Breaking Wave

Chapter 2: Coach out

Kaito

"–Ashley Coleman? Oh she's hot." Came a voice from a distance. I stand at the edge of the pool, the early morning light filtering through the natatorium windows, casting a warm, golden hue over the water. The sharp scent of chlorine mingles with the cool breeze from the open windows. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the chaos in my mind and center myself. The world outside is a tangled mess of emotions and uncertainty, but here, in the water, everything feels right.

Diving in, the cold water shocks my system. I welcome it. Every stroke, every kick, is a precise movement, a reflection of years of practice. Swimming isn't just a sport for me; it's a lifeline. My mother's death left a void I can't quite fill, and my father's silent suffering only adds to the weight I carry. I've learned to bottle up my own pain, hiding it behind layers of routine and control.

Pulling myself out of the water, droplets cascade from my body. I grab a towel from the rack and start drying off, mentally preparing for the day. Coach Thompson, our current coach, is a disaster. His lack of discipline and poor leadership are evident. With the regional championships only a month away, the stakes are high, and his incompetence is putting us all at risk. The school is considering removing him, but finding a replacement on such short notice is a huge challenge. It's a mess, and a lot of it falls on us, the swimmers, to deal with the fallout.

I make my way to the locker room, checking my reflection in the mirror. Tall, lean, and built from years of hard work, my wet hair falls in messy, jagged layers, with shorter strands sticking up and longer pieces draping unevenly, masking my blue eyes. I look every bit the top swimmer. Yet, underneath it all, I feel a disconnect. Social interactions are challenging, and emotions often elude me. I've learned to navigate the world through logic and routine, finding solace in the predictable nature of swimming.

In the locker room, I change into my casual wear– basic tee and jeans. My phone buzzes with a notification, and I glance at it briefly. The schedule for the day is set: a team meeting followed by practice. My life is a well-oiled machine, each part meticulously planned to ensure peak performance. But the tension surrounding Thompson is palpable. His recent behavior has been unprofessional, culminating in an incident that led to the school administration taking notice. During a meeting, he had sarcastically dismissed the team's concerns about his methods, saying, "If you think you can do better, prove it yourself." His words echoed in my mind, each syllable dripping with disdain.

As I head to the team meeting, Thompson stands at the front of the room, hands clenched looking exhausted. He tries to rally us, but his words lack conviction.

"Alright, team, let's get this over with. We've got the regional championships coming up, and we need to step up." His voice is flat, his enthusiasm absent. He begins outlining the day's practice schedule with a lack of energy that mirrors his overall demeanor. "Kaito, you're focusing on freestyle and butterfly. Alex, you're on backstroke. Johnathan you need to work more on your breaststroke, Paul and Greg- for goodness' sake, even my grandma can swim faster than you two– and for the rest of you, just try not to mess up." He briefly clap his hands together and took in a breath.

I listen, my frustration growing. The lack of direction and support is infuriating, and I can't help but feel a sense of urgency. With the regional championships approaching, the pressure is mounting. After the meeting, I head to the weight room for strength training. Each rep, each set, is a way to channel my frustration into something productive. The burn in my muscles is a welcome distraction from the mounting pressure.

"I guess that's all that can be said, so um, we'll see tomorrow for practice."

"Coach, practice is in the afternoon not tomorrow." Johnathan coughed from behind and the room erupted in giggles.

"Yeah, I knew that". He said, obviously he didn't. With that said everyone grabbed their stuffs and skedaddled out of the room.

During the afternoon practice, the pool is filled with the churn of water and the sound of splashing. The team's morale is low, and it's clear that Coach Thompson's ineffectiveness is taking a toll. We move through our drills with mechanical precision, but there's an undercurrent of frustration and anxiety. He stands at the deck of the pool, a timer in hand.

"C'mon boys, we need a new record!". He tapped his hand on his thighs while taking few glances at the timer and back at the pool. Hardin was the first to touch the wall and Thompson exploaded in cheers.

"Great job, Hardin. Your new record. Almost  better than Kaito's" He emphasized on the last sentence so I could hear it. I ignored him and continued my laps.

As the sun sets, casting long shadows across the pool deck, I finish my final lap. Exhausted as hell, I climb out of the water and head to the locker room. The hot water of the shower soothes my tired muscles. I shut my eyes for a brief moment, trying to clear my head, then–

Help!

Somebody!

Kai!

Kai!!

Please, help me.

My eyes sprang open, my heart racing erratically in my chest. I turned off the shower, my breath laboured. I reached out for my towel, knocking down the rack with a loud thud. I wrapped my towel around my waist and the next second the door flung open and Andre ran in and his eyes scan the room till he saw me falling to my knees at the corner.

Mum, I'm sorry.

Back at the dorm, Andre hands me a bottle of water as I walk in, his expression unreadable. He's always been good at hiding his emotions, but I can tell he's worried too.

"You good?" he asks, his voice sympathetic.

"Yeah," I reply, taking a sip and slipping into the seat I drew out. "Just a little stressed out." I lied.

He nods, understanding. We sit in silence for a while, the camaraderie between us a rare source of comfort. Andre has been my roommate and closest friend since freshman year. He's gay, and while it's not something we talk about often, I know he faces his own set of challenges. He's always been there for me, and I try to be there for him, even if I don't always know the right words to say.

"Heard the news?" Andre breaks the silence, raising an eyebrow. The only news I've heard for the past week is the missing watchdog Bingo and of Iva fucking Maye.

"Iva Maye's career is over. Lucky for her she won the finals before—" Andre's phone rings, cutting him off mid-sentence. He excuses himself and walks out of the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Iva Maye's name lingers in my mind, a distraction I can't afford right now. I'd seen her once or twice on TV, once was when she brought Canada to grace and twice when she was in tears in front of the media after her injury.

My phone buzzes from my pocket, and I pull it out. I never thought a message from Thompson would ever make me smile, but this one does.

Coach Thompson: Hey team, So, turns out I'm not your coach anymore. Yup, I'm out. I guess the higher-ups didn't like how things were going. Not sure what's next, but you all should just keep doing your thing.

Good luck with the regionals or whatever. I'm sure you'll be fine.

Later,
Coach Thompson.

Others replied with normal goodbyes and well-wishes, but after what he'd put us through, he isn't receiving just a goodbye from me.

You: Not surprised. Hope you find a coaching gig where your lack of skills is a better fit. We'll manage just fine.

I aggressively jab my finger on the send button with a grin, feeling a twisted sense of satisfaction as the message disappears into the chat. It's good to know he's out of our lives, but bad timing with regionals coming up. We'll have to deal with the fallout and find our footing without him. I lean back, a mix of relief and frustration churning inside me.

"We're fucked," I mutter to myself, running a hand through my hair.