Page 13 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)

EIGHT

OLIVER

The pool was quiet this time of day.

Only the occasional echo of footsteps reached me from the far end of the facility. The water was cool, not cold. My skin had adjusted after the first few laps, but my head never quite did. I turned at the wall, pushed off hard, and sliced through the lane again.

Breathe. Pull. Kick. Repeat.

It was muscle memory by now. It had to be.

Nothing about this place changed. The faint scent of chlorine, the hum of the overhead lights, and the pale lines at the bottom of the lane keeping me tethered to the right path.

All of it was constant. All of it predictable. Everything except my own damn mind.

I surfaced after another fifty and blinked water from my eyes.

Lennox.

I hated that I thought of him. I hated that the first image rising behind my eyelids was him stretched out in bed, half-asleep and smiling like the future promised him everything he desired.

I ducked underwater again, holding my breath longer than necessary. It didn’t help.

It had been weeks since the cabin. Since that night.

Since that kiss that turned into more. It was a one-off.

We had said as much. We had walked away like it meant nothing, even though the space behind my ribs still remembered the way his hand curved over my waist. Even though my mouth still remembered the exact sound he made when I bit his lip.

I finished the lap and rested my forearms on the pool edge, chest heaving. I stared down at the ripple of blue water and tried not to think. I failed.

The truth was, I had booked a flight home rather than take the drive with him. The flight was short. A no-brainer, according to the version of the story I told myself. Better timing. Less fuss. But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t why.

I hadn’t wanted the road trip because I didn’t trust myself not to want more.

I didn’t want to sit in a car with him for ten hours, laughing and sharing snacks and forgetting the boundary I had already crossed once.

I didn’t want to hear the music he liked or watch him tap the steering wheel in rhythm or lean his head back, revealing a pronounced Adam’s apple protruding from his long neck.

I hadn’t wanted to want him.

Because I had too much at stake, and every second I wasn’t training was a second someone else was gaining on me. And Lennox Ellery was a walking distraction. The worst kind. The kind who didn’t even try to be. The kind who smiled and made it feel like it might be safe to relax for a minute.

And I couldn’t afford that.

I dropped underwater again and let myself hover at the bottom of the lane, eyes open. The tile lines blurred. The pressure in my lungs built. Maybe if I stayed here long enough, I’d forget what it felt like to lie next to him.

But eventually, I rose, gasped, and dragged air in like it could fill the hollow places.

I hung on to the edge and looked up at the ceiling.

I hadn’t touched anyone since. I hadn’t tried.

I’d told myself it was because of training.

The season. The schedule. But that wasn’t it either.

I hadn’t touched anyone because no one else was him.

No one else made my chest go tight and my pulse beat low in my gut.

No one else made me want things I didn’t have time for.

I pulled myself out of the water and sat on the edge, dripping and tired and too aware of how quiet the facility was.

I was getting too good at lying to myself and pretending I didn’t want what I couldn’t afford to have.

Lennox was still here. Still on campus, in my orbit, maddeningly close and frustratingly decent.

And I was still trying to swim away from him.

But the truth was, the more distance I put between us, the more he tugged at the edge of every thought.

And the harder it got to breathe.

Several exhausting laps later, I dragged myself into the locker room, showered, and left the pool. The air outside was chilly, winter still holding Chicago in its frosty fingers in February.

The oil sizzled as I dropped the chicken breasts into the pan, the skin side hitting first with a sharp pop.

The smell hit me fast. Garlic, lemon, a little too much salt, probably.

I didn’t cook for pleasure. I cooked because it made sense.

A process. Something to do with my hands when my head wouldn’t stop.

The tablet was propped up against a roll of kitchen towels, screen dimmed until Lena’s name flashed up again. I tapped to answer, and her face filled the frame, half-shadowed, lit by the glow of her laptop. She was probably multitasking, as usual.

“Hey, Snips,” I said.

“Wow. Cooking? On a school night?” Her smile turned teasing. “Are you okay? Blink twice if you’ve been kidnapped.”

“Very funny.”

She leaned closer. “Whatcha making?”

“Lemon chicken and green beans.”

“Healthy. Responsible. On brand.” She paused, then added with a grin, “Still boring.”

“I’ll make you something when you’re here.”

“Lies,” she said. “You’re gonna toss me a protein bar and call it a delicacy.”

I laughed under my breath and flipped the chicken. “Maybe.”

We talked like that for a bit, soft stuff, school updates, and a teacher she hated. Then her voice changed, just slightly.

“So…how’s everything over there?”

“Fine.”

“Swimming?”

“Fine,” I said again.

She squinted. “You always say that like you’re talking about a hostage negotiation.”

I shrugged. “It’s been intense. Prepping for nationals.”

There was a pause. She chewed her lip. “Have you seen Lennox?”

I froze, just for a second. My knife clinked too hard on the cutting board as I sliced through a bell pepper. “No.”

