Page 35

35

WARREN

The locker room’s buzzing before warm-ups. The guys are joking around, slapping shoulders, and running through pre-race routines. I tune most of it out, dragging my fingers down the knots in my shoulder blades and stretching through my lower back.

It’s the last weekend in September and our first dual meet of the season. We’re swimming against Coastal University, a team that’s practically made of fish. They train year-round by the beach, which means they’re used to open water, longer swims, rougher conditions.

Rumor has it their coach throws them in the ocean when they slack off.

Today’s meet is here at Dayton, though. Home pool advantage. Our natatorium’s warm and humid. The ceiling lights flicker sometimes. And I know every corner of this place—the scuffed tiles by the starting blocks, the crack in the wall by lane five.

But familiar or not, Coastal’s still good. None of us can afford to let our guard down.

Coach Voss went over my lineup earlier: 200. 50. Medley anchor. Middle of the 400. Four chances to prove I can step up when it matters. Four chances to be solid.

I sit on the bench and start rolling out my calves, working through the tension that’s been building all week. I meant to visit Dad again on Wednesday. Thought about it the whole drive home from practice.

But then Quinn called, asking if I wanted to meet her for coffee. And then I had a paper due. And swim. And ... everything. Now it’s been a week, and I’ve run out of excuses.

As I shift to stretch my hamstrings, my phone vibrates inside my locker. I ignore it at first. Then it buzzes again. And again. I grab it, figuring it’s Quinn or maybe my mom checking in before the meet.

It’s my dad.

Seventeen missed calls .

I sit back hard against the locker, phone clutched in my hand. He’s generally overzealous, but he’s never called this many times back-to-back before.

Another call flashes across the screen. I don’t answer. I can’t.

I hit Decline and shove my phone under my towel, dragging my hand down my face.

Maybe he’s just restless. Maybe he’s lonely. Maybe Oakview’s got him frustrated again and he wants to complain to his one and only son.

Then the texts start rolling in. More buzzing, more vibrating against the metal bench, each one louder in my head than the last. I try to ignore it. I try to focus on my breathing, on the sound of guys joking around across the room, but the buzzing won’t stop.

I shove the towel aside and grab my phone again. The screen’s flooded with messages, little text bubbles stacking higher and higher. I scroll through, pulse kicking up as I take in the mess of words.

It’s strings of garbled nonsense. Whole paragraphs repeating themselves like he’s stuck on a loop. Half sentences that cut off and start over again.

Dad

Warren where r u

They say im not allowed

Need u t come get me out

Get me OUT GET ME OUT GETMEOUT

My stomach knots up.

He’s at Oakview. He’s been at Oakview for years now. He shouldn’t be able to get his hands on anything. He shouldn’t be able to . . .

I power the phone off, stuff my phone into my locker, and slam the door. I don’t have time for his bullshit right now. No distractions today. No noise in my head.

The stands are busy when we walk out. Family members lean over the railings, teammates slap each other’s backs, the whole place humming with nervous energy. But when I scan the crowd, it’s Quinn I find.

She’s sitting on her own, hands tucked beneath her knees, chin lifted just enough to make it clear she’s watching me.

Something shifts in my chest. Not sharp or sudden, more like a quiet swell, like a muscle remembering how to move.

She used to come to a few of my meets freshman year. She never told me when she was showing up, just appeared in the stands like she couldn’t help herself.

Back then, I remember feeling electrified. A rush filled with pride and something more fragile, something hopeful. Seeing her up there was like stepping into cold water. Your pulse spikes, your breath catches, and then slowly, your body learns how to hold it.

That feeling’s still there now, only warmer. Like sunlight on your back after the plunge. Steady and sure. Something you can lean into.

But not right now.

I shake it off and roll out my shoulders, narrowing in on my first event.

The 200 free is all rhythm and patience. I stay controlled through the first hundred, matching pace with the guy in the next lane. He’s taller—longer reach—but I’m sharper off the walls, four tight dolphin kicks carrying me past the flags before I even take a stroke.

When I flip into the third lap, I shift gears. Switch to a two-stroke breathing pattern, let the tempo build. My stroke rate ticks up, heart pounding harder as I fight to stay clean through the turn. I lock in for the final fifty, holding form, legs burning, driving through the water like it owes me something. The last stretch is all grit. I edge half a stroke ahead just as my fingers slam into the touchpad.

Second place. An okay start.

I pull myself out of the water, and then it’s over, just like that. Second place, but my time still isn’t fast enough to turn heads. No PR, no B-cut, nothing that gets me noticed. Just ... fine.

The 50 free comes next. There are barely ten minutes between events, just enough time to cool down, reset, and get back behind the blocks. For this sprint, I know I’ll have to claw for every inch in the water. It’s all power with no pacing, no room to settle in. Just explode off the block and go.

I snap forward on the start, driving hard through the breakout. Water surges past my ears, my arms digging fast and deep. My legs are still heavy from the last event, the quick turnaround leaving them sluggish, but I hammer each kick from the hips, forcing every ounce of power I can find.

