Bridget called to Tad to look after the class. She pulled off her heavy glasses, bane of her life, pulled on her swimming goggles, and strode over to the end of the pool. The goggles didn’t help much with her vision, but she knew this place like the back of her hand, and she could navigate blindfolded.
The man in the lane may have been swimming pretty well, but he wasn’t a racer. There was wasted movement: technique issues she could see even without her glasses.
He was about halfway up the lane, swimming away from her, and she paused, caught her breath and pushed off in her starting dive.
The pool was Bridget’s element. When she was a kid, she had wanted to be a professional hockey player just like her brothers had, but her poor vision messed with her depth perception and limited her ability to play a fast-moving game on the ice. Instead, she’d channeled that drive into swimming, and she’d excelled.
She surfaced, having picked up half the distance the other swimmer had on her. She started her smooth, sure stroke, slicing through the water with precision and power. She was within a couple of body lengths by the time he hit the wall, and she knew she had him.
Recreational swimmers don’t train on turns, and she had.
She came out of her turn another length ahead of him. She could sense he’d become aware that this was a race, and increased the tempo of his strokes, but she made it to the end of the pool with lengths to spare.
She hoped her temper hadn’t led her astray. In her experience, men could get upset if a woman beat them. Her focus was supposed to be on her class, but maybe she’d earned some respect from her students, especially Tony. That should make him willing to listen to her. She wanted to continue with that momentum, so she lifted herself out of the pool, no longer aware of the other swimmer, until he spoke.
“That was impressive. Do you take private students?”
Bridget had pulled off her goggles, and when she turned, the man was a blur. She looked at him fuzzily.
“Sorry, no. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was making a point for my class.” She nodded her head toward the blurs that were her students. Perhaps the hardest part of this job, other than the Weasel, was being nice to members who were not always nice themselves. She added a perfunctory smile. At least he hadn’t pitched a fit about losing to her.
And the rest of the class did go smoothly. Tony was silenced, and the other students were suitably impressed. It wasn’t until all the kids had been returned to the changing rooms that she became aware that the lane swimmer had finished and left. She shrugged. She wasn’t sure if she’d see him again. Her plans for the Weasel included terminating the lane swimming during her class, so she hoped she wouldn’t.
Bridget’s position as swim coach involved being at the club early for morning practice, and again after the kids were done school for fitness training and more practice. Weekends would often involve traveling to swim meets. Since they were in Toronto, the traveling was often just across town, but at times she was gone for entire weekends.
Her hours were irregular, but she loved her job and didn’t mind that her time off was out of sync with most people’s. She was determined to get to the Olympics, this time as a coach. She had a couple of swimmers who had tons of talent, and she found helping them was becoming as fulfilling as racing herself.
She was teaching this swim class in what should have been her free time. She got her charges safely off to the teacher’s aide who was returning them to school, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt to do her own training. One of the perks of the job was using the facilities, and midmorning there was no one using the machines in the weight room. She liked to keep almost as fit as she required her swimmers to be.
After she’d had a shower she would make another attempt to track down Wally.
* * *
SHE DIDN’T FIND him until just before her afternoon practice. When she appeared in his doorway, he flinched.
“Hello, Wall-ter,” Bridget corrected herself. He insisted on being called by his full name, and Bridget was sure it wouldn’t be wise to let him know her nickname for him. He’d freak out over Wally, let alone Weasel.
“I don’t know why you have so much trouble with my name,” he responded peevishly.
Bridget ignored his comment. “I’ve got a question for you.”
“I’m very busy.”
“Oh, this will take only a moment. You see, the pool is booked at nine for a class I’m teaching, but somehow there was a lane swimmer there this morning.”
Wally shuffled some stuff around his desk. “Yes, well, it’s like this...the management committee asked if I could make that arrangement for this new, ah, associate member.”
Associate member? Bridget thought. That was a new one. But if the request came from the management committee...
“Perhaps you could have notified me?” she asked.
“Ah, sorry, I thought I had.” They both knew better.
“Are you expecting any more ‘associate members’ to be wanting the pool at nine a.m.? Maybe enough to take up the entire pool?” Nine had been chosen specifically because it was after the morning swim training and lap swims for those going to work or school, and before the water aerobics classes began. It was the quietest time in the pool, except after closing.
Nobody was being put out by her beginner class, except Wally, who didn’t like having these “freeloader” kids in his precious club. He was more concerned about maintaining the club’s reputation than any of the members were.
Bridget and Wally were at cross-purposes in respect to this class.
Wally seemed to be enjoying a little joke. “No, I don’t think we’ll have any other members like him.”
“If any others should come up, please let me know and make sure I actually respond. Otherwise...” Bridget left the threat hanging, partly because she wasn’t sure just what she’d do, and partly so that Wally could imagine the worst.
Bridget headed out to change for her afternoon coaching. There was something funny about this, but she had places to be, and couldn’t take the time to shake Wally down any further.
* * *
SOMETHING WASN’T QUITE RIGHT. Mike was sure of it. He’d done his second morning lane swim, and the instructor who’d raced him the first day was there with her class. She hadn’t raced him this morning. Instead, she had ignored him. He was getting the feeling that she wasn’t happy with him being there.
He’d been getting that feeling a lot in Toronto.
Hockey fans weren’t happy with him, and he couldn’t blame them. He was one of the best-paid goalies in the league, and when he arrived last spring he was supposed to make the team better. Instead, he’d played badly; as badly as he’d ever played as a professional.
Although Mike hadn’t been thrilled at the trade to Toronto, he had pride, and he was not happy with his performance. He hoped that he could bring the fans around by playing up to his level this year, but training camp had just begun. His time to prove himself hadn’t arrived, so he was still living with last year’s reputation.
The hockey team wasn’t happy with him, either. After a “prank” had damaged his watch while he was swimming laps at the team facility, he’d come up with this alternative. Swim here first, then practice with the team.
The athletic club management committee had been welcoming, and the club manager almost too welcoming, but now that he was here, he realized something was going on. So after he’d showered and dressed, he stopped by the office of the club manager, “Call me Walter,” to check.
Mike knocked on the door frame.
He thought he saw a wary look on the manager that was replaced by a worried one once Walter recognized