For the first time since I was a kid, I’m nervous for a swim race. Really nervous. It’s summer Nationals, and I want to kick ass. I usually slack off when school’s not in session. This summer, while we weren’t putting in the yardage we do during the school year, we were focused and spent way more time in the pool than I have in the past. I’m definitely in the best shape I’ve ever been in going into summer Nationals. We’re racing for the club team associated with Cal U, not for the university, which makes it less important, a little less exciting, than the collegiate National championships at the end of the school season. Still, this is the last time I’ll race in this meet, since my senior year will be the end of my swimming career.

I want to go out with a bang. Not only that, I’m actually admitting to myself that I care. That I want a podium finish on the national scene in my pocket when I’m done. Something I can be proud of. Yeah, I’ve got school records, but those get replaced over the years. A podium finish at nationals—I can brag about that to my grandkids someday. It’s terrifying to want something, to really go after it, because then there’s the risk of failure. When I pretend like I don’t care, failure isn’t so bad.

Oh, and I might blame some of the heightened nerves on the small fact that Jack is here watching me race. With his mom and sister.

I raced well this morning, positioning myself in lane six for my best event, the 100 breaststroke, the fourth best position in the final heat. I’ve never even made it to the finals at summer Nationals, so I know my goal of placing in the top three is a bit ambitious, but it’s not out of reach. I’ve only raced at two other meets this summer, but my times in both were way faster than past years. Not only that, but I feel it. My body is strong. It’s ready to do something awesome. I know it.

I shake out my arms and legs and pull my goggles down over my eyes as the semi-final heat climbs out of the water. Gazing across the pool, I see some of my teammates move to the end of my lane, preparing to cheer me on. Though I’m racing with the club team, most of the college team sticks around in the summer to continue training together under Coach Mandy. As the starter calls us to step up on the blocks, I try to block out thoughts of everything else, and focus on the task ahead of me for the next sixty seconds. Preferably under sixty seconds if I want to get on that podium.

“Leeeeet’s gooooo, Kick!” Beatrice shouts in the brief silence that follows the starter’s instructions.

Yeah, who am I kidding? I never could block everything out. I’m grinning as the starter tells us to take our mark. As soon as I hear the familiar beep, I shoot off the blocks and slip under the water. Using the power from my start to maximum potential, I maintain a firm streamline position before pulling down succinctly with my arms just as momentum starts to wane. Then I follow it up with a strong kick, shooting me forward further. The underwater – or “pull-out” – is something I’ve always been good at. Using it to my advantage, I time it just right. Drawing it out so that when I break the surface, my competitors are not only a beat behind me, but have already wasted energy on an above-surface stroke or two.

On the national level, I’m not expecting to come out in front like I do at the smaller college meets, but I sense I’m in a good position, maybe even in a slight lead, as I come up for my first breath and hear my name shouted. With breaststroke, the cheers hit a steady rhythm to match the strokes, shouting every time the swimmer comes up for air. My teammates just shout “Kick” for me, and I can always hear them above everyone else. I hit my groove, pulling up with a breath and shooting forward into a brief underwater streamline with a hard kick. Up and down, like dancing. I feel strong. Powerful. Even a little invincible as I sense myself pulling farther ahead with each stroke.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this good racing. Summer is a short season, which means the taper, when we wind down and let our bodies rest, was short too. I know it was effective though because my body is energized, my muscles primed to kick ass. I go with it, attacking each movement and embracing the steady beat of pull, kick, glide, repeat.

I’m in an Olympic-size pool. Fifty meters. One turn. One single turn can make or break this for me. I hit the wall with my double-handed touch and flip my body around to push off from the wall and go into my second pull-out of the race. I can’t see anyone from my peripheral, and it weirds me out, because I know I can’t be ahead of everyone. Yet I’m hardly tired as I reach the final meters. Instead of feeling like the lap goes on forever as it usually does with long course meters, the flags over the lane signaling the final five meters hit me before I even realize I’m at the end. I pull smoothly and kick hard, powering through the final strokes and hitting the wall with force.

Screams of excitement and loud whistles fill my ears as I turn my eyes to the clock on the wall. The noise keeps increasing as I attempt to process what I’m seeing.

1. Lane 6. L. Spark. 58.64.

No, that’s impossible. I blink a few times, put my goggles on my forehead. Keep blinking.

First place? A best time by nearly two seconds? I glance back and forth, looking at the swimmers on either side of me, whose eyes are also glued to the clock. I look at the wall, where the electronic timing mat is melded to the edge of the pool. It must be broken.

But then the girls on either side of my lane are reaching over to hug me, and I know that this is really happening. I just had the biggest breakthrough performance of my life.

And Jack Kingston is watching. My eyes shoot up to the stands even as the girls threaten to drown me with their enthusiasm. Somehow, my eyes find Jack, standing between his mom and sister in the second row. Why are people in the stands on their feet anyway? And then it dawns on me. I just broke the pool record, beat women in the lanes next to me who are Olympians, professionals, and I’ve never even qualified for the finals in this event at collegiate nationals before. People are standing for me.

Judging by the proud grin filling Jack’s face, I know he recognizes that this is big. I smile back.

Shay’s there waiting on a hug as soon as I pull myself out of the water, Beatrice right behind her. Then Coach Mandy. It’s all so unexpected. The win, the time, yeah, but also that it seems to mean as much to these women as it does to me. I’m pretty sure I catch tears in Shay’s eyes.

Well, shit.

