Spring Splash Denise Weimer
Chapter One A
nna Callaway tugged her swim cap printed with the “G” that represented her university over her hair. Placing her goggles on her forehead, she snapped her headphones back over her ears and clicked on her music to block out the noise, the commotion. The crowd cheering from the stands overlooking the bright blue of the pool receded, bringing a surreal calm. This was her moment. She might have entered this team four years ago as a walk-on, her older scholarship sister’s pity legacy, but this season Anna had earned her rightful place. With the strictness learned from a military father, she’d structured each day of her senior year to maximize sleep, study, and practice. And her hard work had paid off. Last month, in December, she’d swum a national qualifying time in the one hundred fly. Tonight, she’d lower that standard again to claim a spot on the bus to the NCAA Division 1—D1—Championship. Anna closed her eyes, the heat of anticipation burning in her chest and fizzing down into her limbs as she visualized her race. Her lips moved to her favorite pumpup jam. Somebody bumped her. How could she be disgruntled when Jackson Grant stood before her, holding his fist out? Water dripped off his dark hair and ran down his honed shoulders and chest. He’d make Olympic Trials this year in the 200-yard individual medley. The medley, combining back-to-back legs of all four strokes, culled out stroke specialists. She could read his lips as he said, “Fifty.” Anna’s face warmed as she nodded and met his fist with her own. A fiftysecond race would guarantee her a spot on the bus in March. She wouldn’t be left behind again. Not this year. Jackson grinned, and her heart did a little flip-flop unconnected to the preswim butterflies in her stomach. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t fall prey to the star swimmer’s charms like all the other girls, but her mouth rebelled,
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turning up in a smile. One didn’t gaze upon so much male perfection without an emotional response. As Jackson dove into the diving well pool behind them, Anna’s roommate walked by after finishing warming down from winning the 200-yard backstroke. Kristi mouthed the magic number and offered a hug. Thank God for a roommate Anna didn’t have to compete against. When Anna lifted the edge of her ear piece, Kristi’s encouragement could be heard over the music and the bell ringing for the final lap of the five hundred freestyle. “You can do it.” Anna nodded and gave her a thumbs-up. She slid her heavy parka—meant to keep her muscles warm on the pool deck—from her arms to the back of a nearby chair. She adjusted the straps of her suit. She bounced on her toes and shook her arms to keep them loose. The pre-race ritual cued the expected response. It was all she could do not to dive into the pool on the swell of adrenaline. The heat of distance swimmers powered in to punch the touch pads, spraying water over the feet of volunteers holding plungers and back-up stopwatches. Cheers broke out as their times flashed onto the board high on the wall of the natatorium. The announcer called for women’s one hundred fly. She hung her headphones over her parka, and the noise of the meet flooded back in. Red and black flashed in the corner of her eye as her main competitor, Kyla Sommers, jumped up and down and slapped her legs and arms. Don’t look. Focusing on how Kyla’s perfect, lanky swimmer’s body—broad shoulders and narrow hips—towered over her own petite frame always unsettled her. She had to undulate her middle twice as fast as Kyla to stay even. Time after time, Kyla had beaten her, until swimming against Kyla became a predictor of failure. Anna chose not to look over at Coach Black, although she could picture the tall, balding man behind the long coaches’ table, stopwatch at the ready. She also wouldn’t check the stands where she knew her father sat in his stadium chair while her mother stood beside him with her hands clasped under her chin and an expression of tortured hope on her sweet face. Instead, she trained her eyes on the narrow strip of water bounded by red-and-white lane lines. Her path to victory. The triple whistle alerted the heat of eight competitors to step up on the starting blocks. Anna’s heart surged, and blood rushed through her extremities as she tucked the toe of her front foot over the edge and let her arms dangle.
