Page 29

29

WARREN

I’m halfway to the training center when I spot Quinn sitting on the bench just outside the entrance. Her legs are crossed, her hair curled and twisted into two little buns. She’s scrolling her phone like she belongs there. Like she does this all the time.

I gulp. Then grin.

What the hell?

Before I can say anything, she looks up and smiles at me. It’s a small, easy sort of smile. The kind that tells me she’s been waiting for me for a while. That she was intentional about being here and even more intentional about letting me know I matter.

She’s not keeping me in the dark; she’s showing up.

“Thought I’d come say hi before practice,” she says, tucking her phone away. “I was in the neighborhood.”

I snort. “The neighborhood of my practice pool?”

“That’s right.”

I shake my head. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“Yeah?” She stands, stepping closer, her fingers curling around the chain at my neck. “I don’t know. Once upon a time, I remember you saying the opposite.”

I snort again. She’s half-amused, half-self-deprecating. The joke shouldn’t land like this. It’s too much, too soon. But it’s Quinn, so of course it does.

I dip my head, letting my mouth brush hers. “I’m not always right the first time.”

“Oh, no?” She kisses me this time—slow and sweet. When she pulls back, her eyes flicker with something sharp. “I cleared my schedule for tomorrow night, by the way. If you’re interested.”

“Interested?” I drag my thumb along her bottom lip. “Yeah, I might be into that.”

She gives a low laugh. “Might?”

“Depends. What’s in it for me?”

She rolls her eyes, steps back, and grabs her bag off the bench. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

“Guess so.”

We hover there a moment, caught in the in-between, neither of us quite ready to leave. Her fingers graze mine before she turns, and I’m still grinning like a fool when I hear a sharp voice call out behind me.

“Jesus, Mercer,” Hawkins sneers. “You planning on skipping practice or just sucking face until Coach drags your ass inside?”

I bite back a sigh and reluctantly glance over.

Reed Hawkins leans against the wall with his arms crossed. He’s got that cocky, know-it-all energy that makes you want to wipe the smirk off his face with a kickboard.

“Relax,” I mutter. “I’ve got time.”

“Just wouldn’t want you distracted again.”

His gaze flicks toward Quinn like she’s the reason I’ve been off. Like she’s some shiny object I can’t stop chasing instead of the good-luck charm I know her to be. When we were together the first time, I swam cleaner, slept better, felt steadier.

My shoulders tense, heat crawling up my neck. It’s not that I’m ashamed to be with her out loud. But there’s something about Hawkins that makes everything feel like a performance. PDA just gives him more ammo.

“I’ll see you later,” I tell Quinn quietly.

She gives Hawkins a cool once-over before turning back to me. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“I don’t care what he thinks.”

The guy’s been on my case for the last couple of weeks. It’s obvious he resents the medley switch-up, thinks he should’ve been bumped into the lead-off spot instead of me. He’s the backstroke alternate, and I’m the wild card with something to prove. Just trying to relearn my start, relearn my rhythm.

But he’s wrong. I’m not choking. I’m adapting. I’m fighting for it; I just haven’t nailed the first 50 yet.

And it’s not like Omar, our captain, hasn’t had to adjust, too. Voss has him covering anchor just in case Gaines doesn’t make it back in time for the meets. Omar’s been solid so far. He’s a strong freestyle swimmer and a calm finisher, which helps.

But Dayton’s always been a relay-heavy team. We had a stacked medley squad, and then we lost a few top guys last season—some graduated, others took time off to focus on Olympic training—and the rest of us have been filling in ever since.

The pressure’s on both of us, and the last thing we need is Hawkins running his mouth.

“Yeah?” Quinn quirks a brow. “Tell that to the tension in your shoulders.”

I give her a quick kiss, just enough to shut her up. Just enough to let it linger. Then, I turn toward the entrance.

Hawkins is already smirking like he’s won something.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a glance, just shoulder past him and keep walking.

Inside, the pool deck’s a blur of motion and noise. Voices ricochet off the tile walls. The sharp slap of water echoes from every lane. A few guys are still stretching on the benches, working resistance bands or rolling out their shoulders. Others are already in the water, arms slicing through the surface in smooth, practiced strokes.