An hour later, I race in the 200 individual medley, or I.M., alongside Shay. I guess the timing mat wasn’t broken, because I set another PR – personal record – from a different lane. I’m only two tenths of a second behind Shay, and we go one-two, landing us another standing ovation. By the time we cool down, shower, and change, it’s late, but I’m too exhilarated to be tired. The teams each have areas set up in the basketball courts near the pool. Food is waiting for the Cali Sharks swimmers in our spot, along with parents and significant others, including mine.

It’s not until Jack’s arms are around me, his lips nuzzling my neck, when I remember that I’ll be introducing him to Mom and Dad for the first time.

“You must be Jack,” Dad says in his friendly-dad voice. “It’s great to finally meet you.”

Jack puts out a hand to shake Dad’s, and when Mom introduces herself with a not-exactly-warm tone, Jack accurately realizes that it’s not the dad, but the mom in this duo who will be sizing him up.

“Mrs. Spark, it’s nice to meet you,” he says, his tone formal.

Mom dismisses Jack by turning to me. I notice that unlike when she met Jett, she doesn’t give Jack her first name. “Lydia, darling, you must be so pleased. Very nice job tonight.”

Yeah, best swim meet of my life, and this is as enthusiastic as Mom gets. She’s never been one to gush, clearly.

“Thanks.”

Dad does some gushing to make up for it, and then Gracie and Heather are there. Gracie throws her arms around me like we’ve known each other forever, her signature greeting. “You won!” she screams.

“And broke a record!” Heather exclaims.

Gracie pulls back to clap her hands. “That was so fun! I’ve never been to a swim meet before. I think I want to join the swim team too. Except Mom says then I would have to give up dance or gymnastics since there aren’t enough hours in a day. I like the swimsuits but my leotards and ballet outfits are better, so maybe no swim team after all.”

She’s a very talkative and articulate eight-year-old. Not that I hang out with a lot of seven-year-olds, but still.

“Jack tells us you’re racing tomorrow in the 200 breaststroke,” Heather says, wide-eyed. “Aren’t you exhausted?”

“I’m used to the multi-day meets. And the other swimmers are doing the same thing so I’m not the only one who has to get up early again after a full day racing.”

“Oh! Can we come tomorrow too?” Gracie asks, jumping up and down again.

“Maybe, honey. You have a gymnastics meet in the morning. Maybe if Kick makes it to the evening part again, we can come back. But only if you aren’t too tired.”

Gracie shakes her head back and forth, ponytail swinging. “Oh, I won’t be too tired. And of course she’ll make it, Mom, don’t be stupid.”

“Gracie. Stupid is a bad word.” Heather strokes a stray hair off Gracie’s forehead.

“I meant silly. Don’t be silly.”

Before I can introduce Heather to Mom, she’s broken off to say hello to Shay and Jett. Dad’s still there, which is probably better anyway. They chat for a few minutes, while Jack tells me he needs to take them home, and I need to sleep, so I won’t see him until tomorrow. Despite my best pouty-face, he just kisses me on the nose with a wink. He’s probably right, anyway.

We’re saying goodbye to the Kingstons, and I’m about to turn to get food, when a middle-aged woman approaches.

“Hi, I’m Missy Wessington,” she says with a confident smile, putting her hand out to me.

Her name rings a bell, but I can’t place her as I introduce myself. “Lydia Spark.”

“I know.” Her smile grows. “I’m a sports agent with AMJ Enterprises. Do you have a minute?”

I’m equal parts confused and curious. I must know her name from Shay, who’s mentioned the agents she’s been talking with. She can’t actually be interested in me as an athlete, but maybe she wants to talk to me about Shay. “Sure,” I answer, my heart racing.

Missy is all about efficiency, taking my elbow and leading me a few steps away. While everyone can still hear us, it sends the message that this conversation is only between the two of us. It’s a little rude, but she manages to smooth it over with a polite smile in the direction of the others.

“AMJ Enterprises looks at a few things when we consider whether to take on a new athlete. First, of course, there are athletic accomplishments.” She flicks her hair and shuffles to the side as some of my teammates walk by.

Missy continues, “We also consider athletic potential, likelihood of growth and continued success, which of course is challenging to assess. Perhaps as important as athletic achievement and potential, nowadays, is marketability.”

I notice my teammates who walked by have paused and turned to look our way, curious. I try to convey with wide eyes that I’m as perplexed as they are, but they just smile and shrug before heading to the buffet table.

Missy is still talking. “To be perfectly honest with you, Kick, you were barely on my radar when I came to this meet. I was here for your sister and a handful of others I’m interested in. I know you have the marketability, no doubt about that, but you didn’t quite have the level of accomplishments required to get the big sponsors interested. And AMJ works with big sponsor athletes.”

She continues laying it out, not pausing to allow time for her words to settle, or for me to ask questions or acknowledge I’m following. “Tonight, however, was not only an accomplishment that got my attention, but it showed real potential to achieve even greater things. I think if we took on you and your sister as a package deal, we could land a fantastic contract for both of you.”

Missy stops then, meeting my eyes. I open my mouth, about to tell her I’m not planning on swimming professionally, but the word, “Okay,” comes out instead. Her intense gaze is intimidating, and I don’t want to give her a response she’s not expecting.

“Here’s my card.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a business card, handing it to me. “NCAA rules allow us to continue chatting, but we can’t get anything in writing until you graduate. In the meantime, I wish you a successful college season. If you keep swimming the way you did tonight, sponsors will be outbidding one another for a chance to land you and your sister, especially if you go in as a package deal.”

I take her card, thanking her, and she nods with a tight smile before spinning and walking away. Probably off to the next athlete on her list, and leaving me wondering if I imagined the conversation. What the hell just happened?