Sprint

Chapter two

This day has already been way too long, and it's only four o'clock in the afternoon.

Waiting to move in until the first day of practice and classes was stupid. I had to make the forty-minute drive here at five in the morning to be ready for practice an hour later, where I was thrusted around like a priced cow and had to make awkward small talk with people who've either swum together for years or were eighteen-year-old rookies shitting themselves in excitement.

Then I hurried across campus—only getting lost twice—to get something to eat before the transfer orientation that the university insisted I attend. It's not always easy being a junior-year transfer, Leroy, they said.

It's never fucking easy. It fucking sucks, actually.

The two hours of being shown around campus and the dining halls and participating in stilted icebreakers with other transfer students didn't help.

Then, I had an actual class as well before gathering all my remaining patience to juggle the student housing office.

Now I need to move my shit from the car to the dorm room, but all I want is to crash in a bed and hope that I wake with a little more will to endure it all for another day.

I miss Pittsburg. I miss my old pool, and my old team, and my old roommate, and the way everything was familiar there. I had the whole deck in the McCoy Natatorium mapped out in my head so I could walk it blindfolded. No awkward stumbling around in front of literal Olympians.

Did I know Zeke Mitchell, Jayden Sennels, and David Davis train here? Sure. Did I expect to be introduced to them first thing? Never in a million years.

The coaches want me to join their practices sometimes. Like I'm something special. It's all very overwhelming.

I hoist a bag of bed linens over one shoulder, grab a suitcase with my other hand, and walk towards the dorm building. It looms over me, somehow the most insurmountable task of the day and the one I must tackle most exhausted.

In the elevator, I check my phone. There's a text from Jack, asking if I had a good first day, and if my new teammates are nice. I send a message affirming that everything is fine. White lies aren't as obvious in writing.

I should have moved in here as soon as I got back into town four days ago, but Jack insisted I come stay with him, and I couldn't say no. I wanted to sit in the living room where I used to hide as a kid when I didn't want to go home. And I wanted to look across the hedge at the house that used to belong to my parents. It was bittersweet, being back.

If I tell him how much I already regret this move, he'll try to convince me to return to Penn State. He was never a fan of the transfer, but he, out of everybody, should understand the necessity.

I can't miss any more time.

I don't have time to feel guilty about keeping the truth from him because the elevator opens into sudden mayhem.