Swimming Upstream: Love is a Triathlon, #1

By Chrissy Q Martin

One girl. Two boys. Three trimesters of school. Who will win?

 

I'm not looking for love my senior year. I'm focused on graduating valedictorian and defending my state swimming title. I can't afford to have a crush on my classmate, Paul, or to give in to the charms of my rival's older brother, Dylan.

 

Dylan is the hot swimmer all the girls are after and he's not focused on anything, but then he looks my way. I'm the last girl he would ever pay attention to, and he's the only guy I shouldn't fall for. But then he asks me out. Will he be the distraction I need from my performance anxiety or will he be too good to be true?

 

Dive into the first book of the Love is a Triathlon series and swim along with Ash during the first trimester of her senior year. Swimming Upstream is a sweet sports romance with swoon-worthy young adult characters. Grab your copy and float along with the beginning of Ash's story as she dips into dating, first kisses, and first love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swimmer Girl Books
• Release date: Mar 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224045044

Book preview

Swimming Upstream

Love is a Triathlon Book 1

Chrissy Q Martin

Swimmer Girl Books

Copyright © 2020 by Chrissy Q Martin

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact Swimmer Girl Books or [e-mail].

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by 100Covers.com

Formatted with Atticus

ISBN: 978-7354527-0-8 (paperback)

Contents

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

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Acknowledgments

Also By Chrissy Q Martin

About the Author

For Christy & Sol

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My book baby godmothers

ONE

The gray t-shirt I pull over my head engulfs my body, and I want to cower in it and hide. I loathe this locker room with its chipped purple lockers and wood benches likely to give you a splinter. It smells of hair products, perfume, and flowery deodorant. The sounds of high-pitched giggles and obnoxious chit chat echo through the room. In every open space there are girls fixing their hair, girls reapplying makeup, and girls changing into yoga clothes. Their sports bras and tiny spandex bottoms, which would never pass dress code, seem to be acceptable for a PE yoga class.

Every senior is required to take one trimester of a physical education class to graduate. Many of the senior girls take yoga, because if you show up you get an A. It seems most of the popular seniors registered for yoga. Lucky me. I get to share a locker room with them. How is it the popular crowd always ends up in classes together and I rarely get one class with a friend?

Amid the popular clique, I’m uncomfortable and unseen. In the same locker bay as them, I huddle in the corner. I straighten my too large t-shirt and shove my stuff in a locker.

I ate way too much for lunch. Caitlyn runs her fingers through her enviable long blonde hair. I look bloated in this outfit.

Caitlyn doesn’t look bloated, and in my opinion, she could eat a second lunch and still look incredible. Everyone knows she’ll be voted homecoming queen this year.

No, Lark, another uber popular girl, says. You look amazing.

Faced away from the popular girls, I roll my eyes and clasp my lock. These girls don’t know what letter my name starts with, and yet I know all of them. My palms are clammy from nerves because of the gym class I’m about to attend, but a class with this crowd would give me a panic attack. I tiptoe my way around the popular set, like a mouse skittering past a cat. The locker room door squeaks open with my push and I exhale in relief. The hallway is deserted and quiet, just how I like it, a far cry from the bustling madness between class periods. The silence is blissful, and I stare at the bright green door in front of me. It’s a doorway to my future and a path to help me improve. It doesn’t matter if I’m the only girl.

After a few seconds of hesitation, I shove through the door. A wave of humidity washes over me and my nostrils are assailed with the stench of sweat, body odor, and probably lingering mold. The putrid smell nearly causes me to gag. I breathe through my mouth to avoid the unpleasant aroma and scan the area.

The school weight room is already crowded with guys. They enter through a door leading to the boys’ locker room. Golden Valley High was built in the sexist years when weightlifting was a male dominated activity. You’d think we still separate genders since I’m the only female here. Why don’t any of the females who CrossFit and weight train attend my school?

I gravitate to the back corner and hug the wall. This is an inconspicuous place to stand and with darting eyes I observe my surroundings. There are a few recognizable guys from the football team. One football player, sporting a sweat band from the eighties, bench presses and another spots him. Other guys curl free weights or do squats with dumbbells equal to my weight. Everyone seems to know what to do, except me. I shuffle on my feet, cross my arms over my chest, and remind myself why I signed up for this class. I’m here to get stronger and improve my swimming.

This past summer I attended a swim camp at the State University, and the swim coach devised a weight training plan to help me build muscle and drop time this season. My focus this year is to improve my swimming and maintain my straight A’s. There isn’t room for anything else.

You! A deep voice startles me out of my inner thoughts. What are you doing here? Yoga is upstairs.

