“Yeah.” Dan sniggered at Rob, who was nodding off into a half-eaten pile of chicken carcass.

“I said . . . right, Rangers?”

“Yeah!” It wasn’t much better. It was way too late.

“Okay, thank you. I know we’re all tired, but we’ve done all the work to get us here. These races are a celebration of the training. O’Donnell, put down the goddamn brownies, you’ve had enough. And no smuggling food out of here. This is not a final meal on death row, this is not the Last Supper.”

Moyle belched through a breath and rubbed his stomach. “Okay, get some rest, focus on tomorrow. I know that was a long bus ride, but, gentlemen, I have a good feeling.”

Moyle belched again but tried to disguise it. “Rangers, bring it in. We are going to kick their ass tomorrow! Am I right?”

“Yes!”

“You can do better than that. Are we going to swim hard? Let me hear you say it. Swim hard!”

“Swim hard!”

“C’mon, let me hear it. Central, Strake, Cathedral—these boys are going to eat our wakes. Are we going to kick their asses?”

“Yeah!”

“That’s right, Rangers. Let’s kick some ass. Let’s go!” Moyle pumped his fist and stormed out of the restaurant.

“My asshole may literally fall out of my butt, Coach.”

“Get on the bus, McGhee. And quit bellyaching, all of you.”

The last twelve hours had been rough. Rob took two steps to climb onto the bus and then pushed Dan out of his way as he ran back into the motel looking for a free bathroom. Dan barely noticed. That nasty, greasy enchilada on top of fried chicken, what was I thinking? He hadn’t slept and had been switching off between the sink and toilet with Rob all night.

“Where’s O’Donnell and Dowlearn?”

Dan lowered himself gingerly onto a seat. “Bathroom.”

“Molfetta?”

“Bathroom.”

“Christ.” Moyle steadied himself with a knee on the driver’s seat. Dan lay down in his row. If he stayed very still he might make it back to Dallas. How could there be anything left in my stomach to upset it? he wondered. The night had been sheer intestinal hell. He missed his five hundred qualifier, but Dan was just one of a score of scratches that morning. Drew Radcliffe turned in the only good performance, winning the prelim for the one hundred breaststroke, then vomiting over the lane line. The gun went off for the two hundred IM with Rick still in the bathroom stalls. By midmorning the whole swim team was severely (and ironically) dehydrated. Rob, Sticky, and the other divers were all suffering from hurling bouts of reverse peristalsis. Moyle himself had to coach through the runs, and he couldn’t cobble together a single bowel-continent relay team. The Rangers had to forfeit.