The Sea of Light Read Online Free Page B

you—I told you how bad I am now.”
    “Well, let’s just say that right now I’m more concerned with how you feel about it. How do you feel about it?”
    She shrugs stiffly. I remember first seeing her at a senior meet, knowing just by looking that she was one of those kids into whom time and money had obviously been poured. Tall, broad-shouldered, clear-skinned and lean. That meet had been filled with them, a cream-of-the-crop high school gathering cut from the same god/goddess mold. Barefoot, dripping, they couldn’t help but strut. Like greyhounds, they’d been simultaneously pampered and hard-pressed. They knew a lot about goals and discipline and prodigious physical effort. But they moved in a rarefied atmosphere. Trained to excel, but only at certain things. The rest of life sometimes eluded them—or else maybe they were sheltered from it—and, watching, I knew that when the shit really hit the fan many of them would abandon sport altogether.
    She was being touted as the next up-and-coming breaststroker, already an American record holder in one event, heir to someone-or-other’s throne, expected to make the national team that year or the next, go to the Pan Ams, eventually the Olympic Trials. Impressive size, speed, talent. But I remember thinking even then that the girl lacked something. No killer shark instinct. She’d come this far on a gold-platter combo of genetics, practice, obedience. There wasn’t any brute in her—no spark of desperate effort, no trace of need or hunger on her face, in her pose. Too perfect. No hate, no fear. Sans desire. Anyway, she’d already been successfully recruited by Bart Sager at Southern—which was a place flooded with talent, as many qualitative levels above State’s program as the gods in heaven are to folks on earth.
    “Um—”
    Encouragement is needed, Coach. I nod and smile.
    “I don’t know what I care about any more.” The voice sounds cold and detached, which surprises me. “Like I told you, I feel I could at least give it an honest try. But, you know, I don’t think that I’m, like, interested in ranking nationally any more. Or qualifying for the Trials or anything, you know, or the Pan Ams, or like that. I just don’t have the ability or the interest.”
    “What about competing? Are you still interested in that?”
    “I think so. Maybe. I’d just, like—I promise I would do my best.”
    I bend a paper clip out of shape, curl it into a distorted circle and drop it on the desk. Like my insides. Twisted metal. Funny how life follows some blueprint other than your own. The fluid words of Super Coach have deserted me for a moment. I must meet Babe Delgado’s tired eyes with mine.
    “Listen, Babe, I’ll be honest with you too. I’m proud of our program here. I mean my program—credit where credit is due.” Then I can’t help grinning, can’t help being pleased when the girl grins back. “When I came here this school was at the bottom of the division. I told them I could rebuild things, create a good solid program and produce a team that would win for a change. That’s why any coach is hired in the first place. And that’s exactly what I’ve done. It hasn’t been easy, but I’m good at it, and I’m proud of the accomplishment. We’ve been ranked in the top three of this division for the past four years. Last year we missed out on first place by a few points—and that gives me some administrative maneuverability. I recruit better athletes, for one thing. Put yourself in my shoes a minute. You were ranked nationally. Why wouldn’t I want you here, even if you’re not at your best this week or this month or this year? It gives my program prestige. Now, the semester starts in two weeks. I can offer you a free ride. No frills”—I wince at the word, which is McMullen’s, not mine—“but I think you’ll see that the offer is not unreasonable. It certainly won’t hurt your pride.”
    The kid says nothing. This makes me nervous but I