My head jerks away from the benching football players to see who’s speaking. Mr. Micah, the head trainer and a physical education teacher, points at me. My cheeks feel warm as boys’ heads turn my direction. It’s like I’ve descended into a sacred temple where females aren’t allowed. Mr. Micah’s eyes narrow and he walks my way with short, purposeful strides. He may lack height, but he makes up for it in muscle size. His biceps are larger than my thighs.

Saliva builds up in the back of my throat and I swallow hard. I’m Ash Stampford. I signed up for weight training. I bump into the wall when I take an uncertain step back.

Are you sure? Mr. Micah looks up at me, the top of his buzz cut at my nose. A frown coats his face. I don’t get many females in this class during first trimester. You’d better not be here…

He leaves the sentence hanging and my shoulders hunch. My mind and everyone else’s fill in the blank. Some of the guys nearby try not to snicker. Others don’t even hide it and they laugh out loud. My lips quiver while I dig my fingernails into my palms.

I signed up for weight training. My voice cracks. To help my swimming.

Mr. Micah eyes me as if it’s the silliest statement he’s ever heard.

Ash is the best swimmer in the school, a male voice says.

Grateful, even though I’m not the best, I look for the owner of the familiar voice. Across the room, a slender guy with broad shoulders steps out from behind a weight machine. He’s built like a distance swimmer, long and lean. Relieved, I smile at Paul, a senior on the guys’ swim team. We swam together on the club team when we were younger. Now we swim during different seasons. High school girls’ swimming is a fall sport and guys’ swimming is a winter sport in Minnesota.

Mr. Micah gazes at Paul for a moment before he turns back to me. He bites the end of his pencil and looks at the worn clipboard in his hand. Ashley Stampford?

Yes, I reply, but I go by Ash. Having someone call me Ashley is like hearing a foreign language. It doesn’t always register with me.

Paul nods once at me and Mr. Micah uses his pencil to check something on his clipboard. Reassured, I smile back.

Oh, Mr. Micah says, recognition in his voice. I remember you. Strained your groin muscle a couple of years ago.

Snickers of laughter erupt because Mr. Micah said groin in front of a bunch of jocks. Are we in middle school or something? My face blazes with heat and I lower my eyes to the sweat stained rubber pads on the floor.

Most people forget me. I wish he had too. As head trainer, Mr. Micah gave me physical therapy exercises nearly two years ago when I strained my adductor or groin muscle overdoing the breaststroke kick.

Ash is defending state champ in the 100-yard breaststroke, Paul says over the laughter.

Some of the football players stop laughing and nod, like I have street cred with them since I’m a state champion. Being the state champion football team is a big deal in our football crazed state, and our school’s team attempts it every year. I’m already a champion, though it’s in swimming, which isn’t quite as notable a sport as football.

People think she’s going to break the state record this year, Paul continues.

My lips twitch into a tense smile and my arms tighten over my chest. I hold three school records and I’m expected to break those. I’m defending state champ and expected to win again. It’s a lot to live up to. I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I don’t live up to it, and that’s why this class is important to me.

I expect you to work hard, Mr. Micah says. This class isn’t an easy A like yoga. There needs to be improvement and you need to be safe.

My head nods like a bobblehead. I’m eager to move on to the next thing and get the attention off me.

Mr. Micah reads the roll call and I’m the only girl. Put me in a room of boys and I act like I would in a room of space aliens, awkward and freaked out. I couldn’t convince any girls on the swim team to join me. My best friend, Nora, signed up for the class, but changed her schedule at the last minute. Most of the guys in the class are juniors and seniors on the varsity football team. There are a couple cross-country runners and, of course, Paul. Mr. Micah lets the football players continue, since they use the weight room often. A couple of the other guys and I must be trained before Mr. Micah will let us workout alone.

Mr. Micah demonstrates the weight machines. I suppose you’ll be using only the machines, he says to me.

I flinch. People always incorrectly judge me. Some machines, but I also would like to use free weights. There’s a small waver in my voice, but it doesn’t crack this time. I have a training plan from a coach I would like to follow.

You’ll need a spotter to use the free weights and I’ll need to see this training plan. Mr. Micah clears his throat. He sounds resistant to having a female in his weight room, or it makes him nervous. It goes both ways because he makes me nervous.

I can be her spotter, Paul says. We have the same swim coach, so you know, we might be doing some of the same things.

I don’t know if she’ll be able to spot you. Mr. Micah eyes me. My large t-shirt hides me well.

It’ll be fine, Paul says. She’s stronger than she looks. He winks at me.

