At 14, it was hard to tell if the queasy feeling I felt around Coach Matt was because of my crush on him, or if it was because of some of the odd things he did. A college student hired to coach our summer swim team, Coach Matt had us crouch on a starting block while he held a kickboard in his hands. If we didn’t dive in the water during the space between him yelling, “Take your marks” and “Go!” he’d swing the kickboard across our backsides.
This never happened to me, but it hadn’t seemed like a big deal.
One day, Coach Matt shouted a pre-swimming warm-up that would take place on land. He told us to find a partner for sit-ups. I stood there as everyone paired off, and then Coach Matt directed me to sit with him. “Let’s go,” he said, motioning at the deck.
I paused. He’d never coupled with any of the other swimmers. I eased onto the warm tile. I wasn’t sure where to direct my gaze. The air from the vent beat down on me in my practice suit as Coach Matt held my ankles, the band from his Swatch flicking my foot. I felt older. I’d had my period that day and worried the string of my tampon might be visible. “We’ll do as many as we can in a minute,” he announced to everyone. He checked his watch. “Go!”
