Dan stripped off his sweats down to his blue Speedo, plunged into the deep end, and sank to the bottom of this blue world, letting the chilly chlorination wake him. Dan was the lead on lane three, which was respectable and on the cusp of varsity, which occupied the first two lanes. In pole position was Drew Radcliffe, their freshman sensation. Drew lived between lane markers from an early age and had that delphine build—shoulders like a linebacker, with a narrow waist and giant paddles for feet. He already held Ranger records for everything breaststroke and IM, and was ranked number five U18 in the state of Texas. He was just thirteen.

“We’re doing four one hundred pulls in IM order. On fly I want to see strong rotation, but more important”—Moyle stroked his ribs past his diaphragm like he had indigestion—“I want to see this push here, that’s what starts the next stroke, that’s what moves your ass through the water. Okay on the twenty. Lane one, wake up, pay attention, ready, go.”

Dan pushed off with Rick behind him. Dan wasn’t fast, but he could swim all day and was the only sophomore with a negative split in the five hundred free—which made him a glutton for punishment. As soon as all lanes were off, Coach Moyle disappeared out to his truck, probably for an eye-opener. After the first one hundred IM, he was spied smoking in the fire lane of the parking lot, then using the pay phone in the foyer of the natatorium. After the second IM, senior Ron Fenatacci, who was a bit husky and had the unfortunate nickname of Don Fatuccini, pulled Drew back from lapping the rest of the team and then held the lead swimmers on the other lanes.

“Stop, he’s not counting. Just say we did the four hundred.”

Moyle’s sixth sense kicked in, and he hung up the phone, pulled the elastic around his Kappa track pants, adjusted himself, and came out onto the deck.

“That was fast, Rangers. You guys did the whole four hundred?”

“Yes, sir, Coach.”

“Shut up, Fatuccini—I know when you’re lying.” Moyle didn’t really seem to care as he rubbed bloodshot eyes. “Get off the blocks. We’re doing one-four locos. And I’m timing it. Shit, where’s my stopwatch?” Coach Moyle reached into his back pocket and skidded along the wet tiles. “Goddamn it, first group at the top. I want to see sprinting and then solid turnover. And if we don’t do it right . . .”

There was a banging against the double pane of floor-to-ceiling windows, and the boys popped up in their lanes like curious mermen, pulling goggles back to see. The pounding was followed by a muted “Chriiiisss.” And standing there on the other side of the glass wall of the Hockaday pool was Coach Moyle’s “date” from the previous evening.

“Chriiiisss, what the hell?”