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“Take your mark.” The butterfliers crouched, locking fingers on the front of the blocks. Beep. The familiar sound and strobe flash sent her sailing over the water in a lightning-fast reflex, hands together above her head in perfect streamline. Anna pierced the surface and glided, fast as the dolphin whose tail she emulated with her kick. One, two, three, four, five, and surface with arms straight, rotating forward, but no breath. Not yet. The more she kept her head down, the faster she went. Each breath had to be snatched, almost invisible, to feed her starving muscles and lungs. She worked her core at the quickest possible tempo, only breathing when she was three-quarters down the pool. Anna went into the wall fast and hard, two-hand touching as required and submerging. She used the momentum to initiate more powerful dolphin kicks. When she hit the fifty-yard mark and came up again, a moment of shock caused hope to surge. She was ahead! She’d never won a one hundred fly in college. And she’d certainly never beaten Kyla at anything. Not even in practice. She must be on target for the QT, the qualifying time. She was still leading as she contacted the bulkhead for the final turn. As her ears cleared of water, they filled with the roar of the crowd. Cheering for her. She kicked, the swimmers behind her, every failure falling far behind her, and raised her arms in simultaneous windmill forward. Something gave way in the front of her left shoulder. Burning heat exploded down her arm and into her chest. She stroked down, tried again. But excruciating pain resulted when she raised her arms above her head. Her left arm bent and dragged through the water behind her right. No. She left her heart behind her as the heat of athletes caught up. In a matter of milliseconds, their waves rolled over her. She pushed through the last fifteen yards, trying to motor to the finish using her legs and one arm. The wall looked so far away. Kyla touched first, snatched off her goggles, and turned to the scoreboard. She pumped the air with her fist as Anna finished. Anna hung on the edge of the pool with her right arm, dropping her head as the feet of the timers in her lane rushed for the EMT. Her shoulder throbbed, but nothing hurt worse than the sorrow mushrooming in her chest. Her goggles filled, not with pool water, but with tears.
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A couple days later, Anna circled the parking lot of the facility for families with special needs members. The minute a spot opened, she eased her car into it. Her rearview mirror showed a line of vehicles encircling the two-story brick building behind her as family members dropped off program participants of all ages. The acronym “OCP” crowned the top of the covered entrance. Oconee Champions Program. She didn’t know any of those champions, and she sure didn’t feel like one herself right now. Her heart ached worse than her shoulder, and she drew a quivering breath. She sat there with the engine running, pep talking herself as she often did before a race. “You can do this. It’s going to be fine.” Pressing her shaking hands against her thighs, she met her own green eyes in the mirror and spoke in a firm voice. “They’ll be nice. Just act natural.” Anna froze when she realized a guy sat in his truck beside her, grinning over at her monologue. A very good-looking guy with dimples and laugh lines. Wanting to sink into her floorboard, she frowned at him and stuffed her keys and phone into her bag. A sharp pain pinged through her shoulder. She touched the patch applied by the doctor to conduct electric current to speed the healing process. She needed to be careful, but she couldn’t bring herself to put on the sling they’d given her. Ridiculous, being afraid of standing out in a crowd of special needs people. Anna opened her door into a swirl of cold January wind. She glanced over as she got out. The guy in the truck, whose hair was the same color brown as hers but spiked over his forehead in a contemporary cut, had gone back to typing on his phone. As she walked toward the building, hugging her coat closed, she tried not to stare at anyone. Would they wonder why she entered alone, without a family member or friend like them? Would it show that she possessed absolutely no experience interacting with special needs kids, much less adults? Was that even the correct term? What had her marketing professor been thinking? Dr. Strumm’s reasoning that Anna would be a good match for this project because OCP’s Spring Games included a swimming event faltered in the face of her present reality. Her stomach clenched tighter than the moment before she’d jumped off the university’s high
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dive. Totally out of her depth. She knew it before walking inside OCP’s brandnew building, but with a caving sensation in her chest, she tugged open the door anyway. She paused to crane her neck at an imitation tree that reached to the skylights of the two-story foyer. A huge sign proclaimed the organization’s full name. Gleaming hardwood floors paved the way to classrooms and offices, while metal wall art spelled out inspirational words. Strive. Thrive. Live. Impressive. She’d done enough research to know that OCP here in Oconee County, outside the booming college town of Athens, had grown by leaps and bounds since the new executive director had taken over. The atrium beyond the foyer thronged with people. Anna followed the flow until a young man with almond eyes and full lips stepped into her path. “’Scuze me?” Anna stopped. Uh-oh. Someone had already identified her as a phony. “Yes?” “You s’posed to get a name tag.” The guy, a greeter, she supposed, gestured toward the circular front desk. “Oh. Okay. Thank you.” Anna smiled, sidled over, and picked up a plain name tag and a pen. “No. We type it, and it prints.” Pointing to a printer, the young man bellied up to the counter and then placed his fingers over a keyboard that faced them … one she might have noticed if she hadn’t been so worried about her discomfort. “What’s your name?” “Anna Callaway.” She spelled while the greeter typed in one letter at a time. Anna clasped her hands together so she wouldn’t jump in front of him to enter the name herself. When he finished the laborious process, she released a soft sigh. “What’s your name?” “Sam.” “Nice to meet you, Sam.” Anna looked into Sam’s slightly unfocused eyes and offered her hand, which he shook. His fingers were soft and hot. Then he took her name tag off the printer and handed it to her. She smiled as she placed it on her coat. This wouldn’t be so bad. She could be direct, kind, and patient, and get back quickly to her impossible list of assignments. To Anna’s right, in an area that looked like it could double as a coffee bar, a young woman wearing glasses, her red hair in a ponytail, sorted through folders in a portable box. Aha, someone who could provide directions. She headed for the employee.