Oh my. This would be a good time to crawl into my shirt and die of embarrassment because I’m flattered.

The football players clank their weights and grunt while the small group of students who haven’t been trained trail Mr. Micah. My focus is half on Mr. Micah’s directions, the rest is elsewhere. Paul stands on the opposite side of the group. His attention is on Mr. Micah, but I see him glance my way now and then. When he catches my eye, we both look away. It’s odd Paul isn’t taking this class during his swim season, but I’m glad he’s here. Paul is pretty much the definition of an all-around nice guy. He’s smart, popular, athletic, kind, and even...I’ll admit it…he’s cute, in a kind of subtle way.

When class is over, the guys file through their convenient door. The hallway is still empty after I exit the weight room, and I pause at the girls’ locker room door to wipe my damp palms on my shirt. I’m going to have to remember to leave an extra strength antiperspirant in my gym bag.

The girls’ locker room is an alternate universe to the weight room. When I enter, it’s already full of yoga participants. They get out of class earlier to have adequate time to get ready before sixth period. A crowd of half-naked girls stands between me and my corner locker. It was a lapse in judgment when I didn’t take a locker by the aisle.

Excuse me. I try to edge around Lark. She stands in a purple sports bra and talks to the girl next to her. Lark is the textbook epitome of a pretty popular high school girl. Lark’s boyfriend, Will, is in my weight training class. They’re perpetuating the never-ending cycle of varsity football captain dates the varsity cheerleading captain.

Excuse me. I try again and brush by Lark. I hate knowing so much about her and she’s never talked to me.

Caitlyn stands in my path next with unblinking blue eyes boring into me. Her manicured hands are on her hips and attitude oozes off her like lava out of a volcano. You weren’t in yoga. Were you skipping or something?

My body pitches to a stop. Having a run in with the mean popular girl on the first day of school is not in my plan. No, I’m not taking yoga. I’m in weight training.

The corner of the locker room goes silent, and all eyes flash to me. The profuse sweating of my armpits makes a rapid return.

With all the guys? There’s a slight sneer in Caitlyn’s voice. I can’t tell if she’s in awe or if she’s repulsed.

Self-consciously, I run my hand along the ponytail holding my short wavy brown hair. Um, yeah, I say. Can I get to my locker, please?

Caitlyn steps aside, a malicious look on her face. My back to the popular crowd of girls, I twist the combination on my lock. The locker opens under my force and I pull out my school clothes. Without exposing myself, I change. I leave my sports bra on and throw my regular t-shirt over it. My shorts come off and my jeans go on. I tie my shoes fast and shove everything in my gym bag. Once again, I hurry through girls applying lip gloss, girls fixing their hair, and girls adjusting their boobs in their bras.

Caitlyn runs her hands down her sides and pulls her shirt tight across her curvy torso when I push past. With those big shoulders and no boobs, she probably fits right in with that class.

I pretend I don’t hear, but I cringe when the other girls laugh. A hot sting forms in the corner of my eyes and the back of my nose. Tears form and I blink them back. My mind needs to focus on what’s important. Swimming and school.

TWO

Later, after the dismissal bell, I stand at my open locker. Caitlyn’s words ring in my head as much as the noise in the hall rings in my ears. Lockers bang, feet squeak on the floor, and students yell. It’s the end of the first day commotion. My head is in turmoil with negative thoughts that refuse to be pushed out, no matter how hard I try.

Ash! Nora’s bright voice carries down the hall. She seems to bound my way, an effervescent bubble to my flat soda. Nora reminds me of Tigger, always happy and bouncy. Her red curls even bounce up and down like Tigger’s tail. I’m Piglet when I aspire to be Winnie-the-Pooh. Right now, I want to hide in a hole like Piglet.

It’s like I haven’t seen you in forever. Nora grasps me in a hug.

It’s been a long day without my best friend. We don’t even have lunch together. We only have Advanced Placement English first hour.

Nora pushes a pair of sunglasses on the top of her curly red hair and squints her eyes while I place book after book in my backpack. You do know it’s the first day of school. You really shouldn’t have that much homework.

Well, you know me, I say with a small laugh. I like to be prepared.

Nora shakes her head reprovingly. Someday you’re going to blow a gasket. You need to live a little, let loose.

I am living. I zip my backpack. This is me.

I know, I know. Nora knows me better than anyone. We’ve been friends since we met in English first period our freshman year. We’ve come full-circle and have English first period our senior year.

This is for you. I hand Nora a tiny giftbag.

