on his toes Mathéo can get away with before he knows he will have to go for it.

After walking up and down the board a few times, he finally takes up his position at the back, breathes deeply, closing his eyes to visualize each movement in his mind – every tuck and turn and spin his body will make in the air as he falls; all the moves etched into his mind through endless practice dry-diving into the foam pit, on the trampoline with a harness, as well as in the pool. He focuses on his spot, raises himself onto the balls of his feet, counts aloud to three and runs four steps, launching himself off the board and into space.

He pulls his taut legs against his chest, spins down into four somersaults. His eyes constantly search for the water: the slash of blue. One, two, three, four, five. Then he stretches out as hard and fast as he can, left hand grabbing the back of his right, before punching the water like an arrow.

It hurts, and he knows it was an imperfect dive as the vacuum sucks him under, slowing until it allows him to turn and kick straight for the surface. Bubbles rise above him; he can feel the riptide created by his mistimed entry and he shoots towards the light, emerging with a painful gasp, his hair stuck down around his face, chlorinated rivulets pouring down into his eyes. He feels bruised all over. Although it wasn’t a terrible dive, he already knows he over-rotated his entry and landed slightly flat, knocking the air from his body. He pulls himself onto the side and sits, fighting for breath, as Perez comes over, gesticulating at the giant screen on the wall as it replays Mathéo’s dive in slow-motion, highlighting his error.

‘Too much momentum in the run-up; you jumped too wide – that’s why you over-rotated your entry.’

‘I know,’ he gasps, shaking his head to clear the water from his ears and the dizziness before him.

‘You’re still aiming for more clearance than you need. Stop worrying about hitting the board!’ his father shouts from his plastic poolside chair.

It’s not so much a board as a fifteen-centimetre-thick concrete platform. You try somersaulting through the air with that jutting out in front of your face
, Mathéo thinks acidly.

The second slow-mo on the big screen comes to an end, and both coach and father are waiting for him to do it again. In a two-hour training session, it is usual for him to clock up over thirty dives from the high board. One dropped dive already – he is already analysing his mistake. He won’t make it again. The next twenty-nine will be perfect. Mathéo jumps to his feet, picks up his cloth, strides over to the ladders and begins his ascent once again.

Shovelling down his huge high-protein breakfast in the Aqua Centre’s canteen, he tries to explain the extension at the end of The Big Front to Eli, who has been trying to nail the dive for months now.

‘The trick is to extend as soon as the top of your head is level with the three-metre board,’ he says between mouthfuls of scrambled egg on toast. ‘If you wait until you think you’re level, it’s actually your eyes that are level, so you’ve left it too late.’

‘But how do you know when the top of your head is level?’ Eli jabs his fork against his plate in frustration. ‘Do you use another visual marker, or what?’

‘You can tell because you’re looking down,’ Mathéo replies. ‘That’s the thing: you’ve got to keep your head straight but really keep your eyes on the water.’

‘Hey.’ Aaron and Zach come over, carrying similarly laden trays which they set down noisily at the table.

‘Perez says if we all finish in the top five this weekend, he’s taking us out for a night on the town!’ Aaron declares with a grin.

‘What, like, to a bar?’ Eli’s mouth falls open.

‘Yeah, maybe!’

‘He told you that?’ Mathéo shoots Aaron a sceptical look. ‘Perez letting us drink? I don’t think so.’

‘I was there. He said “a night on the town”,’ Zach chips in. ‘What does that expression mean to you?’

‘Cool!’ Eli’s face is quick to light up. ‘Top five – we can do that, right, guys?’

‘Means at least two of us have got to win a medal,’ Aaron points out.

‘Duh! Matt’s gonna win gold!’ Eli retorts.

Zach’s face instantly darkens. ‘Why the hell do you always assume that Matt—’

‘Yeah, any one of us could win gold,’ Mathéo says quickly, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. ‘I was really over-rotating my dives today.’

‘You’re still the only one who’s got The Big Front—’ Eli begins to argue.

‘It’s not all about that one dive, dickhead!’ Zach flicks one of his peas into Eli’s face.

‘I reckon we can all get into the top five, easy,’ Mathéo interjects.

‘Yeah. Gold, silver, bronze.’ Aaron points at Mathéo, himself, then Zach.