Coach Voss stands by the whiteboard, scrawling down split goals for the A relay. Omar leans nearby with his arms crossed, talking quietly with Lyle and Christian, freestyle swimmers who’ve been grinding out pace sets with me all week.

Tonight’s practice is self-led, and somehow, that always makes us go harder. Voss isn’t the micromanaging type, but he expects accountability. This early in the season, no one’s slacking.

I strip off my shirt, grab my cap and goggles, and head to the blocks. The water shocks my system when I slide in, cold enough to make every muscle clench before I force myself to move.

Warm-up’s standard. I fall into the rhythm: four laps freestyle, then four backstroke, followed by a few rounds of kickboard drills. My arms cut through the water in steady rotations, breath syncing up on autopilot.

Today’s focus is pacing. Lately, it’s been nonstop technique work. Relaxing my muscles for a smooth breakout. Stop overworking my pull. Stop forcing the rhythm, start following the glide. Voss wants my backstroke clean, controlled, and fast. He wants me hitting rhythm the second I surface.

Easier said than done.

I’ve got to explode off the block, settle into pace fast, and nail every turn. One mistimed breath or crooked entry, and the whole rep’s off. I’m getting better. Just not fast enough.

Frustrated but locked in, I launch into a 50 at race pace. Arms driving. Legs burning. Lungs tight. The cold rushes past me as I break the surface and power forward.

When I hit the wall, my muscles are on fire, but the split feels close. Better than last week. Still not quite there.

I’m barely gripping the ledge to catch my breath when I hear Hawkins’ grating voice again. “Mercer! Looks like you’re a lot more relaxed this week.” He laughs to himself. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re finally getting laid.”

I snap my goggles off the second I’m out of the pool. Water drips down my face as I glare at him. “You wanna repeat that?”

“I’m just saying . . . you seem real loose, but you’re barely hitting pace.”

“Cut the shit,” I mutter. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly.” He grins wider. “But hey, I’m glad you’ve found an outlet. Lord knows you need one. Though I do wonder what she sees in you. Do you even let yourself crack a smile when she’s sucking you off?”

I’m moving before I can stop myself. I climb out of the pool, water streaming off my arms. My fingers curl tight, nails digging into my palms.

I glance toward Voss, but he’s pacing near the diving well, too far to catch any of this. Our assistant coach, Finley, is across the pool, clipboard in hand, deep in conversation with Lyle.

And Hawkins? He’s still standing there, head tilted like he knows exactly what button he’s just pushed.

It’s not just what he said about Quinn. It’s all of it.

All the shit she deals with. The constant flirting at the club from guys who always take it too far. The way they crowd her space, stare too long, push too hard. Like she’s nothing more than something to look at.

And Preston Beckett? He laid hands on her like she owed him something.

These degenerates think they can say whatever they want. Do whatever they want. No consequences. No respect.

It’s fucking disgusting.

“Dude.” Our captain rushes over, cutting through the tension before I can even say a word. He plants a hand on Hawkins’ shoulder, firm and warning. “Knock it off.”

Hawkins’ smile falters just a little, but he shrugs it off. “Just making conversation.”

“You’re making an ass of yourself,” Omar says, voice flat. “Get in the pool.”

For a second, Hawkins doesn’t move. Just stares me down like he’s waiting for me to snap. I’m close—too fucking close—but Omar steps between us, and it’s enough to keep me from losing it.

“Don’t push your luck,” Omar mutters.

Hawkins scoffs under his breath, but he doesn’t say another word as he heads for his lane. Of course he doesn’t. He only talks big when the coaches are distracted. When he knows no one’s watching close enough to catch the way he winds people up.

And if he applies enough pressure? He can make it look like it’s all my fault when things explode. The grumpy guy. The mean guy. The not-a-team-player who’s always one breath away from losing it.

Of course I’d snap. That’s what he’s banking on.

I drag a hand down my face, breathing hard. My pulse is still hammering, my whole body wired like someone forgot to cut the fuse.

“You good?” Omar asks.

“Yeah.” I exhale, slow and unsteady. “I’m good.”

“You need to chill out.”

He’s right, obviously. He’s always right. Omar’s built for this. Confident. Unshakable. The kind of guy who keeps his head when everyone else is losing theirs. Exactly the captain you want when the water starts to boil.