She squeals in delight and pulls a small gift-wrapped item out of her school bag and hands it to me. Open it! Nora commands with a toothy smile. It’s our tradition to give each other gifts on the first day of school.

Unable to wait, I rip through the paper. A blue Converse sneaker keychain emerges from the wrapping. It’s perfect! I give Nora another hug.

Nora digs through tissue paper to find her favorite lip-gloss. Thanks! I’m almost out.

Because you put it on about ten times a day, I say.

Nora opens the lip-gloss and nudges me aside to peek at my locker mirror. She applies the semi-nude gloss and smacks her lips. Nora and I are both fairly short, but I’m a tad on the skinny side, and she’s perfectly proportioned and padded. Nora’s got the cute and quirky look, while I only want to blend into the background. With a serious flair for fashion, Nora’s a front runner for best dressed in the senior class. Today Nora looks like she’s having her senior portraits taken. She’s wearing skinny jeans, a frilly cream-colored top with a statement necklace, and a pair of brown ankle booties. I’m in my typical uniform of jeggings, a t-shirt, and a pair of Converse shoes. My one fashion hoard is Converse shoes. I have about twenty pairs.

Everything okay? Nora stares at me. I wind the tiny shoe keychain on to my keys with a pensive look. I’m grateful for how well Nora knows me, but sometimes I wonder why we’re best friends when we’re exact opposites. Nora’s an extrovert, and I’m an introvert. She’ll talk to anybody, and I’ll look for the nearest corner or exit. Nora is into fashion, and I’m not. Nora dates and I don’t. She’s bubbly, and I’m flat (in more than one way). Nora is carefree, and I worry about things.

It’s nothing. My voice is monotone. I know I shouldn’t let Caitlyn’s words bother me, but I can’t help it.

Nora’s brows crease. You sure?

My fingers tremble the slightest bit as I close my locker. Umhmm. Nora and I are like a sweet and salty snack. Our differences make us complement each other. As far as similarities, we’re both fiercely loyal and compassionate.

Nora puts a hand on my arm. Ash, if…

Ash! A scrawny boy with a high-pitched voice runs at us. Ash, please give me a ride.

I eye my brother, Jacob. His dark hair points in every direction and a backpack hangs limp on his back. It’s the first day of his freshman year.

Jacob, you’d better go catch the bus before you miss it, I scold while I shoulder my heavy backpack.

Oh, come on. Please give me a ride home. Jacob presses his lips together.

I make a face at my brother. I have practice.

Jacob turns to Nora. Nora. He uses a fake charming voice and bats his long eyelashes, which makes me roll my eyes. Give your best friend’s little bro a ride.

Nora smiles at Jacob, but I interrupt before she can answer. Don’t give the little sweet talker anything. He needs to ride the bus, just like I did when I was a freshman.

Aw, come on, that’s not fair, Jacob whines.

When swim season is done, you can have a ride home, I tell him. Maybe.

This is so unfair.

Better not miss the bus. I raise my eyebrows at my stubborn brother and point down the hallway.

Finally, he huffs and takes off. His empty backpack bounces on his back while he runs down the hall.

You know, I don’t mind giving him a ride. Nora watches Jacob run off. Nora is the youngest of five sisters, and she views Jacob as a pseudo younger brother.

No, I say. You don’t need to do that. The kid can take the bus for a few months. It won’t kill him. Jacob will cement cool status if a senior gives him a ride home. I don’t want to think about the gloating he will do if Nora gives him a ride.

Practice? Nora leans against the lockers next to mine.

Yep, I reply. Work?

Always. Nora works at the mall, in the juniors’ clothing section of a department store, mostly for the discount. During the summer and when I’m not swimming competitively, I work as a lifeguard and swim instructor. There’s no time for work or distraction during swim season. Staying focused on swimming and leaving time to keep my grades up is enough. I’m tied with three other seniors for valedictorian.

I’ll give you a call when I get home from practice. I adjust the backpack on my shoulders.

Everything going okay at practice? Nora eyes me with concern again.

I guess. A sigh escapes me.

Okay. Nora doesn’t sound convinced. You deserve to be captain. You’ve worked hard and care about everyone on the team.

Sure. I don’t sound convincing.

They’re just jealous, Nora says.

My hands fidget with the straps of my backpack and I frown. Sure.

THREE

After saying goodbye to Nora, I walk to the Natatorium on the other side of the building. I spend a lot of my time in the pool and it’s my favorite place in the school. I love the warmth, the water, the scent of chlorine, and the familiar pool locker room.

When I walk in, I’m greeted with silence. There isn’t the usual bustling of forty girls getting ready to swim. I peer down each locker bay and walk to the