His eyes keep darting to the watch display which shows a time that would have qualified for state championships. Swimming? Desiree answers simply pulling herself from the pool. Coach Phillips steps closer, lowering his voice. These gentlemen are from the Riverdale Athletic Foundation, potential donors.
His eyes narrow. What you just did, that wasn't the technique of someone who's been cut for form issues. No, Desiree agrees. It wasn't. The coach's expression shifts, calculation replacing shock.
Listen, perhaps I was hasty in my assessment. Why don't we discuss your reinstatement? The team could use your talent after all. One of the suited men steps forward, extends a business card. That was extremely impressive, young lady.
Coach Phillips didn't mention your name when discussing the team's top prospects because she's not currently on the team. Phillips interjects quickly. A temporary situation we're resolving. He turns to Desiree, voice dropping to a whisper. We can work this out.
You get back on the team. These gentlemen make their donation. Everyone wins. All you need to do is understand how things work here. Some parents are very invested in their children's positions.
The implication is clear. Return but know your place. Win but not too much. Exist but don't shine. Desiree looks at the coach then at the expensive watch her grandfather entrusted to her.
She thinks of the Instagram posts, the cutout photos, the falsified times, the sacrifices her grandfather made so she could attend this school. I understand exactly how things work here, coach, she says, her voice steady. And I'll be at the Riverdale Invitational next month as an independent qualifier. Philips's face darkens. Don't be stupid.
You need a team behind you. No. Desiree corrects him, gathering her things. I need a fair race just once. As she walks away, she hears one of the donors asking pointed questions about team selection criteria and scholarship aotments.
Small ripples growing larger. The community pool at Dawn Heights Recreation Center has always been Desiree's second home. Unlike Westlakes gleaming facility, it shows its age. Chipped tiles rough against her fingertips during turns. faded lane markers, the peculiar echo that only comes from high ceilings with poor acoustics. But it's here with her grandfather watching from a plastic chair that Desiree truly swims.
Again, Elton says, clicking his stopwatch. Your third turn was a millisecond slow. Desiree pushes off the wall, body cutting through water that feels increasingly like an ally rather than an opponent. Her grandfather's notebook sits open beside him, pages fluttering slightly in the air, current from ancient ceiling fans. "Better," he calls as she completes the set.