“Oh.” Her tone was careful now. “I just thought maybe… never mind.”

I didn’t say anything.

She was quiet for a second, then pivoted. “We got our midterm reports back. My counselor said if I keep this up, I’ve basically got a golden ticket to Westmont with a full scholarship.”

“That’s amazing,” I said. And I meant it. She deserved this place. She’d worked for it harder than anyone I knew. “You’ll like it here.”

“Only if you’re still around next year,” she said, pretending to joke.

I didn’t take the bait.

We moved on briefly, talking about class schedules and spring break ideas. But I saw it coming when her mouth pulled into that thoughtful line she wore when she was trying to be gentle.

“Can I ask something?”

I gave her a look.

“Not about Lennox.”

I sighed. “Go on.”

“Why does everyone think it’s about the Olympics?”

I blinked. “Because it was.”

“No,” she said. “The silver shook you, yeah. But it was Greensboro.”

My pulse jumped.

“The Summer Nationals. You bombed there, and you haven’t been the same since.”

She said it like a fact. Like truth she knew too well. I hated that she was right. “I didn’t bomb,” I muttered. “I just didn’t place.”

“Oliver…”

“I was off. It was one race.”

“You came in sixth.”

I exhaled, long and low. “I know.”

“You trained through the Olympics, came out with silver, and didn’t rest. You went straight into prep for Summer Nationals and crashed. You scared the shit out of me.”

I paced away from the stove and leaned against the counter. My throat felt tight. “I wasn’t going to skip it.”

“No. You just broke yourself over it.”

The timer went off on the oven. I ignored it.

“I’ve reapplied,” I said quietly. “This summer. Nationals again. If I’m not ready by then?—”

She cut in. “You will be.”

“If I’m not,” I repeated, “then I’m done.”

Her voice dropped. “Is that a real decision?”

I nodded once. “I can’t afford another loss. Not if I want a future in this.”

Lena stared at me through the screen, all her cheeky brightness dimmed now. “Okay,” she said. “Then we train. We rest. We go again.”

I smiled, just a little. “We?”

“You think I’m not part of this?” she asked. “I’m the reason you have a halfway decent playlist. And also, who else would call you out when you’re full of shit?”

“You mean besides my body?”

She cracked a grin. “Exactly.”

I let out a breath. The chicken sizzled behind me. “I’ve got six months.”

“Then you give them hell.”

I nodded again. Not because I believed it. But because I had to.

I ended the call and stood there for a moment, still leaning on the counter. The quiet crept in again, filling all the places Lena’s voice had softened.

The chicken was done. I plated it mechanically, scooping the beans beside it and dragging the pan off the heat. I didn’t bother lighting the overheads, just sat down at the kitchen island with the late winter dusk slipping in through the windows.

The first bite tasted like nothing.

I chewed anyway, swallowed, and took another.

This wasn’t about hunger.

It had been months since the Greensboro Nationals.

Since I stood behind the starting block with my heart already thudding out a countdown.

I’d told myself I was ready. I’d told myself silver at the Olympics had only sharpened my edge.

But the truth was, my arms had felt heavy before the buzzer ever sounded.

My vision had tunneled. Every muscle had screamed for rest, and every ounce of belief I had in myself had cracked wide open before my feet left the platform.

I hadn’t just come in sixth. I’d come in empty. A shell of myself.

That moment replayed itself more than I liked to admit.

Not the race. Not even the time on the scoreboard.

Just the certainty, in those final seconds before the gun, that I had already lost, that the version of me from just three weeks before—at the Olympics, standing with the weight of silver around my neck—had been replaced with someone who no longer knew how to win.

And here I was again.

Training until my shoulders burned. Drilling form until I could barely see straight. Telling myself this summer would be different, that I had enough time to fix everything that was broken. I had six months to put myself back together or walk away.

I took another bite and forced myself to chew.

I was doing everything right. Eating clean. Sleeping on schedule. Keeping to my regimen. Keeping my head down.

But my confidence was a wreck. Some part of me, deep and buried and mean, was still whispering that it wouldn’t be enough. That I’d line up and know—again, too late—that I’d already failed.

That was why I couldn’t afford anything else. No noise. No chance to stumble.

That was why I hadn’t been near the hockey rink.

It wasn’t a conscious decision, at first. Just…convenient. I didn’t cut through that part of campus. I didn’t stop by the shared gym. I didn’t stop by at Lumière.

But I knew what I was doing.

Avoiding Lennox wasn’t about fear. It was about survival. Because one conversation, one shared joke, one look from those sharp blue eyes could derail everything I’d been trying to rebuild. And not because Lennox was reckless, nor because he asked anything of me.

But because part of me still wanted to be near him.

And that was dangerous.

I pushed the plate aside, barely half-finished, and rubbed a hand across my mouth. The overhead lights stayed off. The silence pressed close.

I had six months.

And not even five minutes to spare for a distraction I hadn’t stopped thinking about since the snow melted from the cabin roof.