Page 20

20

WARREN

The pool deck smells like chlorine and sweat, the kind that sticks no matter how many showers you take. It clings to your skin, settles in your clothes, lives in your hair. You breathe it in like second nature.

It’s the first day of team practice, and the noise already feels like a headache waiting to happen. Half the guys are still dripping from warm-up laps, tracking puddles across the tile. The rest hang around the edge of the pool, bumping shoulders, talking over each other like summer never ended.

“Alright, you overcooked noodles,” Coach Voss calls out. “We’re starting with a 400 IM. Let’s see who actually remembers how to swim.”

There’s some groaning, but guys start stripping off shirts and sliding into their lanes. I’m adjusting my goggles when I hear it—loud, grinning, impossible to miss.

“Hey, Mercer! You taking it easy on us today or what?”

I glance up, and of course, it’s Reed Hawkins, grinning like he owns the place. He’s a backstroke specialist with a strong underwater phase and a sharper mouth. Likes to rile people up, throw them off their rhythm. It might work on some of the younger guys. Not me.

“You want me to slow down?” I ask. “Didn’t know you needed a head start.”

His grin stretches wider. “Man, I can’t tell if you’re funny or just a dick.”

“Could be both,” I mutter, pulling my cap over my head.

Most guys on the team respect me well enough. They know I’m good—maybe not the fastest anymore, but consistent. Reliable. I’ve never been the loud one, never needed to shout or lead the locker room pep talks.

When Coach offered me captaincy last season, I turned it down. Didn’t want it. Didn’t want to be the guy everyone looked to, didn’t want to be responsible for team dinners or leading stretches or pretending I cared about anything other than showing up, swimming fast, and going home.

I like that about swimming. That even though it’s a team sport on paper, the work is mine. My lane. My time. My breath.

Still, I know what they say about me. That I keep to myself. That I show up to practice, push harder than anyone else, and leave before anyone can ask if I want to grab lunch after. It’s not wrong. I just don’t see the point in pretending.

Coach blows his whistle, and I hit the water fast, arms cutting through the surface, body falling into the rhythm I know better than anything else. Kick. Reach. Pull. Breathe.

The tension bleeds out of me as I move. Every doubt, every distraction, every fucking thought—gone. It’s just me and the lane line now. Nothing else matters.

By the time I finish the set, I’m winded but steady, chest heaving as I haul myself out of the pool. Hawkins is still slogging through his last two laps.

“Taking it easy on me, huh?” I call out, dripping water onto the deck.

He sputters something about his shoulder being sore, but I’m already halfway to my towel.

Maybe I’m not the rising star anymore. Maybe the scouts aren’t watching me like they used to. But I put in the work this summer. Showed up every morning. Extra hours on non-work days. While half the team was off drinking or sleeping in, I was in the water.

I’m drying off when Lyle jogs up. He’s soaked, breathless, and annoyingly chipper. He slaps my shoulder hard enough to sting.

“Damn, man,” he says, grinning. “You gonna make us look bad all season or just the first day?”

I smirk. “Just setting the bar.”

Lyle laughs, but it’s easy, no edge behind it. He’s been my closest thing to a friend on the team since freshman year.

“You’re in shape,” he says. “Even after summer break.”

“Didn’t take a break,” I say, shrugging. “Pool was still there.”

Lyle shakes his head like I’m impossible. “You know, some of the guys are pretty unhappy with you. They know you turned down the captaincy last year, and now you’re back outpacing everybody.”

I snort. “Yeah?”

“They say you’re too good to care. That you think you’re better than us.”

I wipe the water from my face, taking my time before answering. “They can think whatever they want.”

I push harder. Train longer. Give up more. Gaines and Ruiz could be just as good—maybe better—if they gave half a shit outside of meet days. There are other guys on this team who’ll probably make Nationals with an A-cut this year, so no, I don’t think I’m better. I just know I’m still in the fight. Still showing up.

Omar is the only senior who pulls weight in and out of the water. Shows up early. Checks on the freshmen. Keeps the energy up when a set drags. That’s why he’s captain now. That’s why he earned it.

Lyle studies me for a beat. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that.”

We’re halfway to the locker room when Coach’s voice cuts through the noise. “Mercer, hang back!”

I backtrack, stopping at the edge of the pool deck. “Yeah?”

“Gaines is out for at least a month—shoulder injury,” Coach says. “I’m moving you to third leg in the freestyle relay, and you’re gonna lead off the medley with backstroke. I want you first in the water, and I’ll have Omar anchoring.”

I blink. That’s .. . unexpected. Not bad. Just weird. Backstroke isn’t my specialty. I’ve been anchoring since sophomore year, ever since my split got fast enough to clean up whatever mess the rest of the relay left behind.

When you’re swimming first, there’s no one to chase. No adrenaline spike from a tight finish. No cleanup mission. You’re setting the tone, not closing the gap. One bad turn and you screw the rest of the relay before it even starts.

And Hawkins is supposed to be the alternate there, so either Voss doesn’t trust him, or he’s testing me.

“Alright,” I say, shrugging my towel higher on my shoulder.

“You sure you’re good with that?”

“I said alright.”

Coach narrows his eyes like he’s waiting for me to crack. Like maybe I’ll tell him what I’m actually thinking. But I won’t. Because what’s the point? It’s not like I can say Hey, Voss, I don’t really trust anyone else to finish the way I would. Or Yeah, putting me first is fine, but you better hope the guys behind me don’t screw it up.

So, I keep my mouth shut.

“You know—” Coach says, voice softer now, like he’s talking to the kid under the cap. “Being the best doesn’t mean much if you’re always swimming alone.”