Which is why it still doesn’t make sense that Voss offered the role to me first.

Omar never said a word about it. Never made it awkward. But sometimes I feel it anyway—like a current running just beneath the surface. Like he’s still waiting for me to explain why I passed it up.

Maybe he thinks I didn’t want the pressure. Or the politics. Or the weight of carrying everyone else. Or maybe, like the rest of the team, he thinks I couldn’t be bothered. That I thought I was too good for it.

But if he was really paying attention, he’d realize I didn’t take the role because I wasn’t sure I could live up to it.

I adjust my goggles and slip back into the water, chest still tight. The next set is brutal. Hundreds on the clock with barely a breath between. I start strong, but by the third rep, I feel it. That drag in my shoulders, the way my arms tense too soon and fight the water instead of flowing through it. My jaw locks. My breath shortens.

I know better, but I can’t seem to stop muscling through it. I’m not swimming smart. I’m swimming mad.

Omar notices.

After the set, he waves me over during the break, lifting his goggles to his forehead. “You’re overworking the pull,” he says. “You’re forcing it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re tense. I can see it from halfway down the lane.” He gestures for me to follow. “C’mon. You’ve got to learn how to work with the speed, not against it.”

He runs me through a few slow recovery drills—sculling, fingertip drag, exaggerated underwater pull. Stuff I’ve done a thousand times, but today, it feels like unlearning everything just to get back to neutral. He has me focus on the long exhale off the wall, too, forcing the breath to flow even when my brain’s screaming for more air. It helps. A little.

I hate that I need the help. But I hate how tight my chest feels more.

“Try to stay loose through the shoulders,” Omar adds before I push off again. “You keep clenching up you’re gonna burn out by mid-season.”

By the time Voss calls for cooldown, my arms are burning, my legs shaky.

“Nice work today,” Omar says as we’re toweling off. His voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s waiting for me to lose my shit.

“Thanks.”

I’m still keyed up. Still rattled and wondering why I let Hawkins get to me in the first place. He’s a loudmouth, a try-hard, all bark and no bite.

But Quinn is my hot button. Always has been. Doesn’t matter how good things are between us or how much we’re trying to move forward. One wrong word, one cheap shot, and suddenly, I’m standing there like some hotheaded dipshit, ready to take someone’s head off.

Omar waits a beat. “Look, man . . . I get it. Hawkins is a dick. But you’re better than that.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah, Mercer. You are. Besides”—his voice dips in volume—“you can’t let a back alternate throw you off your game. You’re naturally tense enough.”

He says it like he means it. Like maybe he believes in me a little more than I believe in myself. And it’s good, I think, to know someone on this team feels that way.

Because Voss hasn’t let it go. Not the captaincy, not me. He keeps circling, nudging, making these quiet suggestions. Not outright asking me to take the role from Omar but floating ideas. Co-captaincy. Shared leadership. Like maybe there’s room for both of us at the helm.

But I don’t think that’s what he’s really worried about.

I think he’s afraid I’m going to walk away after this season. That once it’s over, I’ll be done with swimming for good. And maybe the captain talk, the extra work, all of it—it’s his way of trying to keep me tethered to the sport. To give me something bigger than just the clock to chase.

Voss isn’t loud or performative. He’s sharp. Calculated. Never wastes words, never raises his voice unless it counts. He doesn’t tell you what to do. He expects you to figure it out and get it done.

He’s blunt, sometimes to the point of brutal. But he gets results. And I think he sees something in me that reminds him of himself. The way I push too hard. The way I overthink everything. The way I come off cold, even when I’m not trying to be.

He respects that. Respects me , period.

And maybe that’s why he keeps pushing. The captain thing. The extra drills. The cross-training he insists I need. Like he’s trying to shape me into someone who won’t quit when the season ends. Someone who’s meant to swim long after college.

I’m just not so sure I am.

I rub the towel over my face, trying to scrub away the tension. It’s lodged deep in my shoulders, coiled behind my eyes.

“Thanks,” I say finally.

Omar shrugs. “Just don’t make me save your ass again.”

I bark out a laugh. Short but real. “Deal.”