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“Excuse me, I’m Anna Callaway. I’m here for my university practicum.” Filing fingers stilling, the woman blinked at her. “Well, at the moment, I’m helping this new family fill out their paperwork, so you’ll need to wait.” “Oh.” A Hispanic couple with a little girl in a wheelchair fixed wide-eyed stares on her from the other end of the employee’s table, and several other people stood behind them. Heat flooded her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was a line. I—I wasn’t sure where to go.” The woman’s mouth pressed flat. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about an internship.” “Practicum.” Anna tucked a long sliver of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be working under Lydia Sharp and Craig Holt, although I don’t think Lydia is supposed to be here tonight. Maybe you could point me to Craig. I think he’s the director of recreational programs?” “He is, but I haven’t seen him yet.” When her skeptical gaze swept Anna’s slacks, preppy shirt, and fitted coat, Anna felt not only overdressed, but like the most horrible person in the world for pressing for directions while making special needs families wait. “You can join everyone in the dining hall for awards. Craig should be here any minute.” “Okay, thank you.” Stepping away, Anna waved as if she knew what that meant. Awards? For what? Wasn’t this a spaghetti dinner for special needs folks and their families? “And your name was …” Why was she asking that? As if she needed to make a connection. “Blossom.” Blossom? Delivered in that deadpan voice? Was that a joke? “B-blossom. Nice to meet you. I’m—” “Anna Callaway.” “Yes. Right.” Ugh. What was she doing? This wouldn’t be the first time Anna’s social anxiety had bumbled into disaster. Nor would it be the last. Stifling a cringe at her own ineptness as she passed through the atrium, Anna shook off her embarrassment in favor of a bright smile. Everyone gathered in the middle of a huge room set with long dining tables and chairs as a peppy young female volunteer made announcements. Anna surveyed faces and bodies of all shapes and sizes, people of all ages, some using wheelchairs or self-soothing gestures to navigate the space, others hard to tell apart from
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their caregivers. Trying to appear the casual observer, she leaned against the doorframe. People assumed college athletes possessed an unlimited quantity of confidence, but that wasn’t always true. She knew what self-assured looked like, and she’d watched her mom and other college girls enough to fake it. But the chaos of a new situation’s sights and sounds often overwhelmed her. If she didn’t force herself to focus, she’d space out. Her old psych professor had called it “introvert hangover.” What was worse, her shoulder ached, creating a vacuum of hurt in Anna’s chest that reminded her of stolen dreams. How could she keep smiling when she just wanted her apartment bedroom with a pillow to hide her tears? In the middle of announcements about a Valentine’s dance, a deep voice boomed out. “Ho, ho, ho!” Had she shifted into an alternate reality? Anna stood straight, looking around. Sure enough, with a pack on his back, Santa shouldered his way from the back door, past squealing kids. After he bumped his ample midsection—comically even bigger than a traditional Santa’s—into the girl making announcements, he dropped the bag and flung his arms open wide. “Hi, there, everyone. Who was nice this Christmas?” A small girl with bangs softening a high forehead and elongated face drew behind her mother. Anna related. “It’s not Christmas.” A boy in a Mickey Mouse t-shirt yelled the comment at Santa, while another one tried to hug the jolly newcomer’s padded belly. He drew back, patting, then hammering, at the suspicious lump under Santa’s belt. Before a wardrobe malfunction could occur, Santa caught the child’s flailing fist in midair. “Young man, you’re going to give me a tummy ache. There now, return to your mommy.” As the child’s apologetic parent took him in hand, St. Nick continued. “Did I hear that it’s awards night here?” “Yeah.” Multiple voices agreed. With what appeared to be genuine concern, the agitated boy in the cartoon shirt tugged at Santa’s elbow. He whispered loudly, urgently. “You’re too late. You missed Christmas. You have to go back to the North Pole.” Santa bent down to look into his face. “Aren’t you honoring the star student for each program from December? Maybe I have something in my bag for those people. Maybe I have something for you.” Eyes rounding, Mickey Mouse boy backed off.