When you race solo, there are no missed turns, no bad handoffs, no one else dragging your time down. Maybe I’m lonely outside the pool, but at least in the water, I’m in control. That counts for something.

“Just keep your head straight,” Coach says, voice quieter. “This is still your season if you want it.”

Is it that I want it, but only on my terms?

That I know I’m fast enough to win, but I don’t want to carry anyone else’s weight?

That I don’t trust anyone enough to let them carry mine?

Not Hawkins. Not Omar. Not anyone. Being captain would mean more than just showing up and swimming hard. It would mean leading. Being visible. Letting people rely on me and risking what happens if I fail them.

I’ve spent the last three years avoiding everything that comes with being part of a team. The small talk. The bonding. The nights out after practice. The part where trust isn’t just implied—it’s required.

Maybe that’s why the pressure never really lets up. Why it coils tighter after every meet, every practice, every time someone looks at me like I’m supposed to lead when I barely know how to follow.

Ten minutes later, I let the shower scorch my back, hoping the heat will unwind something in my chest. It doesn’t. The tension sticks, clinging like chlorine—sharp and stubborn—and no amount of heat or steam can burn it off.

I should be thinking about the season. About the relay. About how Voss is already testing me by switching my spot in the lineup. About how Hawkins and the others have been running their mouths about my attitude, my so-called ego.

But I’m thinking about Quinn again. Her eyes finding mine in that classroom. The way her pulse fluttered beneath my fingers when I grabbed her wrist. The way she’s been flashing hot and cold—too sharp one minute, too soft the next—like she doesn’t know what to do with me anymore.

I scrub a hand down my face. Jesus .

I wasn’t meant to see her again once we both finished the season.

When I enrolled in Lang’s section last spring, I knew Quinn’s major—of course I did—but I wasn’t expecting her to be the one standing at the front of the room, watching as I half-heartedly skimmed the syllabi like I couldn’t feel her gaze burning into me.

And now I’m stuck with her once again. Twice a week. Two hours of her clipped voice, her presence, her sharp little comments when someone asks a question that’s already been answered five minutes earlier. Two hours of pretending I’m not still holding on to some tiny sliver of whatever the hell we were.

Meanwhile, she’s decided to act like I’m nothing more than another student with a notebook and a bad attitude. I could deal with Quinn being angry. With her getting in my face, snapping back like she used to. I know how to fight with her.

Hell, in between all the messy, heated, tangled-up moments, we were always bickering about something—who could carry the most trays through the banquet hall, who could fast-talk their way out of a double shift, who could get the most half-hearted praise from Robbie by cutting corners in the clean-up room.

But this forced, hollow silence she wants to impose? That’s usually my wheelhouse. Now that she’s the one doing it, I don’t know how to handle it.

I can’t figure out how to meet her in the middle when she won’t give me anything to work with. When less than a month ago, she was the one begging for me to just talk to her.

I know she’s not the only one who’s been hot and cold. I’m guilty of the same. And I’ve been doing it often—pushing and pulling, giving just enough to keep her guessing, then retreating before she can get too close. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t blame her when she walked away last Friday night.

Because I almost didn’t let her. Because if she had looked at me a second longer, if she had stayed just a breath closer, I would have found a way to kiss her. I know I would have.

God, I’ve spent two years convincing myself that’s not what I want. But in that moment, I would have given in. I would have let it happen. I would have let myself forget how complicated we are, how badly we ended.

If she had just let me, I would have kissed her like none of it mattered.

I towel off, still fuming, and yank on my clothes. My Wednesday schedule is brutal, starting with early morning practice and running straight into back-to-back classes until two. Kinesiology keeps me moving—anatomy, biomechanics, sports physiology—the kinds of classes that actually make sense. Everything is mechanical, built to work the way it’s supposed to.

But English is another story.

I already withdrew from this class freshman year. One of the five credits they let you drop without it affecting your record. I still don’t know what literature has to do with human movement and performance, and honestly, I don’t really care.

But since Dayton won’t let you graduate without checking off your core requirements, here I am, sitting through lectures about metaphors and themes like any of it matters to me.

Except that’s the problem. It does mean something, just not the way it’s supposed to. Because sitting in that room twice a week—pretending Quinn isn’t five feet away, pretending I don’t still know exactly how her voice sounds when she’s teasing or pissed or whispering my name in the dark—is enough to make my brain short-circuit.

Monday, I spent the whole period watching her instead of the slides on the screen. Just sat there like some clueless, lovesick fool, tracking every flick of her pen, every time she tucked her hair behind her ear.

Tap, tap, tap—faster when she’s nervous, slower when she’s calm. That’s how I knew she was out of her element last Friday night—her hands were still. Too still.

I shake the thought off and head to class, cutting across the quad. It’s warm enough to feel sticky, the air heavy like it’s threatening rain.

The English building is already buzzing by the time I get there, students clustered in doorways, voices rising and falling in a low hum. I slip inside without thinking about it too hard and slide into my usual seat, second row from the back. Just far enough to stay out of sight but close enough that I can still see Quinn.

And yeah, I know how that sounds. But this isn’t about missing her.

It’s not.

I’m just here. And she’s here. And if she’s going to sit up front where I can see her, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t going to look.

She’s already in her seat beside the podium, flipping through her binder, her hair twisted up in a loose knot. She’s wearing one of those oversized sweaters she used to steal from my room, soft and slouchy, the sleeves shoved up to her elbows.

It’s infuriating.

Because even now—even while she’s ignoring me, pretending none of the stolen glances or tense conversations or almost-moments from the last few weeks ever happened—I still know her better than anyone. I know the way her fingers twitch when she’s second-guessing something. The way her shoulders tense when she’s trying too hard to seem unbothered.

I still know her.

And whether she wants to admit it or not, she still knows me, too.