The instant my dad’s breath hits the whistle, I’m coiled, and when it sounds, I’m off. My body slides through the water, my feet kick and I find my zone. Kick, pull. Kick, pull. I repeat and push myself to make each series faster until I feel the familiar home of my palm on the smooth tile at the other end.
My smile takes over my lips, and I throw my arms over the ropes, breathing hard and pushing my goggles up to see how I did. My father’s standing on the other end, his arm raised over his head, one finger up, and Amber squeals, covering her mouth before looking at me with nothing but sheer elation all over her face.
I bluff. I smile tightly. She’ll think I took it easy, probably. She’ll let these initial seconds pass; she’ll exit the pool, then we’ll all climb out of the water and catch our breath to do it all over again. She’ll think I gave her a gift, but I didn’t. I lost. I lost because someone was faster, and when I turn my body as I lift myself from the water, both my father and Will are looking at me like something terrible just happened.
It did. And I have exactly four minutes to fix it.
The next heat of girls takes to the pool, and I’m assaulted by the sounds of cheers of encouragement. Funny how I can’t hear a single thing when I’m the one in the water. I watch the girl in my lane work. She comes in first easily, and she barely pants as she climbs onto the deck next to me. Her eyes hit mine, and I swear I see pity in them.
Will’s group swims next, and as much as I tell myself not to watch, my eyes can’t seem to move away from his body. This time, I block out the sounds, and I focus only on his form. He’s loose, but somehow, even from far away, I can tell that every muscle in his body is prepared for war. He grips the blocks and his head rises, eyes forward and looking ahead to the next several seconds, like he’s traveling through time. My dad’s whistle startles me, I’m so buried in the visual, and I miss most of Will’s entry into the water, his body gone under the surface in a blink. When he rises, just like last night, his movements are smooth but urgent—every stroke more like an attack. Hands pound and fight through every stroke, almost as if he’s more machine than man.
He wins easily, and as I step up to the blocks again, I watch the swimmers near him offer congratulations. Will stands there expressionless, swinging his hand in their direction to tap knuckles only to be polite. His eyes remain on the water, like he’s searching for something underneath. I should be doing the same thing, only I can’t stop looking at him.
We sprint for nearly an hour, and I lose my first three heats, each race getting tighter, until fatigue takes down my opponents and nobody can keep up. I have them in stamina at least. It doesn’t make me feel any better, and it doesn’t erase the crease between my father’s eyes—the ones that tell me he thinks something’s wrong, too.
Something is wrong. My head is all fucked up because of Will Hollister, just like I knew it would be. Yet, every time I pull myself from the water, he is the first place every ounce of my attention goes. I study him. I look so hard that for the first time since that day on the rope swing, when he was on his way to being a man and I was still a child, I notice all of the little differences between Will and Evan Hollister. Where Evan was polished, Will is rough. One brother quiet but always in control, the other loud as he pounds and kicks, absolutely nothing about the way he moves in the water in control at all.
My dad doesn’t say a word when I exit the pool. He talks to a few of the other guys, but Will and I are left alone, as much physical distance between us as we can both put there. I can tell he’s actively trying to stay away just like I am. Something happened last night—we got too close to the center of both of our pain.
That can’t happen again.
I slip into the locker room and change, glad to have driven myself here this morning. My T-shirt and shorts are on in minutes, my hair clipped in a wet twist on the back of my head, and my phone is held in my hand to text my best friend so I can avoid talking to anyone on my way to my car. Amber manages to catch me before I sneak away unnoticed, though, and I feel her hand brush along my arm, stopping me mid-step through the front door. I turn to look into her anxious eyes.
“You…you said nine, right?” Her brow is pinched slightly, and I know it’s because she beat me, so she assumes I must hate her now.
Part of me does, but not really. Just the immature, ego-driven part that doesn’t feel like admitting that nobody beat me today but myself.
I give Amber a closed-mouth grin as I nod.
“Nine,” I repeat, leaning forward. “And…wear something nice, with comfortable shoes.”
“Right. Okay, great…I’ll…I’ll be here,” she says, adjusting the straps of her bag on her shoulder. I wait for her to take a few steps backward before I continue through the lobby door, my phone gripped in my palm.
Please say tonight is your night off.
By the time I get in my car, my phone dings with Holly’s response.