I hit the wall first. A clean finish. But I barely register the win before I’m hauling myself out of the pool, heart thudding like I’ve swallowed it whole.

Still solid. Still sharp.

I glance up at the scoreboard overhead, catching my time. It’s a low twenty-one. Not a personal best, but close. Clean enough to hold my spot, enough to keep Coach off my back.

After I shake out my arms and catch my breath, I spot Quinn again in the stands. She’s on her feet this time, clapping with that wide, full smile of hers. The kind that always looks a little crooked, like she’s halfway through laughing.

I don’t smile back—can’t yet—but something settles inside me.

The next few heats blur past. I’ve still got the relays to go, but my head’s clearer now. I just need to keep my pace and not overthink it. Let my body take over.

At the break, I towel off quickly and shrug into my parka, the fleece lining warm against my back. I grab my water, still riding the adrenaline. It’s a good kind of buzz, the kind that leaves your skin tight and your pulse running just a little too fast.

But then I hear a crash, followed by a few loud, slurred words. They rise over the chatter and the splash of the pool, ringing in my ears until everything else fades.

“Warren! Warren, you in here?”

I freeze, water bottle halfway to my mouth. You can’t be fucking serious .

I turn, and there he is. My dad, leaning hard on his walker as he limps along the pool deck. He’s hunched forward, mouth slack, face blotchy and red. His shirt’s half-tucked, one shoe untied.

My gut twists.

“Warren!”

Laughter rings out from the bleachers. Someone points. My stomach bottoms out.

Coach Voss steps forward, already heading toward him. But I’m moving, too, faster than I can even think.

“Coach,” I say, catching him by the arm. “It’s okay. He’s—that’s my dad. Let me handle it, please?”

I jog across the rest of the deck, heart pounding in my ears. I don’t normally like to be the center of attention, and now, every set of eyes is on me. Every stare on my back. Every breath loud in my throat.

“Dad,” I say under my breath, grabbing his arm. “What are you doing here?”

“Had to see you,” he slurs. “They’re keeping me locked up in that place—said I can’t even have a goddamn beer! Bullshit, Warren.” His fingers grip my wrist too tight. “I needed to see you. You’re my son, damn it.”

I gulp. His breath is sharp and sour, cutting through the chlorine-heavy air. “How did—how did you know I’d be here?”

“Got your meet schedule from the school’s website. Why?” He squints at me, swaying slightly. “You embarrassed?”

I pull back, trying to ease my arm free without making a scene. “Let’s just—let’s get you outside, okay?”

“I’m fine,” he snaps. “I just needed to—”

“Dad, please. Come on.”

“Don’t you pull that crap,” he barks. “Actin’ like you’re too good for me now? Too busy with your little girlfriend and your fancy school?”

He wrenches away from me, stumbling back a step. And his slurred, too-loud voice? It echoes off the tile walls, loud enough that the crowd noise quiets, people starting to turn their heads.

“Dad. Let’s go.”

“You’re just like your mother,” he sneers. “Think you’re smarter than me, better than me.”

“Stop.” My pulse jumps. My voice is low, pleading. “Please. Don’t do this.”

“You know what your problem is?” His arm flies up, finger jabbing too close to my face. “You’re too goddamn proud. Think you don’t need me? I’m the reason you’re even here. I’m the one who kept you in the water! Taught you to swim, damn it! And you just—just—”

“Fuckin’ hell,” someone mutters from the crowd.

An opposing swimmer whistles low under their breath, and I wince.

“Dad,” I try again. “Please.”

It seems someone’s already called security. Probably a pearl-clutching mom from the stands who thinks she’s witnessing a domestic crisis.

Two guys in bright blue polos push their way toward us from the back of the pool deck. My dad doesn’t see them at first, but the second they reach him, he jerks away from me like I’m the one dragging him off.

“Don’t touch me!” His shout cuts sharp and ragged across the air. “I’m talkin’ to my son!”

They try to keep calm, murmuring something low and steady. My dad just swats them away, stumbling sideways into a row of chairs. Metal screeches against the tile. People pull their bags closer, some standing, some whispering.

“Get off me!” he yells.

His face is red now, twisted with anger. He stumbles again, almost trips over his own feet. One of the security guys grabs his arm, trying to steady him, but my dad shoves him off so hard he nearly loses his balance.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter under my breath.

I step forward, but one of the security guys shakes his head, blocking me off.

“Sir,” the other says, voice sharper now. “You need to come with us.”

“You leave me the hell alone!” My dad’s voice cracks. “I came here to see my son!”

“You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

They each grab an arm, gripping him tightly as he fights to shake them off.

“Let me go!”

I watch, helpless, as they drag him away. He’s still swearing, still twisting against their grip, his voice echoing down the hall even after they’ve disappeared from sight.

