Rivals: A Locker Room Confession

I've hated David Chen since the first day of freshman orientation.

That's what I told myself, anyway. Four years of college swimming, and we'd been neck and neck the entire time. Same events, the 200 freestyle, the 400 IM. Same times, within tenths of seconds of each other. Every meet came down to the two of us, every race a war for hundredths of a second and conference records.

My name is Marcus Williams. I'm a senior at State, captain of the swim team, and I've spent four years convincing myself that the way I feel when I look at David Chen is hatred.

It's not hatred. I've known that for a while now. But admitting it, to him, to myself, to anyone, would mean facing something I've been running from since I was fifteen.

Today is the last race of my college career. Conference championships, 200 free, the event where David and I have split victories two years each. Winner takes the title. Winner takes everything.

And after tonight, I'll never have to see him again.

That should feel like relief. It feels like something else entirely.

The locker room is chaos before a finals session. Athletes everywhere, coaches yelling last-minute instructions, the thick smell of chlorine and nervous sweat. I'm doing my pre-race routine, stretching, visualization, the mental preparation that's gotten me through a hundred competitions.

David walks past me without a word. We don't talk before races. Never have. It's an unspoken agreement: save it for the water.

But today he pauses. Looks at me with those dark eyes I've memorized without meaning to.

"Last one, Williams."

"Yeah."

"Make it count."

He walks away before I can respond. I watch him go, the way he moves, all controlled power and perfect form even on land. I've watched him for four years. Studied his technique, analyzed his races, tried to find the weakness that would let me beat him consistently.

There is no weakness. He's as good as I am. Maybe better.

And in two hours, it'll all be over.

The race is everything I expected and nothing I was prepared for.

We're side by side the whole way. Turn for turn, stroke for stroke. I can feel him next to me in the water, can sense his presence without seeing him. Four years of this, pushing each other, driving each other, being the best because we refused to let the other win.

The final fifty meters, I give everything I have. Lungs burning, muscles screaming, vision narrowing to nothing but the wall ahead. I touch and come up gasping, searching for the scoreboard.

LANE 4: CHEN - 1:42.57
LANE 5: WILLIAMS - 1:42.58

One hundredth of a second. One goddamn hundredth of a second.

David is next to me in the water, breathing hard, and when our eyes meet there's something in his expression I've never seen before. Not triumph, though he just won. Something softer. Something almost like relief.

"Hell of a race, Marcus."

First time he's ever called me by my first name.

"Yeah. Hell of a race."

The medal ceremony is a blur. Gold around his neck, silver around mine. Photos, congratulations, coaches saying things I don't hear. All I can think about is that it's over. Four years of rivalry, four years of whatever this tension between us is, and now it's done.

I should feel closure. I feel empty.

The team party is in full swing by the time I escape. I'm not in the mood for celebration, second place never sits well, no matter how close the race was. Instead I find myself walking back toward the natatorium, empty now, the pool dark and still.

I'm not surprised to find David there. He's sitting on the bleachers, still in his team sweats, staring at the water.

"Shouldn't you be celebrating?"

He looks up. "Shouldn't you?"