“And your hips are sinking,” he adds. “Could be mobility. Start hitting the resistance bands, work on ankle flexibility. You want to swim at your full potential? You’ve got to stop muscling through everything and let the water work with you. No slack.”
“I’m not slacking,” I say, maybe too fast.
“I know you’re not,” Voss says evenly. “But you’re still holding back. Get uncomfortable. Push yourself.”
“I will.”
“Good.” He claps my shoulder, and I try not to wince at the sore muscles beneath his hand. “Now, get in the water.”
I do as Coach commands.
The first lap feels like I’m swimming through cement. My strokes are too shallow, my body too tight. I tell myself it’s just the morning stiffness working itself out, but the longer I push through, the more Coach’s pestering nags at me.
I touch the wall and surface, chest heaving.
“Looks a little sloppy, bud,” Hawkins calls from a few lanes over.
“Must be hard watching me swim faster than you all the time,” I shoot back.
“Right. Just fast enough to get bumped again?”
The heat’s already building under my skin. “What’s your fuckin’ problem with me?”
“My problem?” He pushes off the wall, swimming over like he’s got all the time in the world. “You think you’re better than you are.”
“Better than you, for sure.”
His smile disappears. “Yeah? Funny you say that because you’re the one Coach keeps moving around like a spare part.”
I clench my jaw, my hand tightening on the gutter. “Why don’t you line up and we can see who actually belongs here?”
Hawkins lets out a low chuckle, and I’m already mentally prepping for the race. If we do a 100 IM, then it’s an even matchup.
“Easy, boys,” Omar calls from the lane beside us. “You both swim like fish with anxiety disorders. No need to prove it.”
“Whatever you say, Cap,” Hawkins says, voice light but his gaze still sharp. “But if your boy is so solid, why’s he the one Voss keeps second-guessing?”
“Voss is figuring out where I can make the biggest impact,” I interject. “That’s what happens when you’re actually versatile.”
Although I hardly believe it myself, I hold his stare and keep my voice even.
“Yeah,” Hawkins drawls. “Or maybe you’re just not good enough to own your spot.”
I don’t answer. Not because I don’t have a comeback but because the annoyance is already settled in my chest, thick and tight, and I know if I keep talking, I’ll say something I’ll regret.
This is pointless, anyway. I should stick to ignoring my teammates like usual and focus on the only thing I can actually control.
I push off the wall, cutting through the water fast and hard, turning every set into a race against myself. Frustration fuels every stroke, driving my legs harder, keeping my form tight. The burn in my shoulders flares, but I lean into it.
Even if I hate to admit it, Hawkins is right. Coach is right. If I want to qualify for Nationals, I need to stop coasting on what I’m already good at and start grinding where I’m not.
I’m not chasing titles or bragging rights. I don’t care about being the fastest guy in the pool. But if I could hit a B-cut in my 200 free or shave enough time off my 50 to make it count—that sticks. That’s something I can point to and say,I did that.
Now that I’m back in my anchor spot, I’ll be stronger in the relays. My finish in the 200 medley helps, and the 400 free keeps me sharp. But if I can hit the mark on my own, that’s different. That’s mine.
I’ll keep working on backstroke like Coach suggested. I probably won’t race it again this season, but that’s not the point. It’s about pushing myself outside my comfort zone, finding the gaps and filling them.
If I can make it there—if I can push hard enough to earn that spot—maybe it means I haven’t just been treading water this whole time. Maybe it means the early mornings, the late-night lifts, the moments where I thought I couldn’t take another lap actually meant something.
