Page 6

It’s way too early when the ear-piercing sound of my alarm slices through my brain. I don’t rush to turn it off. For once, the obnoxious noise is a welcome distraction—finally, something strong enough to cut through the relentless loop of thoughts running on repeat for hours.

I’ve barely slept, unable to quiet my mind long enough to drift off. I spent half the night overanalyzing every little detail of yesterday’s interaction with Bear.

God, I wish I could go back in time and punch myself in the face—maybe that would’ve knocked some sense into me. While simultaneously wanting to relive every moment with her again.

Rubbing at my eyes, I let out a frustrated groan. Why the hell couldn’t I have stuck to the damn plan?

Realizing my phone’s incessant ringing is only adding to the mess in my mind, I sit up and turn the damn thing off. I push the covers aside, stand up, and stretch my neck from side to side, trying to relieve some tension.

I'm overthinking everything because I feel guilty about how I treated her. I need to man up and tell her I’m sorry. I should have found a way to do it already.

Annoyed at myself, I throw on some sweatpants and a hoodie before slipping into my Nike Blazers. Trudging to the bathroom, I quickly brush my teeth and splash water on my face. Once I’m done, I head back to my room to grab my practice bag.

In the kitchen, I find Mack scooping a heaping pile of powder into two glasses.

“You’re up early,” I mumble, my voice gruff.

I vaguely remember hearing him come in last night, but I was too caught up in my head to leave the room.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, absentmindedly twisting the lid back onto the pre-workout container.

I fill our glasses with water, and once the powder fully dissolves, we lift them in a silent toast and down the tart-tasting liquid.

“God, that better kick in quickly,” Mack shudders, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, swallowing the last bit down.

There’s no way I’m getting through practice without this dose of caffeine. Not after the shitty night’s sleep I had.

In the hallway, I keep my gaze straight ahead, but resisting the urge to look around and hoping to catch a glimpse of a certain blonde is more challenging than I’ll admit.

Like most mornings, we make it to the elevator without seeing anyone.

I refuse to acknowledge the pit of disappointment that’s crawled its way into me.

Outside, the neighborhood is devoid of life. The only sound that echoes around us is our sneakers hitting the pavement. Early August means it’s still warm enough to walk to campus, but there’s a noticeable crispness in the air that wasn’t there before.

We’re quiet for the first several minutes of the walk, neither of us being in the mood to talk. It’s too damn early for me to hold a conversation. However, Mack's silence feels different; I can practically sense the tension radiating off him.

When he gets like this, he’s stuck in his head about something. Over time, I’ve learned to let him brood until he’s ready to talk.

Around the halfway mark, he finally decides to break the silence.

“Feel like grabbing dinner somewhere tonight?”

“Do you even have to ask?”

He chuckles, “No.”

If there’s one thing we do better than swimming, it's eating. Never-ending appetites and rigorous training schedules go hand in hand.

“I’ll see if the twins want to join us.”

The twins Mack is referring to are Sam and Austin Paddington. While Mack and I are closer, I’m lucky enough to call all three friends.

The four of us bonded on the first day of practice as freshmen, and our friendship has only grown stronger now that we are sophomores.

We’re not just teammates; we’re like one big dysfunctional family.

Sam is the hyperactive man-child, while Austin is the quiet, laid-back one.

Mack is the life of the party, the guy you can always count on for a good time.

Me? I guess you could describe me as the serious one, but I prefer the word focused.

“Sounds good. Want me to pick you up?” I offer.

“Nah, I’ll meet you there, so you don’t have to drop my ass off afterward.”

“You can always spend the night.”

“Thanks, but I can’t stay away forever,” he says, kicking a pebble away with the toe of his sneaker.

Okay, that explains the earlier silence.

I watch the pebble bounce off the sidewalk into the road before responding. “Something going on at home?”

It's a subject we don't usually touch. Not because I haven't tried but because it gets Mack too riled up. He bottles shit up so tightly that one day, I’m afraid it might explode out of him.

I know he hates living at home, but he has his kid brother, Dakota, to think about. Mack practically helped raise that little boy. Plus, money is tighter for him than he lets on, so moving out isn’t an option either. Not right now, at least.

Aside from our friendship, it’s why I let him crash at my place whenever he wants. No questions asked. The guy even has a spare key at this point.

He lifts a shoulder. “Besides the usual bullshit? No.”

By usual bullshit, he means his mom’s shitty on-again-off-again boyfriend, who hangs around like he pays rent.

Which he doesn’t—the dude is some whacked-out alcoholic who can’t hold down a job to save his life.

Unfortunately, he’s also Dakota’s dad, which means he's not going away anytime soon—at least not willingly.

Mack shoves his hands in his pockets, avoiding my gaze as he stares straight ahead. I've been around him long enough to recognize his trademark ‘I don’t want to talk about it anymore’ move.