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Maybe these people did deserve awards … awards for being honest about their feelings. They said and did what they felt, contradicting Anna’s years of training. Everything she did, socializing, studying, and swimming, all dictated suppressing, overcoming, her true emotions. Santa addressed his assistant. “Do we have all the program leaders here tonight?” “We do.” The girl handed over the mic she had been using. “Let’s start with the drama department.” Santa scanned the gathering, then stuck the microphone out toward a skinny, college-aged boy. “Nathan, who is our star thespian for December?” The drama volunteer ducked closer and wiggled his fingers in the air like a circus showman announcing the first act. “Santa, our star thespian for December is Mia!” Applause erupted as the crowd urged Mia forward. Santa dug in his pack and came out with a gift card taped to a big yellow star. “Mia, do you like froyo?” The grinning teenage girl’s Afro wobbled as she gave an enthusiastic nod. Santa and his volunteers handed out awards for more programs than Anna could count, from photography to cooking, cheerleading to equestrian. Amazing, the range of skills taught here. The star students weren’t all kids, but participants up to middle age. She paid extra attention when a coach from the OC-Piranhas, the swim team, announced her winner. A young man with Down syndrome named John high-fived Santa as he accepted his star. So many athletic programs! Would all of them send competitors to the Spring Games? Would she need to visit all of their practices? Conduct interviews and record video clips for social media? Anna’s mind spun with ideas. To properly market the Spring Games, OCP needed a full-time employee, not a washed-up athlete saddled with classes, practice, other projects, and now physical therapy. How could she do this? Santa made his chuckling exit, and the crowd began to disperse. Finally. Some people seemed to be leaving, while others gathered in groups at the tables. Large, covered dishes waited at the table at the end of the room, but no one made a move to start serving. Wasn’t anyone in charge? Since the only people wearing name tags appeared to be sharing information with newcomers, she made her way toward the kitchen. She leaned over to ask the women behind the counter if they needed help. At least if they put her to work it might ease her awkwardness. “Thanks, no. We’ve had help all afternoon, so we’re good to go.”
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The lady smiled as she answered, so why did Anna skulk off like a guilty tardy arrival? She edged along the side of the room, nodding and saying hello to people, but it would be weird to break into their conversations with a random introduction. She could give them her name, tell them she was doing a practicum for the university, but then what? And would most of them even know what a practicum was? Her heart sinking inside her, Anna had to get out of the echoing room. She couldn’t have been more relieved when her phone rang as she passed through the atrium. “Kristi. What’s up?” “How did it go?” “I’m still here. They haven’t served dinner yet.” “Really? It’s taking forever. You’re going to be too late to go downtown with us.” Anna pushed through the front doors, welcoming the slap of frigid air on her heated cheeks. Some rather wild things happened when any group of athletes hit downtown Athens, so she usually made an excuse to study. But at least she knew the other swimmers. Unlike anyone here. Maybe she could get out of both obligations and steal some rare alone-time at the Milledge Avenue townhouse she and Kristi shared with two other swimmers. “Just go on without me. I’m not in the mood to party, anyway.” She expected Kristi to quip back by inquiring when she ever was, but thankfully, she merely grunted. She’d been kind and sympathetic about Anna’s injury. “Understandable. A lot of people who got QTs yesterday were raring to celebrate after practice. They’re bound to get pretty obnoxious.” “I can imagine.” Leaning against her cold bumper, Anna pictured the scene that would unfold that night. The girls, including Kyla, would laugh, flirt, and hang all over Jackson and the other fast guys—fast in more ways than one. Even Kristi had qualified for championships in her one hundred backstroke. They all had something to celebrate. All of them but her. Those who hadn’t reached their goals yet would attend either the SEC Conference Championship in mid-February or the Last Chance Meet at the end of the month, where they might yet shave off enough time. Kristi responded to the despair in Anna’s statement. “It’s not all over for you, you know. The doctor said it was just a tiny tear.”