‘Oh, in your dreams, mate!’ Laughing, Zach kicks Aaron under the table.

‘What about me?’ Eli protests.

‘Fifth!’ the other two shout triumphantly.

Mathéo catches Eli’s eye and gives a quick shake of the head. Despite being nearly a year older than Mathéo, Eli has been home-schooled all his life: an only child, mollycoddled and cocooned by fiercely protective parents who live for his diving. As a result, he often acts young for his age, susceptible to a fair bit of ribbing.

Fortunately, Zach is too busy examining his food to continue winding him up. ‘I can’t believe I’ve got to eat this shit for another thirteen months.’ He holds up a spoonful of oatmeal and lets it glob back down into his bowl. Both his parents are overweight; he has begun to broaden out in recent months and so is on a strict low-fat diet. ‘After the Olympics, I’m gonna eat at McDonald’s every day for a month, I swear.’

‘I’d kill for a Big Mac and fries,’ Mathéo agrees with a grin. ‘Chocolate milkshake, apple pie, blueberry muffins—’

‘Beer!’ Aaron adds. ‘And not just to celebrate winning a fucking medal! I tell you, I’m gonna get so wasted. Like that time after Worlds, when Zach snuck all that gin into the hotel room and we—’ He breaks off, perplexed, as Mathéo frantically mimes slitting his own throat.

‘So!’ Perez startles Aaron by approaching from behind him to join them at the canteen table. Short, lean and wiry, he is an overly familiar figure in his usual black tracksuit, an assortment of whistles, keys and ID badges hanging from his neck. ‘I hope you boys are discussing your dives. Just three days till Nationals. We want a clean sweep.’ He leans back against the plastic chair, folding his arms and pinning them each with a look, narrow eyes almost black in his perennially tanned, weather-beaten face.

Mathéo nods along with the others, relieved that Perez appears to have just missed the tail end of their conversation. He wouldn’t have found it funny. Perez is a tough coach, doesn’t suffer fools gladly; he can be painfully blunt, and in the world of diving has a reputation for being extremely quick-tempered, which is true. Nonetheless, Mathéo respects him, likes him even. Perez has been his coach for almost six years now, has pushed, bullied, yelled and dragged him to where he is now – number one in the country, right up amongst the top ten in the whole world. Perez always reminds his divers that he only expects one thing of them – and that is to put in as much work and dedication as him. No mean feat, as Perez himself is a former three times Olympic gold medallist. Twice divorced and now married to his job as the UK’s top diving coach, he specializes in producing future Olympic medallists, and over the last twenty years has coached some of the biggest names in diving history.

‘I’m counting on you guys,’ he continues with furrowed brows, watching them eat. ‘I expect perfect sets from all of you on Sunday. Especially you.’ He is looking straight at Mathéo, who feels himself flush. ‘We’ll sort out that over-rotation once and for all on the dryland springboard after school.’

‘We’ve got dryland training this evening?’ Eli squawks in surprise.

Perez barely looks at him. ‘No, just Matt.’ His phone bleeps and he gets up from the table. Pats Mathéo on the back as he passes. ‘See you in the gym at four sharp.’

Lola is busy with the school musical all morning so it isn’t until lunch that he manages to catch up with her. She meets him at their usual table, setting her tray down across the table from him with a clatter.

‘So, last night was fun!’ She laughs and drops her jacket, bag and keys on the chair beside her, unwinding a multicoloured shawl from around her neck and gathering her windswept hair into a bunch behind her head, twisting it into a hastily made bun, her cheeks pink with exertion. ‘How’s the hangover?’

Mathéo puts down his fork down with a clatter and gives her a sarky smile. ‘Not good. And not helped by the fact that someone shook me awake at the crack of dawn and then ruthlessly kicked me out of bed—’

‘Hey, I saved your arse,’ she reminds him. ‘Your dad would have gone nuts if you’d missed training! You’re not going to the pool this evening, are you?’

‘No, but I’ve got a one-to-one session in the gym with Perez straight after school. And then I’ve got to have dinner with Loïc and the new nanny.’

‘What? Why can’t you have dinner with us?’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll sort something out with Consuela after this weekend.’

