The Swim Coach – Part 1: Lane Four

The pool in Sea Point opened at five-thirty, and by six the only sounds were the slap of water against tiles and the coach's whistle. Thabo had run the early squad for four years. He knew every swimmer's stroke, every bad habit, every excuse for a late start.

He had never once looked twice at the new assistant coach.

Liam arrived in March, a broad-shouldered Irishman with sunburnt shoulders and a laugh that echoed off the high ceiling. He was polite, efficient, and seemed to find everything Thabo said mildly funny. Thabo found that irritating.

"You're in my lane," Thabo said, on the first morning Liam took a stopwatch to the deep end.

"It's the middle lane," said Liam. "It belongs to whoever gets there first."

"It belongs to me. I've been here since five."

"Then you're very early and very sensible," said Liam, grinning, and dived in.

He was fast. Thabo hadn't expected that. Liam swam the length in a clean, powerful crawl, turning with a precision that made the younger swimmers stare. He came up at the far wall, shaking water from his hair, and looked back down the pool with an expression of pure delight.

"Race you," he called.

Thabo's jaw tightened. He dived in.

They raced every morning that week. Thabo won the first two. Liam won the third, by half a body length, and then insisted on a rematch. By the end of the month the squad had started betting on them, and the coffee cart on the promenade was selling extra cups of tea for the spectators.

On a Friday, after the younger swimmers had gone home, Liam found Thabo sitting on the edge of the deep end, legs in the water, staring at the far wall.

"You're sulking," said Liam.

"I'm thinking."

"You're sulking very loudly. I can hear it from the deep end."

Thabo sighed and turned to look at him. Liam was dripping, grinning, his hair plastered to his forehead.

"Can I ask you something?" said Liam.

"Yes."

"Why do you always let me think I've won? Last week, the turn at the wall. You slowed down."

Thabo's face went hot. He looked away.

"Because you're the first person in years who's made me want to race again," he said quietly. "And I didn't know how to say it without sounding like an idiot."

Liam was silent for a long moment. Then he lowered himself onto the edge beside Thabo, close enough that their shoulders touched through the wet cotton of their shirts.

"Then say it," he said softly. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm very bad at leaving pools."

Thabo laughed, short and rough. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Would you come for a swim on Sunday? Not a race. Just the two of us, in the sea at Clifton, with the water cold and nobody counting our strokes?"

Liam's grin was slow and warm. "Yes," he said. "But only if you let me beat you to the rock."

"Deal," said Thabo. "Green?"

"Green," said Liam, and bumped his shoulder gently. "Very green. Now get in the water, Thabo, and let's pretend this is a race."