A Matter of Heart

By Amy Fellner Dominy

“Will make your heart pound—anxiously, joyfully, triumphantly.” —New York Times bestselling author Lauren Myracle

Readers will happily dive into this emotionally grounded, contemporary young adult novel about the sudden end of one girl’s Olympic swimming dreams and the struggles she endures before realizing there are many things that express who we are.

Sixteen-year-old Abby Lipman is on track to win the state swim championships and qualify for the Olympic trials when a fainting incident at a swim meet leads to the diagnosis of a deadly heart condition. Now Abby is forced to discover who she is without the one thing that’s defined her entire life.

“More than a sports novel, this book delves deep into issues of identity—how we identify ourselves separately from what we do well—and the importance of support systems while making life-altering decisions. Give this to fans of Catherine Gilbert Murdock’s Dairy Queen series.” —School Library Journal

“This engaging and fast-paced read expertly paints the world of high-school sports and the single-minded focus and commitment that some high-school athletes can have.” —Booklist

“This is a solid look at an elite athlete who gets benched. . . . An enjoyable read even for couch potatoes.” —Kirkus Reviews

1
I can’t breathe.
There’s no time.
All around the pool, coaches yell and pace along the edge as if that’ll make us swim faster. Parents shout out names. I don’t hear which ones. In the water, it’s a different kind of sound. The whoosh and thrum of the surface breaking over my cap. The churn of arms and the fizz of an exhale. The chant of pull, pull that I repeat in time with the bmm bmm of my heart.
Mostly, I just hear the scream of my burning lungs.
I don’t listen.
In the last leg of a 100 free, there’s no time for breathing. Not if you want to win.
Pull, pull.
Twenty-five yards left. That’s it. Almost in reach. Everything I want is almost within reach.
Pull, pull.
Through the bubbles and froth I glimpse the rising beauty of the wall. I’m not breathing. Just pushing. Reaching.
Pull, pull--
My arm stretches, my fingertips search for the pebbly surface. There!
Yes!
I explode out of the water, my mouth wide as I gasp, dragging air into my clenched lungs.
I grab hold of the wall and turn toward the scoreboard. I rip off my goggles. My eyes, blurred and achy, stare. There’s my name: A. Lipman, lane 4. Was it enough? Was I enough?
“Nice finish, Lipman!” It’s Coach somewhere behind me, moving down the lanes. I hear him call to Alicia, another Horizon swimmer, in lane 6.
I drink the air and will the scoreboard to show the results I want. It took so much to get here. Months of two-a-day practices. Of pushing myself so hard there were mornings I couldn’t lift my arms to wash my hair. All of it for one moment in time--literally. Fifty-eight seconds. Maybe fifty-seven.
The board flashes red. Times appear, along with finishing places.
Yes! First place, a school record, and my personal best--57:56. Olympic qualifying time will be around 57:19.
My hand shoots up in a fist pump. Water splashes over my face and I blink my lashes clear as I smile because I don’t have the air to laugh.
A shadow suddenly blocks the sun and I look up to see Connor grinning at me. He squats down at the edge of the pool and reaches out a hand. I grab hold and he lifts me out like I’m six instead of sixteen. Which is okay since I feel like jumping up and down like a two-year-old.
“Freakin’ awesome, Abby.”
His grin dips to one side and it’s so sexy--still sexy. I’ll never stop getting jelly knees every time Connor Moore grins at me like that.
I grin back. I don’t know what to say. I’m so happy, I can’t find the words to express it. Maybe there aren’t any.
He grabs me and lifts me into a hug. I hold on and let the happiness fill me. Deep-from-the-core happiness that finally brings up a laugh from lungs that have stretched themselves for pain and victory and now just want to let loose and celebrate.
Connor sets me down. I pull off my swim cap, shaking my dark hair out until I feel it cold, wet, and heavy on my shoulders. Connor’s hair is almost dry now from his earlier warm-up, still dark by the tops of his ears but sun-bleached blond everywhere else. He’s wearing his team Speedo suit and he’s tanned and gorgeous. And mine.
“Knew you’d do it, Ab.”
I laugh again, but a man in a polo shirt with a whistle around his neck moves past us and catches my eye. “Off the deck.”