She frowns. ‘You’d better. Oh, Dad and I are rehearsing some new songs tonight. Will you come over and listen after dinner?’

‘Sure . . .’ He chews at his thumbnail, his mind suddenly pulled elsewhere.

Lola raises a questioning eyebrow. ‘Nervous about the weekend?’

Damn it, she can sense everything
. At home, he has always been adept at wearing masks, but with Lola that’s impossible; she sees through them all. ‘Bit. Training wasn’t too brilliant this morning. Still having problems with The Big Front.’ He looks down at his plate, arranging his rice into patterns with his fork.

He starts at the touch of her hand against his wrist. ‘It’s hardly surprising. You only had about three hours’ sleep.’

‘I know, but I just – I don’t have the best feeling about this weekend.’

‘You always get nervous before the big competitions,’ she reminds him. ‘And then on the day you turn those nerves into adrenalin and just go for it.’

He works his teeth against his lower lip, unable to look up. ‘Yeah . . .’

‘Mattie, you always rise to the pressure, you know you do. That’s why you’re European champion! And why the TV commentators nickname you the Iceman!’ She gives his hand a little shake and chuckles. ‘Although after last night, I should probably suggest they come up with something else—’

He laughs, despite himself. ‘Shuttup!’

‘Speed Demon?’ she suggests, taking a mouthful of juice and half choking on her own wit. ‘I’m joking, I’m joking!’ she splutters as Mathéo reaches across to thump her.

He leans back in his chair and looks at her from beneath lowered eyelids. ‘You’re evil. I want a divorce.’

She grins. ‘No you don’t. You’d never manage without me, Mathéo Walsh!’

By half seven that evening, he is finally free. The afternoon felt endless: Perez kept him at the gym until he produced a consecutive string of ten perfect landings in the foam pit, Consuela was in another of her flaps when he arrived home, Loïc was whiny and refusing to eat dinner, and by the time Mathéo was finally able to go downstairs under the pretext of using the workout room, he felt ready to jump out of the window. Ten minutes after arriving at Lola’s, he takes up his favourite place in the Baumann residence: the damp-smelling, faded green couch in Jerry’s music studio at the bottom of their garden. It is not so much a studio as a shed – the windows are smudged and some of the wood has begun to rot, but thanks to Jerry’s regular repairs it is still just standing. Mathéo rolls onto the couch, head propped up on one armrest, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Lola plonks herself on top of him, squashing his legs.

‘Ow! Make yourself comfortable, why don’t you?’

‘Kiss.’

He obliges, pulling her back against his chest.

‘Missed me?’ she asks teasingly.

‘Of course.’

‘Good. Where’s my coffee?’

‘Over here on the floor where you left it.’

‘Well, pass it to me, will you?’

‘Do you need me to pour it down your throat as well?’

She narrows her eyes and wrinkles her nose. ‘So much for chivalry—’

‘Hey, my days as your slave are over, Baumann,’ he counters. ‘Now training is about to be cranked up, I don’t plan to exert any more energy than strictly necessary. So from now on you will have to start reaching for your own mug once in a while, carry your own bag, open doors yourself—’

She turns her head against his chest in order to give him a nasty smile. ‘Would you like your coffee poured over your head?’

‘I think we both know that’s an empty threat, Lola Baumann.’

By the time Jerry finishes setting up his new drum kit, Mathéo is dozing comfortably on the couch, head half buried amongst the musty cushions. Lola is messing around with new kit and Jerry comes in backwards through the door, carrying a large tray of snacks and drinks. Lola executes an flourishing drum roll followed by a mighty clash on the cymbals which makes him laugh.

Helping himself to a mouthful of crisps and lying back on the couch, Mathéo is aware of a sudden weight beside him. Something presses against his foot, and Mathéo props his head up on his arm and sees that Jerry has sat himself down beside his outstretched legs.

‘Tired?’

‘A bit.’ He smiles apologetically.

‘Lola tells me you didn’t get much sleep last night.’

Mathéo feels the heat rise to his face, but Jerry is holding back a smile and his eyes are twinkling.

‘Uh – well—’

Jerry gives a warm laugh and slaps Mathéo’s leg. ‘Hey, you know I’m just messing with you!’