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33

WARREN

I wake before my alarm.

It’s barely 5:00 a.m., and Quinn probably shouldn’t have stayed the night. We both knew that when her eyes started drifting closed, but neither of us could bring ourselves to untangle.

My arm is numb beneath her weight, her hair fanned across my chest, warm breath curling against my skin. For a second, I let myself stay like this, breathing her in. The soft scent of her cherry almond shampoo, the warmth of her pressed against me. Like if I stay still enough, I can make the moment last a little longer.

But practice is in less than an hour, and I need to move. Carefully, I brush her hair back from her face, fingers skimming her cheek.

“Hey,” I whisper. “Gotta wake up.”

She stirs, mumbling something I can’t make out before shifting deeper into the blankets. I try again, fingers trailing down her arm this time.

“C’mon, Quinny. I’ve gotta go.”

Her eyes blink open slowly, still heavy with sleep. For a second, she just stares at me like she’s not sure where she is. Then her gaze sharpens, and she pushes herself upright, dragging the blankets up with her.

I grab my shirt from the floor, pull it on, and start gathering my bag for the pool. Quinn sits on the edge of the bed, tucking her legs under herself, watching me like she’s waiting for me to say something.

Finally, she does.

“Look, I think we should address the gap,” she says quietly. “Not let it linger.”

I stop at the foot of the bed, tossing my bag over my shoulder.

“The gap?”

“The dark period,” she clarifies, pulling her hair into a messy knot on top of her head. “Between our breakup and now?”

I snort. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“I’m not naive, Warren.” Her voice is steady, but there’s something tight in her expression. “I know you didn’t just ... wait around for me. I wouldn’t have expected you to.”

I exhale hard, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, there were some girls.”

There were a lot of girls, especially in the beginning. Hookups that felt more like distractions than anything else. I’d go out alone, drink too much, and find someone willing to let me burn off whatever I was trying not to feel. It never stuck. It never helped.

Eventually, I slowed down. I couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t leave me feeling worse afterward, emptier, like I was just proving to myself how much I didn’t care. Because deep down, I knew it wasn’t true.

I wouldn’t tell Quinn that. Just like I wouldn’t ask her for details about who she might have been with. Knowing would hurt—too much, too fast—and I don’t think I could sit still and listen to it.

She doesn’t flinch, but I see something flicker across her face, something sharp and quiet. She’s trying to swallow down the sting, but it’s there in her eyes anyway.

“Nothing serious,” I add. “No one I cared about.”

I barely remember their faces, their names. I couldn’t tell you what half of them even looked like. Because no matter how hard I tried, none of them ever came close. They were never her, and I was never fully present with them.

“Why not?” Her voice is small, like she’s not sure she even wants the answer.

I shrug, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “I didn’t know what I was feeling. I just knew I couldn’t ... feel like that again.”

She swallows hard, her fingers curling into the blankets. “I tried, too,” she says after a beat. “There was this one guy. Someone from one of my lit classes. But it felt wrong.” Her voice dips lower. “I kept waiting for it to feel like ... you . It never did.”

My chest tightens.

I assumed it would feel like shit to hear it, and it does. She tried to move on, tried to forget me with some guy in her lit class. Someone who got to be close to her, even for a little while.

I wonder if he made her laugh. If she ever looked at him and thought, maybe this could be something .

I swallow hard, pushing the thought down before it festers.

“Even when I was with other people,” I say quietly, “none of it mattered. I could’ve had a hundred hookups, and it wouldn’t have changed a thing. I never forgot the way you made me feel. The way you looked at me ... like I was something good.”

“You are good.” She laughs, soft and sad. “But I sort of hate it, you know. Hate you . For being with other people. And I know it’s unfair because I tried too, but ... it still hurts.”

“I get it. Part of the reason I ... did what I did was because I assumed you’d move on without looking back. Like you didn’t care. Like I never mattered enough for you to try.”

“That’s not true,” she urges. “I cared. I always cared.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy and lingering. There’s no dramatic resolution, no perfect words to make it better. Just this—sitting in the fallout, letting it exist instead of pretending it never happened.

“I should go,” I say, breaking the quiet. “I’ve got practice.”

Quinn nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

But just as I start to move, she reaches for my hand. Her fingers are cold, but her grip is firm.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says softly. “Right?”

I squeeze her hand in return. “Yeah. We will.”

* * *

I head onto the pool deck still feeling the dull ache in my shoulders from Saturday. Partly from the mock meet, partly from Quinn. My muscles are stretched and overworked. But I did spend the whole weekend getting wrung out, and I’d do it again.

Coach Voss stands near the bleachers, clipboard in hand, already flipping through splits and stroke counts. The rest of the guys mill around, half-dressed in sweats or pulling gear from their bags.

“Mercer,” Voss calls, motioning me over. “Come talk to me.”

I drop my bag near the bench and make my way over, trying to school my expression. I know what’s coming. My times on Saturday weren’t terrible, but they weren’t what they should’ve been.