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A tiny tear in the inferior pectoralis major. The doctor had given her a handout so she wouldn’t forget the technical term. As if she could. She’d spent most of the night after her appointment searching the internet. Overtraining had weakened the muscle, he told her, the one that drew her arms in toward her body during the push phase of butterfly. Now, when she tried to raise her arm above her head, only a burning ache and pitiful weakness resulted. “He said I had to stay out of the water for two weeks, and when I go back, only kicking. Even when I can use my arms, no butterfly.” “He had to say that. You know they always give the worst-case prognosis. But I hear of so many people who come back from therapy stronger than before, and that electric current stuff is supposed to work wonders.” “It should, with them shocking me like some Frankenstein every other day.” She rolled her eyes at the indignity, yet the treatment offered her only hope of a speedy recovery. “Sure it will.” Kristi persisted in her optimism. Easy, when it wasn’t her being benched. A tinge of jealousy that Anna didn’t like seared through her. “With that and you getting back in the water, doing kick sets in a couple of weeks, you’ll be ready for the Last Chance Meet. And hey, didn’t you tell me you mostly swam freestyle in high school?” From the echo of speaker phone and Kristi’s relaxed, chatty tone, Anna could picture her roommate putting her hair up, applying mascara to her long lashes as she got ready to go out. She’d be wearing red or royal blue, some color that accented her dark hair and good looks. “That was a long time ago. You know how you get pigeonholed in college. Butterfly is all I’ve competed in. I don’t even remember how to race freestyle.” Maybe she could swim a high school time next month, yes, but not an insanely fast D1 cut. “I’m done.” Tears choked her voice. She couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. Wanted someone to assure her it wasn’t so. “No way, girl.” Anna slunk around to her driver’s side door, but she had to wipe her eyes before she could search for her remote. She didn’t want to argue with Kristi. Kristi wasn’t fake like Kyla. She was just trying to help. Anna would say the same things were the tables reversed … and mean them. Anna was usually the one who had faith, who was always telling others to speak and believe positive things. Hadn’t
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that willpower and hard work finally gotten her where she was, even if she wasn’t the tallest, the fastest, or the most naturally gifted? Well, where she had been … “Thanks.” Anna took a deep breath and shifted the subject off her feelings. “I might come home and tackle my assignments. I have so much to do, and now I’m adding this practicum.” “Does it look as if it will be really time-consuming?” “From the little I saw tonight, yes. It’ll require working on the project several days a week all semester. I haven’t even found the guy I’m supposed to meet. It’s crazy in there. Chaos. I don’t know anyone, and I don’t know anything about special needs people. I don’t care what Dr. Strumm says, this is a terrible idea.” Anna fumbled for her key and unlocked her car with a beep. Someone cleared his throat from the end of her parking spot. She looked up to see Santa standing there, sans bag. How long had he been listening to her conversation? His disguise kept her from reading his expression. Indignant at being observed in her weak moment, Anna drew her brows down. “Can I help you?” “Yes, I could use a helper.” Santa winked. If he expected her to assist him in handing out treats, he’d be sadly disappointed. Resentment carved a sarcastic edge to her tone when she answered. “Sorry, think I left my elf costume at home.” “I don’t mean as Santa. I mean with the rec program.” Santa removed his wig and hat and lowered the fake beard to hang around his neck. Anna beheld the guy who had been sitting in his truck when she pulled in. “I’m Craig. Craig Holt. Someone inside said you were looking for me.”
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