My race is over and there’s a schedule to keep. I nod and squeeze Connor’s hands before letting go. From the corner of my eye, I see Dad. He’s hanging on the fence, waiting. Impatient, I know. For years, he was the one I ran to and hugged. The one who lifted me and spun me around. As of about five weeks ago, it’s been Connor. Dad isn’t used to it yet. Me neither, maybe because it still feels like a dream.
I part with Connor at the gate. “You better get ready,” I tell him. I gesture toward the warm-up area, where the other guys who swim the 100 free are loosening up. Alec Mendoza is staring our way. He’s a senior, like Connor, and ever since Alec transferred to Horizon High this year, they’ve been jockeying for one and two on the team. There’s something else going on there, but I don’t know what. I don’t ask.
“Kick some butt out there,” I tell Connor.
“You know it,” he says. “Then tonight, you and I are celebrating.” His words could mean anything, but the look in his eyes tells me exactly what he’s thinking.
My stomach does a flip turn. “Just get out there and swim,” I say. “This one is yours.”
He nods. Connor’s best events are the 50 and the 100 free. He’s a great sprinter. Not quite fast enough for the Olympics, but second place in State last year as a junior. This year he’s had some bad luck. Got pneumonia early in the season and missed a full week and a meet. His times dropped, but not as much as I would have expected. It’s only the second week of October and he’s already back in the game and looking for a personal best. Maybe today. But even if it doesn’t happen, he’s already qualified for State.
The State meet will be amazing, but I’m after a bigger prize. My fingers twitch a little, as if they’re straining now for that huge imaginary wall that says Olympics.
I turn and head for my dad. The sun is hot on my shoulders, and bright enough to make me squint. It’s a little toasty, even for Phoenix, but at least the mornings and nights have started to cool off. Dad has edged back from the crowd and found a shady spot by the building so we can have a little privacy. He waits until I reach him, and then his arms are around me. His words are warm in my ear. “You’re only half a second off the qualifying time.” There’s pride in his voice, and the sound of it runs down my spine, raising goose bumps like a standing ovation.
“You know what that means?” he says. “You can qualify at State this year. That’s three weeks, Ab. We’re that close.” He pulls back, a frown on his face as his hands rub my arms. “You’re shaking, honey. You cold? Where’s your towel?”
“I’m not cold,” I say. “I think I’m in shock.” I take a breath. I’m still recovering, maybe, because my lungs feel too tight.
Dad looks back at the stopwatch in his hand and shakes his head. I know he’s itching to get home and plot this on the chart that hangs in his office. It’s gigantic, the chart. On it he’s got all my times from every major meet since freshman year. This year, he added a side panel with qualifying times of the other sophomores across the country. This side panel isn’t about charting my personal best. It’s about me being the best.
About winning Olympic gold.
Maybe I am cold. I shiver again. I look into Dad’s eyes--a deep olive green, same as mine. And I think, no, I’m just happy. Dad was a world-class backstroker. He would have been where I am if he hadn’t broken his collarbone in a freak accident his senior year of high school. He never got the chance, but nothing will get in my way. I’m going to win gold for both of us.
Dad’s eyes are shiny. He’s not a crier. He’s more the tough guy--work hard and don’t whine. But this wasn’t just any race. We both knew I needed to drop time if I’m going to have any hope.
“You did it,” he says. “You’re there, Ab. You keep training and you’re one swim away from an invitation to the United States Olympic team trials.” He shakes his head, almost as if he can’t believe the words himself.
I feel dizzy. Because of his words, maybe. The way his head is still moving. The way there’s cold creeping up my neck and making my head feel numb.
Dizzy.
I suck in a breath. My heart pushes against my ribs. My lungs still ache. I want to smile at Dad. This is amazing. Life is amazing. First place. Trials. Connor.
Smile, Abby. Smile with Dad.
Only, now Dad isn’t smiling either. He looks dizzy. No--wait. He looks worried. I’m the one who’s dizzy.
Something.
Is wrong.
I can’t breathe.