And once he’s gone for good, the whole place stays silent. The meet’s paused, which is just about the most embarrassing kind of spotlight I can think of.

Some of my teammates are shifting awkwardly, others frozen just off the blocks. Parents are staring at me like they’re wondering if I’m about to go off, too. And I’m not nearly brave enough to search out Quinn.

I exhale hard and drag a shaky hand down my face.

Voss appears beside me, calm but watchful. “You good?”

I don’t answer right away. My pulse is still, my lungs locked up tight.

“I need a minute,” I finally manage.

“Go,” he says. “Take your time.”

I quietly slip into the hallway behind the bleachers, then lean hard against the wall and try to breathe. But the air catches halfway down, sharp and useless. Eyes fixed on the floor, I start counting down.

Five. Four. Three.

My dad’s voice is in my head before I can finish, all loud and jumbled. His face, pale and blotchy. Those glassy eyes blinking at me. It’s all I can focus on.

His fingers locked around my wrist, too tight. The heat of his breath slurring my name. How thin he looked, like something hollowed him out from the inside. Drugs, maybe? Alcohol, definitely.

I bite the inside of my cheek, and blood instantly fills my mouth. A sharp, metallic tang that cuts through the panic. It grounds me, but only for a fleeting second.

He shouldn’t have been able to leave Oakview. He’s supposed to be safe there, supposed to be somewhere they can watch him. He’s not meant to have access to substances that make him spiral or wander off to crash my meets.

Not like this. Not stumbling onto the pool deck and turning the whole thing upside down.

My pulse jumps, too fast, like my heart’s forgotten how to pace itself. My breaths come quick and shallow now, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to get enough air.

I don’t know how long I lean there, dizzy and barely holding it together, before I feel Quinn’s hand on my arm.

My first instinct should be to push her away. To tell her I’m fine, that I need to deal with this the way I always have. Alone. But I can’t summon the energy to push her off. Or maybe I just don’t want to.

Maybe I know that if I let go of this—of her—I’ll unravel completely.

I need her, and I think maybe that’s okay.

“Hey,” she says softly. “It’s okay.”

It’s not, but I let her say it anyway.

I squeeze my eyes shut, chest still heaving. My fingers dig into the wall behind me, knuckles tight and white.

Quinn’s hand slides down my arm, and then she laces her fingers with mine.

“You’re alright, baby. You’re okay.”

I shake my head. “I can’t—” I gulp a breath. “I can’t get enough air.”

“You can. I’m right here.”

I can feel her now, her knee brushing against mine, her words anchoring me. She lifts my hand, presses my palm flat against my chest, grounding me with her touch. Steady. Solid.

“Breathe with me,” she says. “You can do it.”

I try. It’s shaky at first, but she keeps her hand over mine, and I follow her lead. My heart’s still racing, but not as bad. My ribs don’t feel like they’re caving in anymore.

We slide down the wall together, legs stretched out on the cold tile. Quinn doesn’t say anything for a while, just stays close, her arm pressed to mine. I lean my head back, eyes closed, trying to gather what’s left of myself.

“Was that a panic attack?” she asks eventually.

I swallow, my throat still tight. “More of an . . . anxious spiral.”

“Right,” she says dryly. “A panic attack, then?”

I half smile, breath still uneven. “Now’s not the time to piss me off, Quinn.”

“It might be exactly the time,” she says. Her thumb brushes the side of my hand. “You’re still here, though. That’s what matters.”

I don’t answer right away. My thoughts are still tangled, too sharp around the edges.

“Has this been happening a lot?” she asks.

“Last one was the night after we broke up.”

“I knew you had anxiety,” she says, fingers curling gently against mine. “And depression. But you never had panic attacks when we were together. Not that I knew of.”

“Didn’t have many before that,” I tell her. “Had a few when I was younger, but ... not like this.” I shake my head, staring at a scuff mark on the tile. “Then, after we ended things, I guess.”

“That’s heavy.”

“My meds keep me steady most of the time,” I say, like that’s enough to fix it. “And I was good for a while.”

“Yeah, and you will be again. Do you want to finish the meet, or should I go talk to Voss for you?”

“No,” I say. “I’m good.”

“You sure?”

I drag in another breath—slower this time, steadier. “I just want to swim. I’ll figure out the rest later.”

“Alright.” She reaches out a hand, helping me to my feet. “We can talk more about your dad later. Maybe we could even go to Oakview together.”

“You’d come with me?”

“Of course I would. Unless you don’t want to see him, then I’ll support you in that, too.”

I swallow hard. “I don’t know what I want yet.”

“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

I let her words sink in, something loosening in my chest. For the first time since this morning, I feel like I’m standing on solid ground. Like maybe I’m not the only one carrying it anymore.

“I’ll be out there, baby,” she adds, ruffling my damp hair. “Rooting for you.”

I close my eyes for a second, holding on to that warmth. The reminder that I’m not alone in this, not anymore. I have Quinn again, and she’s more than enough.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know.”