“It’s one kiss,” Lillian said from my left. “That doesn’t mean sex.”
Talia kicked a little faster on my right, pulling ahead to flash Lillian a sharp side-eye. “When you haven’t had sex in months, yes, kissing does lead to sex.”
“Guys, I haven’t even kissed her yet,” I said, feeling torn between the angel and devil on each side of me.
“And you won’t kiss her tomorrow,” Talia demanded. “Say it out loud.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. I know how your brain works. It wanders and overanalyzes. You want those individual golds, or you want to lose them to Amira Kőszegi again? Because you better believe she isn’t dwelling on that British actress. She’s dwelling on beating you.”
“That’s a low blow,” I said, knowing I needed the tough love.
“It’s the truth,” Talia said. “Now, Lil, stop peer pressuring, or we’ll make you go get groceries that we don’t need.”
Throughout college and Team USA swim camps, in order to fine-tune techniques that extended beyond the water, we’d met with many specialists: nutritionists, physical therapists, weight training coaches, and sports psychologists for mind training. Yes, that last one was a thing and played a huge role in our training. If our bodies were the accelerators, our minds were our brakes. We wouldn’t drive a car if one of them wasn’t working properly. Bad brakes allowed a person to drive out of control, and cars needed something to steady them. During college and training at my club team, we devoted forty-five-minute sessions once a week to learning how to set attainable goals, relaxation and concentration techniques, how to manage our self-talk, and how to use visualization. After my first session my freshman year at Berkeley, I’d wished I had those skills when I was younger. Maybe then I would have calmed my anxiety enough to make it to the London Olympics, medaled in my 400-free, or qualified for the 200-free in Rio.
My anxiety always seemed to get the best of me when it was go time. I couldn’t afford to miss another opportunity to medal because of anxiety or distractions. The swimming season was four years long, and the end goal was the Olympics, our Super Bowl. Swimmers got one week every four years to win gold, the very thing that determined success in the sport—like championship rings, World Cup titles, and green Masters jackets. But unlike most sports, next season was four years away…or never again. If we were talented and lucky, we could squeeze three Olympics into our careers. By the time we hit thirty, we were senior citizens. Tokyo was my only time to shine as bright as I ever could. My next season would be Paris. I’d be twenty-seven years old and past my peak. I’d either still have it, or I’d sink. It wasn’t worth the gamble.
Tokyo was my Olympics, and I couldn’t let anything take away from it.
Since Rio, my mental techniques had become stronger. I saw results in the world championships and Pan Pacific Games. I’d won six golds in the world championships. My path to Tokyo was everything I’d hoped and worked so hard for. I needed to use those same mental techniques with Kennedy. I needed to visualize how the night would go just like I’d been trained to visualize my races. In mental training, visualization enhanced motivation, confidence, and self-efficacy. If I kept visualizing the same scenario, I was more likely to go through with it.
She’d come over, I’d think “holy crap, she’s so beautiful,” we would modestly flirt, have a good time, and then as the night ended, she’d wish me good luck. I’d tell her I was so glad that we’d been able to see each other, and how I wanted to see her when I came to New York for my post-game interviews. The night would end with a hug. Just a hug. As much as I wanted to kiss her, I trusted my gut. I knew how I would spiral if I kissed her. I wanted the Olympic gold more than I’d ever wanted anything.
I had to repeat this visualization over and over so my heart didn’t take control. I’d spent four years crafting my mind and body to be like a tight Jenga set, and here came Kennedy Reed, threatening to pull out one of the bottom blocks.
* * *
The second I saw her standing outside my building the next morning, my chest fell to my stomach. She wore jean shorts that accentuated her sun-kissed sexy legs and a plum tank top that dipped to the top of her breasts. She clutched two iced coffees and flashed me that perfect smile when she extended a cup.
“You’re still allowed to have coffee, right?” she asked.
I accepted it. “If I wasn’t allowed, I would have given up swimming a long time ago.”
“Good. I got you an iced with almond milk because protein, and I’m sure your diet wants that. And I asked for no sugar. Is it close to being right? I can buy you another one if you can’t have it.”
I pulled a sip through the straw and grinned because I thought it was cute how nervous she seemed about giving me anything bad, as if I’d break out in an allergic reaction. “Mmm, it’s delicious, and the order is perfect. Thank you.”
“I’m not sure how to feed an Olympian.”
“We’re basically spending the whole day together, so maybe after today, you’ll know how.”
With our coffees in hand and caffeine running through our veins, we Ubered around the city to take in all the sights San Francisco had to offer. We started at the sharp twists and turns of Lombard Street, then went across the bridge to the hills of Battery Spencer for the perfect view of the Golden Gate Bridge. I volunteered to be her photographer for the perfect Instagram picture. She wanted to visit Alcatraz, but unfortunately, without electric scooters, all the walking and standing would be too much. I offered to buy her lunch to make up for being a really bad tour guide.
We scootered down Fisherman’s Wharf to look at the shops and sea lions and to get some lunch. Since I was used to eating about thirty-five hundred calories a day, by the time we sat down at the restaurant overlooking the bay, my stomach growled at me for not giving it its early afternoon snack.
She didn’t hesitate to order a piña colada and had no remorse for rubbing it in my face as I sipped my lemon water.
“Thanks for this,” she said as she dipped her straw in and out of the frozen drink. “Coming out with me. Enjoying another day together. I couldn’t go back home after seeing you only once.”
I focused on the goal: no distractions. I could already feel my stomach flying to my mouth. The goal was to enjoy the day without dwelling on any regrets that could taint my Olympic goals.
“Yeah, I feel the same way,” I said.
“I can’t believe we’re here together. Thousands of miles from home. Sure, I’m here because of Jacob getting married, but he could have picked any city in the country to work in, could have had his wedding back home, which we’re still surprised he didn’t, but he says California is more scenic and beautiful than New York. It’s crazy that it all sort of fell into place.”
I knew exactly how she felt.
I attempted a joke. “Dinner date every two years?”
“Or you could stay an extra few days during Christmas, so we’d actually have time to see each other.”
“The world champs are right before Christmas, and I planned on taking a month off. I feel like a break is overdue. So that might actually be a possibility. Dinner date then?”