Page 25 of Stroked Hard
I could fire him . . .
The idea of sending the fucker packing appeals to me more than a giant waffle cone with soft serve at the current moment, but then Coach Wilson’s face appears in my head. He told me to stick with Coach Ted, to ride it out, that he would be good for me.
What was Coach Wilson thinking? How could he have possibly thought Coach Ted would be a good match for me?
I exhale hard and fall back into my chair, my legs spread, my head bent forward. “Can I be honest with you?”
“I only expect honesty from you.”
Of course that would be his answer.
“We’ve been clashing for a while—”
“Clashing? Is that how you see it? Because I see it as you treating me with disrespect and questioning my coaching technique every chance you get.”
“I’m not questioning you. When have I ever questioned you? I don’t fucking say a word.”
“It’s not what you say, Hollis, it’s your body language. The way you roll your eyes when you think I’m not looking. Coach Wilson would be so disappointed in you.”
“Don’t,” I yell, losing my control in seconds. Wanting to divert attention away from me, I lower my voice and speak sternly to Coach Ted. “Don’t fucking bring him up. This is about us, not him.”
“But you respected him.”
“Of course I did. He was a second father to me. He knew how to push me without pushing me too hard, something you haven’t learned yet.”
“Excuse me?” Coach Ted’s face turns bright red with anger and I wonder if he might stroke out right about now. His coloring is quite concerning.
“I don’t mean to piss you off.” That’s genuine. The last thing I want is to get in a fight with my coach right before my last chance to get into the finals. I might be the best in the world but I also know what a bad mental game can do to you. “But you have to notice how we clash. You’re tough with your athletes, a bit harsh, unrelenting. I don’t do well with that kind of coaching. You need to let up at some point.”
“Is that what you think makes an Olympic medalist? A coach who lets up?”
“I’m sorry to say, but I won my two golds without you and under Coach Wilson’s tutelage. He wasn’t relentless like you; he knew when to give me a break and when to push me. Right now, I’m so fucking tense with you around me that I can barely focus on mentally prepping myself.”
“So you’re going to blame me for your shortcomings?”
“For fuck’s sake.” I blow out a long breath and run my hands over my face. “Can you fucking listen to me? I’m not blaming you for anything, I just want us to find a happy medium with our relationship.”
“How’s this for a happy medium?” He tosses his clipboard at me. “I quit, you prick.”
Without another word, he vacates the pool area, leaving me coachless, speechless, and so fucking irritated.What the fuck just happened?
Gee, I can’t wait to dive now.
***
One dive left, one chance left to get my score up into the top two so I qualify for the team. The stunned silence of the crowd is obvious every time I pop out from my dive. I’m notthediver today. Everything about me is off. I’m either releasing from my tuck too early, causing my splash to be obnoxious, or I’m not pointing my fucking toes, or I’m breaking form. Mistake after mistake has put me in a close third where normally I would be breaking away from the pack with a lead of at least ten in the scoring.
Not today, I’m clawing my way up the ladder, trying to beat out the new talent who walked in the pool area like little bitches, as if they own the facility.
News flash, fuckers: I’ve won the gold medal in ten-meter platform for the past two Olympics; you have some fucking work to do.
Shit . . . I have some work to do.
My next dive has to be near perfect in order for me to qualify and it’s my hardest.
Needing to get away from the noise and the other divers, I put on my warms-ups, stick my ear buds in, and turn on my music from my phone. Sitting in the hallway near the locker rooms, I try to zone out. The first things I see are a few text messages. All from my sister.
Holly: What the hell is wrong with you today?
