September (23 months until the Olympics)
Valerie is at the pool this morning, balancing on the edge of the five meter when I walk in. It’s a pleasant surprise because I thought she was at school in California. Her dark hair is piled messily in a bun on top of her head and dripping down her neck, which means she’s been here for a while already and has gotten a few dives in.
I’ve known Val since we were kids, competing on the same juniors circuits. Most sports have a weird barrier between the male and female competitors—never the two shall meet, or whatever. Diving is no different, and even has separate rules for men’s and women’s events. But I always wanted to compete against Val when I was growing up. She was way better than most of the boys in those competitions, and she knew it. Better yet, I knew it. I wanted to learn from the best, so at a Junior Nationals competition in Georgia, I found her sitting on a bench after the competitions and introduced myself. I was nine, she was eleven.
“You’re good.” Even back then I didn’t talk more than I had to. In my house, talking meant drawing attention to yourself, and it was easier to keep your head down.
She had nodded. “I know.” And then she’d looked over at me, smiling wryly. “You’re almost as good.”
Somehow that cemented our friendship.
But we’ve never actually trained together. We see each other at competitions, grab sushi and protein shakes between rounds, and fill each other in on what’s new in our lives. Sometimes we text, but neither of us are much for frivolous conversation. Today, though, I’m startled enough to say, “I thought you were off studying something unpronounceable on the other side of the country.”
She grins like she knows that her appearance has thrown me off-balance. “It’s called kinesiology. I graduated in June.”
“And you’re not, like, doing grown-up kinesiology things?”
Val gives me a flat stare, her smile vanishing. “Of course not,” she says. “I’ve been training.”
Yeah, I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole right now. “Last I heard, you were training out in California while you were in classes. San Diego not cutting it for you?”
She grabs her bag and follows me to the locker room. “Enough with the small talk. What the hell is Andrey up to?”
I blink and set my bag down on a bench. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I got a call from my mom three days ago,” Val says. We both wince, because Val’s mother is scary intense, and a phone call from her can never be good. Back in the day, Val’s parents were both Olympians, competing for Germany. Her dad was a swimmer, her mom a diver, and they met at the ’88 games—though neither of them medaled. After they immigrated to America a few years later, I guess they decided that the only way they’d ever get an Olympic gold was to combine their genetics and live vicariously through their kid.
If Valerie ever feels the pressure of having two parents pushing her constantly to succeed, she has never once shown it in the decade-plus that I’ve known her.
“So what’d she want?”
Val grimaces. “She told me to get on a plane and get to Ohio because I had a meeting with Andrey Fedorov at nine o’clock on Wednesday morning.”
I slide down onto the bench next to my bag, hands between my knees.
Brandon comes bounding into the locker room a minute later, all smiles and limitless energy. I get exhausted just watching him sometimes. He pauses when he notices Val leaning against the lockers.
Normally I would ignore Brandon, but the sight of him reminds me of the heat of his hands on my shoulder and hip from the week before. So I meet his gaze briefly, then turn to Val. “This is Brandon Evans. He’s also training with Andrey.”
“You didn’t tell me you had a partner.” Val says the words to me, but she’s eyeing Brandon.
“I don’t.” I pointedly keep my eyes on her.
Val raises an eyebrow. “Well, this is starting to make a little more sense now.”
It is? I want her to fill me in, but there’s no way she’ll say anything else in front of a complete stranger. Besides, it’s almost nine, and she has a meeting to go to. I’ll get all of the details afterwards, and I can be patient.
She glances at me and nods, then brushes past Brandon without introducing herself.
Once she’s gone, Brandon tosses his bag in the locker he usually chooses and kicks his sneakers off. He mutters something that sounds like, “Great, now there’s two of them,” and slams his locker shut. Brandon’s already wearing the shorts and tank he normally has on for gym work, but he hovers at the edge of the bench for a second, like he’s giving me a chance to explain.
It’s tempting, but Val has been my only friend for so long that the idea of talking about her with Brandon—with a man I still don’t like all that much—makes my stomach twist. So I don’t say anything, and Brandon leaves with a huff.
Now it’s my turn to stand and start getting ready for the day. I change slowly, reveling in the solitude to think about Val’s sudden appearance. But there’s only so long I can take to untie my shoes and toss my T-shirt in the locker with my backpack, and I still haven’t figured out what’s going on by the time I finish.
