Out for the Holidays and Out for Gold (Out in College 8.5)

Out for Gold

1

Gabe

“Success usually comes to those who are too busy to be looking for it.”—Henry David Thoreau

The sharp scream of a whistle cut through the early morning air like a siren, signaling a drill change. A handful of water polo balls were caught before they touched the surface. A few splashed wildly, sending a spray of water across the pool deck. The remaining balls were simultaneously aimed at the goalie, who managed to stop one. A hoot of laughter and good-natured razzing broke out as balls came flying out of the net. One of them landed on the opposite end of the Olympic-size pool. Impressive.

Another whistle blew, followed by a grumbly, “Playtime is over, boys. Get your asses in gear. You’re not in fuckin’ high school.”

I swam into position, then shifted onto my back with my right arm raised. “Pass the ball, Crowley.”

I frowned when he beaned the ball at a teammate and cackled instead. Kids these days. Am I right?

My twenty-year-old drill partner was a water polo superstar from Stanford University. Dane Crowley was a six-foot-six Nordic-looking athlete with broad shoulders, sun-kissed skin, a mop of bleach-blond hair, and brilliant blue eyes. He was a right-wing driver like me, with a strong arm and lightning-quick reflexes.

Unlike me, he was erratic and had a tendency to let emotion guide his play. Sometimes that worked in his favor, but lately, it had landed him in foul trouble too often. Being paired with an old dude was supposed to help him see the error of his ways.

That’s right, folks. At twenty-six, I was one of the old guys on the national team. And sadly, this was probably my last shot at my dream.

The Olympics had been postponed for a year, which meant half the team had been waiting for five years instead of four for a chance to win a spot on the squad going to Tokyo in July. It had been a harsh setback for everyone, but we were almost there. Only a handful of the men in this pool would be chosen for the final team. We’d find out who was going next month.

In the meantime, we worked our asses off and made ourselves as invaluable as possible. If that meant mentoring dorks like Crowley, so be it.

Not to brag, but I was a pretty good mentor. I’d coached a few club teams and had been an assistant to my old coach at Long Beach State for the past couple of years. I dealt with testosterone-laden lug heads who looked like full-grown men but acted like children every damn day.

That didn’t mean I wanted to become anyone’s surrogate big brother. Especially not Crowley’s. Don’t get me wrong. I liked him fine, but he was…annoying.

And right on cue, the ball I’d been waiting for landed with a violent splash in front of my face. Fucking Crowley.

“Sorry, Gabe.” He swam toward me, flashing his signature goofy grin. He stopped a few yards away and gestured for me to pass it to him.

So I did.

I put a little more oomph into the motion than necessary, cocking my right elbow back, then launching it like a grenade.

Big mistake. A zing of pain shot through my shoulder and reverberated down my arm.

I frowned, pausing to shake my arm out. It was probably just a muscle cramp. Irritating, but normal. I circled my shoulder in its socket and almost got nailed with another errant throw.

“Heads up, buttercup,” he yelled, laughing like a loon.

I flipped him off and growled at him to focus. I gave myself the same advice along with a reminder to ice up when I got home.

Four hours later, my shoulder was still bugging me. I grabbed a fresh ice pack from the freezer, tucked it inside a wrap, and oh so carefully slung it over my aching shoulder. I winced as I fastened the Velcro, then took a deep breath.

This was just a little tendonitis. Not a big deal. Been there, done that. “Chill, Gabe,” I mumbled to myself.

Pep talk complete, I started for the living room, hoping to find some distraction on TV. I sat on the edge of the sectional and reached for the remote just as my cell buzzed. I glanced at the caller ID and froze, my heart thudding with dread.

Fuck.

I knew the drill. If I didn’t answer now, I’d still have to deal with him later. Might as well get it over with.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Gabe! How’s our future Olympic hero?”

Now that wasn’t as straightforward a question as it seemed. The phrase of significance was “Olympic hero.” The harsh reality was that my father was concerned about my personal well-being only as it applied to my ability to qualify for the Olympics…and score a zillion points once I got there. He wanted me to be the hero he hadn’t been. He wanted to live his dream through me.