I hit my marks in the freestyle, but my lead-off wasn’t sharp enough. My turns were clean but not aggressive. My breakout felt like I was fighting through syrup. It’s enough for me to brace myself for the talk.

“So,” Voss starts, his eyes still fixed on his clipboard. “I looked over your times again. I think you’re capable of better.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. No point pretending otherwise.

“I know you’ve been working hard,” Voss goes on, lowering the clipboard to meet my eyes. “But Gaines is back this week. Shoulder’s healed faster than expected. We’re gonna switch things around for the dual meets coming up.”

I blink. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Voss says, scratching something onto his clipboard. “So, we’ll have you back on anchor for the medley and middle leg in the 400 free.”

I nod. “Okay.”

I’m not bothered by swapping back. Gaines is stronger in backstroke; I know that. But still, part of me can’t help but wonder if I should’ve been better at cross-training. If I’d worked harder, if I’d pushed myself more, then maybe Voss wouldn’t have even considered the switch in the first place.

I’m a freestyle swimmer, always have been. But I want to be well-rounded, too.

“Why not anchor in the free?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Voss exhales through his nose. “Because you’re not as sharp as you should be,” he says, like he can read my mind. “You’ve got the stamina, no question. But you’re overgripping the catch, shortening your stroke, rushing your recovery. You need to loosen up. Focus on clean extensions, smooth pull-throughs. Your underwaters could be faster, too. We’ll drill those next week.”

I nod, jaw tight.

“And your hips are sinking,” he adds. “Could be mobility. Start hitting the resistance bands, work on ankle flexibility. You want to swim at your full potential? You’ve got to stop muscling through everything and let the water work with you. No slack.”

“I’m not slacking,” I say, maybe too fast.

“I know you’re not,” Voss says evenly. “But you’re still holding back. Get uncomfortable. Push yourself.”

“I will.”

“Good.” He claps my shoulder, and I try not to wince at the sore muscles beneath his hand. “Now, get in the water.”

I do as Coach commands.

The first lap feels like I’m swimming through cement. My strokes are too shallow, my body too tight. I tell myself it’s just the morning stiffness working itself out, but the longer I push through, the more Coach’s pestering nags at me.

I touch the wall and surface, chest heaving.

“Looks a little sloppy, bud,” Hawkins calls from a few lanes over.

“Must be hard watching me swim faster than you all the time,” I shoot back.

“Right. Just fast enough to get bumped again?”

The heat’s already building under my skin. “What’s your fuckin’ problem with me?”

“My problem?” He pushes off the wall, swimming over like he’s got all the time in the world. “You think you’re better than you are.”

“Better than you, for sure.”

His smile disappears. “Yeah? Funny you say that because you’re the one Coach keeps moving around like a spare part.”

I clench my jaw, my hand tightening on the gutter. “Why don’t you line up and we can see who actually belongs here?”

Hawkins lets out a low chuckle, and I’m already mentally prepping for the race. If we do a 100 IM, then it’s an even matchup.

“Easy, boys,” Omar calls from the lane beside us. “You both swim like fish with anxiety disorders. No need to prove it.”

“Whatever you say, Cap,” Hawkins says, voice light but his gaze still sharp. “But if your boy is so solid, why’s he the one Voss keeps second-guessing?”

“Voss is figuring out where I can make the biggest impact,” I interject. “That’s what happens when you’re actually versatile.”

Although I hardly believe it myself, I hold his stare and keep my voice even.

“Yeah,” Hawkins drawls. “Or maybe you’re just not good enough to own your spot.”

I don’t answer. Not because I don’t have a comeback but because the annoyance is already settled in my chest, thick and tight, and I know if I keep talking, I’ll say something I’ll regret.

This is pointless, anyway. I should stick to ignoring my teammates like usual and focus on the only thing I can actually control.

I push off the wall, cutting through the water fast and hard, turning every set into a race against myself. Frustration fuels every stroke, driving my legs harder, keeping my form tight. The burn in my shoulders flares, but I lean into it.

Even if I hate to admit it, Hawkins is right. Coach is right. If I want to qualify for Nationals, I need to stop coasting on what I’m already good at and start grinding where I’m not.

I’m not chasing titles or bragging rights. I don’t care about being the fastest guy in the pool. But if I could hit a B-cut in my 200 free or shave enough time off my 50 to make it count—that sticks. That’s something I can point to and say, I did that .

Now that I’m back in my anchor spot, I’ll be stronger in the relays. My finish in the 200 medley helps, and the 400 free keeps me sharp. But if I can hit the mark on my own, that’s different. That’s mine.

I’ll keep working on backstroke like Coach suggested. I probably won’t race it again this season, but that’s not the point. It’s about pushing myself outside my comfort zone, finding the gaps and filling them.

If I can make it there—if I can push hard enough to earn that spot—maybe it means I haven’t just been treading water this whole time. Maybe it means the early mornings, the late-night lifts, the moments where I thought I couldn’t take another lap actually meant something.

Maybe it means I’m capable of more than just staying afloat.