Page 25 of Freestyle (Boys of Frampton U #2)

Phoenix

T he pool is alive with movement—the slap of hands hitting the water, the rhythmic breaths of teammates cutting through the surface, the distant whistle from Coach keeping everyone in check.

Morning sunlight filters through the high windows, casting reflections across the lanes, and the scent of chlorine clings to my skin like a second layer.

I dive in, the cold shock bracing me for the laps ahead. Stroke, kick, breathe. The routine is muscle memory, but today, my mind is somewhere else. Or rather, on someone else .

Gray.

He’s a few lanes over, cutting through the water with precision, his form sharp, practiced.

He’s always been a strong swimmer but lately I’ve been noticing things differently, like the way his shoulders flex just before he pushes off, or the way he grins at Remy when they banter between sets, water dripping from his curls.

Normally I wouldn’t give it much thought, it’s just swim practice, just Gray being Gray. But today, something about him feels different. Or maybe I’m the one who’s different.

I can’t stop seeing last night.

The way his fist met that guy’s jaw at the bar, solid and unwavering, how he didn’t hesitate, how his body moved like it had done this before.

And the way he handled everything after, steady, composed, protective in a way that makes something unfamiliar sit low in my stomach.

And then there’s what happened after she fell asleep.

I was turned on seeing him fucking her face.

Gray has always been intense. Always confident. But I see it differently now. The way he carries himself, how he reacts, how he never second-guesses stepping in when it matters, it’s like I’m looking at him for the first time.

I’ve always known he’s bisexual. It was never something that needed explanation, but I never thought about what that meant in relation to him and me.

Now, I am .

Something flickers inside me when he’s near. I can’t put a name to what I’m feeling.

I come up for air, shaking water from my face, but my pulse is uneven. Gray pulls himself onto the edge of the pool, stretching out his arms, his breathing steady. He glances over, catching me watching.

His smirk is easy, teasing. “You good, or are you planning to stare all day?”

I scoff, shoving water at him as I push off for another lap. “Shut up.”

He laughs, deep and unbothered and for the first time, I wonder what it would feel like if I let myself think about it, about him , more.

I push off from the wall, my body slicing through the water, but my rhythm feels off, my mind still tangled in thoughts I haven’t fully sorted out yet. The laps blur together, muscles working, breath controlled, but I keep catching glimpses of Gray between strokes.

He’s in his element, his movements smooth, precise, effortless.

Water beads on his skin, catching the overhead lights as he pulls himself onto the pool deck again, shaking out his limbs.

There’s a confidence to the way he moves, the way he talks, the way he looks at people, it’s always been there, but now, it hits differently .

I finish my set, hauling myself out of the pool, feeling the rush of cool air against damp skin. Gray is already near the benches, toweling off, laughing at something Remy said. I watch them for a second longer than I should, my pulse still uneven.

Coach Morris claps his hands. “Time for weights.” I shake off my thoughts, grabbing a towel.

“Huntington, a word, please?” Coach calls out. Fuck, this isn’t going to be good.

“Yes, Coach?”

“Get your head out of your ass and focus on swimming. You’re one of the best swimmers we have, and you’re sitting in your lane daydreaming all practice.

We’re depending on you for the next meet, so do whatever the hell you need to do to get your mind back on the water,” he huffs.

He’s right. I’m screwing everything up, and I can only blame myself.

I nod as Coach walks off to lecture someone else.

Gray catches my eye as I walk over, smirking like he’s catching onto something I haven’t even admitted yet.

“You sure you’re not gonna drown out there?” he teases.

I roll my eyes, shoving him lightly as I drop onto the bench next to him. “You wish.”

He chuckles, deep and easy and I force myself to focus on practice, on the team, on the drills, on the water.

But the shift lingers, quiet and undeniable .

I scrape my hand through my hair, forcing the towel over my face, letting the heat and humidity of the locker room settle around me. The pool is behind me now, but I can still feel it; the weight of the water, the pull of every stroke, the reminder that I should be better.

The last meet was a mess. I wasn’t in it, wasn’t locked in the way I should’ve been. The team noticed. They always do.

Remy shoves my shoulder as he passes by, his towel slung around his neck, smirking. “Think you’re actually gonna try this time?”

I roll my eyes, dragging my towel over my damp hair. “Oh, please. I was off one meet. You act like I’ve forgotten how to swim.”

Gray, ever the realist, raises a brow as he pulls his shirt over his head. “You barely kicked off the wall on your turns, man. You looked half-asleep out there.”