Val and Andrey join us when we’ve finished our warm-up, and we head out to the pool as a group. I keep shooting Val glances, which she catches and ignores. Her face is so blank that she looks like a statue, but she’s shaking out her wrists, flexing her fingers the way she does when she’s excited and nervous.
“Jeremy, springboard.” Andrey has his business face on, which means I won’t be getting any answers from him, either.
I hesitate. Wednesdays are usually platform days. The stress of my body hitting the water from that height means I only get up there once a week to practice—otherwise I risk injury. Andrey is changing things up, and I’m not sure what to think about that.
Still, I’d rather dive from the springboard than not at all. Diving is what makes the tasteless meals and the dedicated workouts tolerable. The second I get up on that board, everything else fades away.
I stretch my arms over my head, twist side to side, and climb up on the board. I can already imagine the feel of my muscles contracting, the air rushing around me.
It’s the closest I’ll ever get to being truly free, but I’ll never say that aloud.
Andrey claps his hands once. “Forward dive, pike position.”
It’s pretty much the most basic dive there is. I glance over at Andrey, then realize that he’s speaking to Evans—Brandon, I remind myself. Val meets my eye from his other side, eyebrow raised. So this is a demonstration, then.
Brandon knows how to dive. He’s had training, though I’m still not sure how much, but he generally recognizes the various terms that Andrey throws out, knows how to get his body into the right position. His timing is crap, and he usually over-rotates pretty badly, but he doesn’t need a Diving 101 class.
Andrey gives me a look, and I sigh.
Fine.
I adjust the fulcrum and roll my shoulders. The dive may be beginner-level stuff, but I still pause for a second, close my eyes, and picture every piece that makes a whole dive: The edge of the board in front of me, step forward, toes on the edge, stretching my arms above me and bending my knees. Push off, legs straight going into the pike, arms out, and then pull them forward as I rotate, straighten my body, and hit the water completely vertical.
It’s all of two seconds from start to finish. Blink and you’ll miss it.
This was actually the first dive I ever learned. I thought we were going to get straight to the fun stuff, doing flips off of high surfaces and making big splashes. I can still remember how confused I was, seven years old and being told that the flips were ages out, and the entire point was to make as little splash as possible.
Now this basic dive is so ingrained in my muscle memory that my body goes through the motions automatically. I do the dive, rip the landing, come out smiling.
It’s a simple victory, but every dive I do well is something to smile about.
Andrey is explaining what I just did to Brandon, but he pauses to give me an approving nod and hand me my shammy as I come out of the pool. Val is up next. Same dive, but backward.
We run through an entire series of intro dives, and Andrey dissects each one as we go. It’s almost refreshing, to be able to dive without having to focus too hard. We spend so much time on the more complex technical aspects, on making sure our armstands are straight and our tucks are tight.
Then Val and I are told to take a break, and it’s Brandon’s turn.
“This should be good.” I say the words low, so only Val can hear me. She opens her mouth as if to ask what I mean, but I just shake my head and nod toward the pool. It’ll be clear soon enough.
In the air, Brandon is grace and beauty. But from what I’ve seen over the last month, he’s always a mess when he hits the water.
On second thought, maybe going back to the basics is exactly what he needs.
His first dive actually doesn’t go badly. His hips are twisted and his legs overextend, so he hits the water all wrong, but it’s clear he was listening to Andrey’s coaching. The second dive goes worse.
Val presses her lips together, though whether she’s stifling a laugh or deep in thought I honestly can’t tell.
I forgot to bring my jacket, but instead of focusing on the cold, I focus on Brandon. He’s a welcome distraction. I suspect he’s been spending his downtime in the sun, and his skin is dark tan, a tiny hint of red along his shoulders from where he’d been burned. You’d think the tattoos would blend in more, but somehow they stand out, and every time he moves or bends, the ink looks like it’s flowing.
And now I’m warm again, but it’s not the right type of heat. I shift, earning a glance from Val, and force my mind back to important things—like the fact that Brandon has just messed up his third dive.
Once I pay attention, the problem is obvious. “He’s rushing it,” I mutter.
“Hm?” Val seems just as frustrated as I am, though she shows it differently. After years of friendship, and countless competitions where we’ve sat side by side, watching other divers and taking notes, I know that the display before us is making her grit her teeth.
Agitation washes through me. If Val isn’t going to say something, then I will. “He’s not thinking it through. Look at him.” I fling an arm out. “He doesn’t get each of the individual steps of the dive.”
She nods tightly, but her gaze flickers to Andrey.