Instead of pushing the conversation, I do him a solid and change the subject. “How about we hit up a party this weekend?”

“No shit, for real?” That seems to perk him up. “The elusive Levi Marino wants to go out and party.” He laughs.

“Jeezus, you make me sound like a hermit,” I say, shaking my head as a smile breaks through.

I don’t party as much as Mack, but I’m not a recluse, either.

“I think there’s a back-to-school party happening at the football house,” Mack says, his words buzzing with excitement now.

The football house—as it’s called—is a massive house owned by an ex-Huska student who went pro some years back. He rents it out to several student football players each year, who find any excuse to throw a party. I'm pretty sure they even had one last year just because the clocks turned back.

Forgetting is easy in a place like that, and that’s exactly what I need right now. Something to distract my mind from things I shouldn’t be thinking about, like silky, soft blonde hair and a body my fingers are itching to explore.

And this time, I’m sticking to the damn plan.

***

“Boys, listen up!” Coach Schmidt yells as he strides through the doors. His ever-present whistle bounces against his retro-style tracksuit top. He’s a burly guy, and his vocal cords only seem to have one setting: loud.

Everyone immediately straightens up and huddles around him. Coach isn’t known for his patience. When he says, “Jump,” the correct response is no response—you jump.

"We have a friendly meet next weekend against Emberwood," he says, resting the clipboard he always carries against his stomach.

A chorus of groans ripples around me, and conversation kicks back up. Coach’s use of the word “friendly” isn’t exactly accurate. There’s nothing friendly about our rivalry.

Emberwood is a private college full of entitled pricks who think they’re better than everyone else, even though it’s Daddy’s money that got them there.

Unfortunately, they are the closest school to us, which means anytime we want to flex our competitive muscles without jeopardizing our standings, it’s against them.

They’re good. We’re better.

My body is already buzzing at the thought of putting those arrogant assholes in their place. Again . Money can buy many things, but talent isn’t one of them.

“All right, stop your yapping. We’ve got home turf advantage,” he mutters without looking up from the clipboard.

"Heat sheets go out at the end of the week. Since it’s only a friendly, each swimmer will compete in one heat.

We’re using last season’s conference standings, so if you sucked then, you better prove to me now why your ass is worth keeping around. "

Coach’s eyes narrow as his gaze sweeps over each of us, lingering longer on some. When it gets to Mack, I feel him tense next to me.

He struggled toward the end of last season, but I've seen him at his best. He has the talent to justify his spot on the team, but he needs to put in the effort. He has the talent to justify his spot on the team; he just needs to put in the effort.

He has a lot riding on his scholarship. If he is cut from the team, his chance to graduate goes with it because there's no way he can afford the tuition on his own.

“Starting now, no dilly-dallying at practice, or I’ll pull the nylon so far up your ass-crack you’ll be tasting it till Thanksgiving. Got it?”

“Yes, Coach!” We shout in unison.

Satisfied that he has instilled the necessary fear in us, he lifts his whistle and blows. The high-pitched shriek causes everyone to back up and wince. I swear I see a ghost of a smile on his lips as he lowers it—sadistic bastard.

“Good. Now give me twenty minutes of warm-up laps.” At that, we break up and walk toward the starting blocks.

“Dude,” Mack hisses beside me as I pull my cap and goggles on.

“What?”

“Think those rich Emberwood groupies will tag along next weekend?”

“You mean their girlfriends?”

He waves my words off. “Pfft. Semantics. People forget they’re in a relationship when temptation’s around.”

I'm about to tell him that some people do care about things like loyalty and commitment when our names are called, making our heads swivel simultaneously in Coach’s direction.

“Marino, Wright! I said no dilly-dallying. Are you hard of hearing or what?” Coach’s lips twitch beneath his mustache, the coarse hair shifting like a caterpillar as he swings his gaze between us.

“No way, Coach, these ears are in perfect condition,” Mack says, tugging at his lobes.

Not wanting him to get us into any more trouble, I give Coach a quick apology and drag Mack toward the rest of the swimmers, who are already warming up.

He immediately dives into the lane beside me, but my movements are more methodical.

When my feet touch the cool cement of the starting block, I slip my goggles over my eyes.

I take a deep breath, my lungs filling with the ever-present scent of chlorine that clings to the air, and dive into the water.

Once I break the surface, a familiar weightlessness takes over. My arms and legs propel me forward with ease, falling into a rhythmic motion. As my body takes over, I lose myself in the water.

Most days, it’s easy to fall into a quiet calm—zoning out, if you will—but today feels different. Every now and then, a flash of blonde hair or a pair of blue eyes pops into my mind.

I don’t want to get distracted by her, but it’s harder not to think about Bear than it is to let those images come and go with every stroke and kick.

She may be a stranger, but something about her has me hooked.

And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to shake her from my thoughts.