I chuckle, tossing my towel onto the bench. “Maybe I was. Maybe I’m just so good that I can swim half-asleep.”

The team laughs, but there’s an edge to it, something that lingers beneath the teasing.

They need me at full power.

And I know that.

Gray leans against the lockers beside me, arms crossed. “Seriously, though. You gonna bring it this time? Or are we just carrying your ass again? ”

I exhale, rolling my shoulders. It’s easy to joke, to brush it off, but the pressure is thick, woven into every damn expectation they have of me.

“Relax,” I say, throwing on my usual grin. “I’ll show up when it counts.”

Gray shakes his head. “You better. No excuses this time.”

I flash a smirk, shouldering my bag. “You worry too much.”

But as I step out of the locker room, away from the teasing, the laughter, the weight of it all, I feel it settle deep in my chest.

I have to prove it.

To them.

To myself.

No more interruptions.

I step out of my last lecture, the weight of the day pressing into my shoulders as I adjust my bag. Cybersecurity, my entire course load is built around it now. Deep dives into network defense, ethical hacking, encryption protocols. It should have my full focus. It usually does.

But today, my mind is elsewhere .

I unlock my phone, thumb hovering over the app I installed on Rowyn’s device when she was asleep. The tracking software is seamless, invisible. It wouldn’t even register as unusual unless someone knew exactly what to look for.

I shouldn’t need it.

But after what happened at the bar, I know better than to assume she’s safe just because she thinks she is.

Her location pings.

She’s still on campus, exactly where she should be.

I exhale through my nose and slide the phone back into my jacket pocket. It should calm me. It doesn’t.

I should be thinking about VPN exploits or brute-force defense models. My last lecture just ended, Cybersecurity IV, but every word blurred against the echo of her name still stuck in my head.

I tug the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and head down the stairs, barely dodging a couple underclassmen. My mind is racing before I reach the bottom landing. I jog back to the swim team house, needing to burn off the extra energy that’s coursing through me.

I grab my laptop from my room then my feet carry me down the side wing of the mansion, past the weight room, past the echo of someone blasting music in the hall bathroom. I stop outside Grayson’s door before I even think twice.

I knock once.

“Yeah? ”

His voice, low, familiar. Steady in the way mine isn’t.

I push in.

Gray’s sitting on the edge of his bed, laptop glowing in front of him, long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. He’s wearing that black tank, the one that shows the scar across his left collarbone from the diving board accident two years ago. He glances up as I close the door behind me.

“You check her location again?” he asks. Not mocking. Just knowing.

I nod.

He shuts the laptop without a word.

There’s something about him right now, barefoot, calm, like the eye of a storm I’ve been stuck circling for years.

For a moment, I think about telling him everything.

About how I woke up in a cold sweat last night thinking she was gone.

About the way I dreamt she was screaming and I couldn’t get to her.

But I don’t.

Instead, I sit on the bed next to him.

Too close.

Not close enough.

His shoulder brushes mine—accidental probably, but I don’t move.

I don’t want to move.

And when he turns his head just enough to glance at me sideways, I feel it again. That same gravity I’ve always attributed to Rowyn, magnetic, dangerous, consuming.

Except this time…

It’s him.

He doesn’t move away.

That’s the first thing I notice.

We’re side by side on his bed, knees barely brushing, and I keep expecting him to shift, to give us space. He always used to. Grayson hated when people got too close, except Rowyn.

But now?

He just sits.

Quiet. Still.

Like he’s waiting for me to figure something out and say it first.

My gaze flicks sideways. His fingers are laced across his knee, the subtle twitch in his knuckle from last year’s fracture still there when he exhales too hard. I never told him I noticed that.

I never told him a lot of things.

I don’t know when it started, this pull. Maybe last night when we watched Rowyn sleep on my bed after the bar incident, her mascara smudged and mouth twitching like she was still fighting in her dreams. I looked across the room and Gray was watching me, not her.

He didn’t look away.

Now, neither do I.

His voice is quiet when it comes. “Something wrong?”

Yes.

No.

“You ever think we’re too far in?” I ask. “With her. With each other. With… this.”

A beat passes.

Then he says, “Yeah.”

And then, just a little softer, “But when has that ever stopped us?”

My throat goes tight.

The air in the room tilts off-balance, charged, like something’s about to spark if either of us breathes too hard.

But instead of touching him, I do something worse.

I stay.