Sprint

Chapter three

Come on, Archer. Just a little faster. I push myself harder down the lane, but the flags never appear, like the pool goes on forever. This all feels familiar, like a horrible sense of déjà vu. I think I've had this dream before. I think I've lived this nightmare.

For a second, I worry the flags are gone, and I'll crack my head open on the pool's edge. But as I pull my leaden arms through the water, I finally spot them. I throw myself into the last strokes, time slowing to a crawl as Davis launches into the air above me. He spears the water with superhuman speed, easily making up for my horrible time. When I turn to the two people waiting for me on the edge, the sight of their faces makes my stomach sink. Disgust and disappointment twist Sennels and Mitch's expressions until they're nearly unrecognizable. I want to dunk back under the water's surface and not come back up for air. Maybe that'd finally wake me up. My heart thumps painfully as the crowd boos my name, American flags being thrown on the ground all around me.

They all hate me.

I jerk awake, still covered in sweat from the nightmare, while a horrendous sound blares somewhere to my left.

The dream felt so real because it was real. A slightly more distorted and exaggerated recollection of the events at Worlds two months ago. Sennels and Mitch's faces hadn't been so drawn, but I'd seen those accusations there. Whenever I close my eyes, I can still see it.

The shrill noise rings again, and I squint through the darkness towards Leroy's bed. Or the bed he's squatting in, I should say, since there's no way I'm allowing him to stay here one more night. He picks up his phone, turning off the alarm, and the light from the screen illuminates his face.

He grabs his glasses, perching them on his nose. They make him look older and far more serious than at the pool yesterday. He's got this permanent pout on his face that gives him a sorrowful edge.

I hate those glasses. And I fucking hate that pout.

"What the fuck is that?"

Leroy blinks bleary eyes at me, looking up from the device in his hand. "It's a phone." He cocks his head. "Exactly how old are you, Salisbury?"

I can't be more than a year or so older than him, but that's plenty. He's twenty and a world record holder. What the fuck have I accomplished?

I scowl. "Why is it ringing at," I check my phone to ensure my own alarm hasn't mysteriously been turned off, "five in the morning?"

"I have to go to practice... Haven't they told you about morning swim?" he asks, voice dripping with faux concern.

"Practice doesn't start for another hour. It takes fifteen minutes to walk there. How could you possibly need three-quarters of an hour to get ready?" I pick up a pillow and cramp it over my head as Leroy stands and turns on the lights.

"Well, there's this thing called breakfast. I don't know if you've heard of it?"

I hate how lively his voice sounds, how quickly he throws comebacks at me, like this is a tennis match. My brain feels murky and hazy, like wading through water, the nightmare still lurking at the edges.