She’s trying to impress him. She won’t say anything because she doesn’t want to upset Andrey. The puzzle pieces click together.
My head whips around to stare at her. “Holy shit, you’re going to be training with us?”
She hisses at me. “Really, you’re just now getting it?”
“It’s not like I expected it.” I’m keeping my voice down, but Andrey still flicks his eyes toward us disapprovingly. I say my next words at a whisper. “How was I supposed to get it sooner? Andrey doesn’t take other students.”
Val rolls her eyes and stares pointedly at Brandon.
Okay, point made.
I’m torn between excitement and dismay. Val is my best friend—my only friend, honestly—but the realization that I’m going to be sharing Andrey’s attention even more doesn’t sit well.
Still, I can’t take my upset out on Val. Not only does she not deserve it, she could flatten me without breaking a sweat if I tried.
But if my biggest complaint is that I have to share Andrey’s attention, I probably shouldn’t complain. After all, Andrey has it even worse. He’s stuck coaching Brandon, and I can see the signs of his frustration clear on his face. He’s busy running a hand through his hair, trying to get Brandon to understand something technical about coming out of his pike. But Brandon clearly isn’t listening, because he does the dive wrong again.
Finally I can’t take it anymore. I push to my feet and head to the board.
Andrey is attempting to explain where Brandon should be looking, to make sure his head and body are angled correctly, but Brandon is missing the point.
“You need to visualize.” I’m interrupting, but it’s almost physically painful watching him mess this up. He has the strength and flexibility to do the dive, but he’s not focused enough.
I expect Andrey to be upset about the interruption, but he just shrugs and steps back, giving me space to explain.
“Look, Brandon, you’re seeing the entire dive as one piece.”
His eyebrows go up. “It’s not?”
I shake my head. “It’s half a dozen steps, and they all have to go together seamlessly. If you get them right, it seems like one motion from start to finish, but if even one of those pieces goes wrong, the whole thing falls apart. So you have to stop and actually picture each piece in your mind.”
It’s the most I’ve said to Brandon since the day we met, and he seems a little shell-shocked at the passion in my voice.
“So what do I do?”
I glance over at Andrey, but he makes a gesture that says go ahead.
There’s no doubt that I’m a shit teacher. I can be patient when I need to be, but dealing with other people has always gotten my shoulders up faster than anything else. People are loud, and they act without thinking, and Brandon is one of the loudest people I’ve ever met. I don’t just mean in volume either; every single thing he does is somehow amplified, like his excitement and energy are a speaker. But as bad as I am with people, I know diving, and I know how to spot where other divers are going wrong.
Where Brandon’s going wrong is obvious, at least to me. Right from the start I could tell that he didn’t know what he was getting into. He didn’t know who Andrey was, or why training with him was so significant. And even now he’s watching me like he doesn’t fully understand what’s going on: head cocked to the side and eyes wide, like a curious toddler, nodding although he clearly isn’t internalizing my words.
That’s where Brandon gets it wrong: he doesn’t care.
No, that’s not right—like he just doesn’t have a reason to care.
I walk him through it step-by-step, and he copies my movements. Eyes on the end of the board at first, step forward, hurdle. Arms up, head up, find your focus on the water. Don’t blink.
He keeps nodding, but he’s glancing over and focusing on my face, not my hands while I show him the proper grip. He’s . . . watching me the way guys at competitions watch Valerie, like they see a hot girl and not a diver.
I hate that he looks at me that way. I hate that my body wants to respond, though I have enough years of experience to stop it in its tracks.
“You’re way too intense about all of this,” Brandon says suddenly. “Relax, I’ll probably get it eventually.”
Just like that, I know what he’s doing wrong. It hits me so hard that I stop midmovement and stare at him.
“Jesus fuck.” I sound awed, but I’m not. It’s shock . . . and not the good kind.
“What?”
I shake my head slowly. “You don’t care about winning.”
Off to my side, I can see Andrey giving me a warning frown. Val straightens, the jacket falling off of her shoulders.
Brandon shakes his head. “Dude, this isn’t a competition. We’re just practicing.”
“Dude.” I repeat the word back, so sarcastic that my voice is acid. “Everything is a competition. Life is a competition. But this?” I gesture around me to the pool and the diving lanes beyond, the platform and Andrey, watching us with his hands on his hips. “This is the biggest competition of all. Either figure that out, or fuck off and stop wasting our time.”
I get down from the board and don’t ask Andrey for permission before I storm off to the locker room.
This practice is over.