2
I’m lying on a couch, my feet up on the armrest. I’m not sure how I got here. It’s like I’m waking up, only I wasn’t asleep. I’m in a room with overhead lights and seriously strong bulbs. I close my eyes again, wanting the dizzy to go away.
“Honey?”
Dad’s voice. I swallow and try my eyes again. The lights don’t feel so bright this time. I shift and there’s a squeaky noise. The couch is leather, and I’m stuck to it in my wet swimsuit. There’s a scratchy blanket on top of me. My head clears and I look down at myself.
I’m going to ruin this couch with my wet suit, and where did this blanket come from and when was the last time it was washed? I push it off--it’s brown and nubby and it doesn’t exactly smell Bounce fresh. I sit up. Dad reaches for my shoulder to steady me, but I don’t need steadying. I push the hair off my face. It’s still wet, and my fingers get tangled for a second. My thoughts feel the same way. Tangled.
“Where am I?”
“An office inside the swim facility.”
“Oh.”
“You okay?” There’s a question in his voice, along with worry.
“Yeah. Just got dizzy all of a sudden.”
“Probably the exertion and a little dehydration.”
“How is she?” A woman peeks in at the door. She’s wearing glasses and her chin is down as she looks at me over the top of her maroon frames.
Dad smiles. “She’s fine. Much better.”
“Water?” the woman asks.
“That would be great,” he says.
I watch as she backs out and my stomach rolls a little.
“How do you feel now?” Dad asks.
“Like we just took a plane trip with a bad landing.”
He studies my face, but I’m not sure what he’s looking for. “You scared me.”
The woman is back, and this time she hands me a small paper cup. “Sorry. We don’t have any bigger cups.”
“Thanks.” I take a sip and feel the cold slide all the way to my stomach. It wakes me up a little, and my brain starts churning. I’m suddenly a little freaked out--I remember being cold, but then it’s all a blur. I wait until the lady disappears again and then I ask Dad, “Did I faint?”
“Maybe, but only for a second . . .” He lets out a breath. “You lost your balance, started folding up--”
“Folding up?” I interrupt. “Like a chair or something?” I rub my hands over my face. “Were people watching? Did Connor see?”
“I doubt it. Connor was getting ready to swim. Besides, you were very graceful. You folded up nicely.”
“Dad!”
“It happened in a split second,” he says calmly. “We were standing so close to the door, I don’t think anyone even noticed.”
“I don’t remember.”
He rubs my arms. “Like I said, it happened so fast. You didn’t look right. Your knees started to buckle and I reached out before you could fall. You mumbled something about being cold.”
“I was talking?”
“A little,” he says. “Then I helped you inside and the lady at the desk pointed me in here.” He looked around. “I think it’s someone’s office.”
Today’s meet was held at the Liberty Community Center. Sometimes the facilities are no more than a locker room and bathrooms. Here, there’s a whole complex with a gym and a rec room.
“I’ve got to get back out there,” I say. “Connor must be done by now.” I stand, but Dad still has a hand on my arm and he pushes me back down.
“Connor can wait. I want to be sure you’re okay.”
“Dad, I’m fine. It was just the excitement of winning.”
His whole face changes as he remembers. “I think it was your flip turns. You’re coming off the wall so crisp. A little more work and you won’t just be competing in the trials--you’ll make the team.”
I nod. Fortunately, my head no longer feels like it’s full of scrambled eggs. “I’m all for more work, but can we talk about that later? Right now, I just want to bask in my victory.”
Dad laughs. “Of course, of course. Bask away.”
“So can I go now? Connor is going to wonder what happened.”
Another face appears around the corner, but this one I know.
Coach Rick strides in, his blond eyebrows puckered up like they’re ready to kiss each other. “What happened? Someone said you fainted? Your dad had to help you inside?”
“I’m okay,” I say.
He squats in front of me. Coach is a big, strong guy on the edge of stocky, but he still has the look of an athlete. His blond hair is cut short and barely falls over his wide forehead. He’s tanned year-round from all the hours coaching poolside and has enough lines around his eyes to make him look like he has a permanent squint. He’s squinting now as he looks me over.
Dad shifts to the couch beside me. “She seems fine now.”
I smile to prove it, but Coach doesn’t look convinced. “What happened?”
“She got dizzy and lost her balance,” Dad explains. “But once I got her in here and seated, she came out of it right away.”
Coach nods, but his blue eyes are saying something different. “Did she lose consciousness?”
Dad runs a hand around the back of his neck. “I don’t really know. It happened so fast.”
“Just to be safe, you better get checked out.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I just had my physical two months ago.”
He looks at Dad as if I’m not there. “Does Abby have a doctor she can see, or should I arrange something through the school?”
“No, she has a doctor,” Dad says.
“Coach--”
He stops me with one look. “You don’t swim in my pool until you’ve been checked out.”
I sigh dramatically. “Fine.”
He stands. Then his mouth softens, his lips tilting up a tiny bit. A rush of warmth fills my chest. I don’t know how else to explain it. Coach doesn’t fawn ever, and he doesn’t praise much. But when he does, it means something. It means everything. That tilt of his lip is like a cartwheel coming from Coach.
On his way out, he says offhandedly, “Not bad today, Lipman,” like a throwaway comment, but I know it isn’t.
I shrug like, Yeah, whatever. But inside I’m lit up like the Fourth of July.