Chapter 21
twenty-one
. . .
WHITNEY
The water should clear my head.
That’s the lie I tell myself as I slice into the lane, arms burning, lungs screaming, every muscle begging for rhythm. Swimming has always been the place where everything else goes quiet. Where thoughts line up and fall away one by one.
Today, it does the opposite.
Every pull drags up a memory I don’t want.
Connor on his knees.
Connor’s mouth.
The way my body betrayed me even while my heart was breaking.
I flip at the wall, push off hard, tell myself to focus on the stroke count. On the burn in my shoulders instead of the ache low in my stomach that has nothing to do with exercise.
I was angry. I am angry.
And yet my body remembers exactly how it felt to come undone like that.
The shock of it. The way I’d gasped, fingers fisting in his hair even as part of me screamed that I should stop him.
That I should stop myself from falling further.
Because that’s what I’ve been doing with Connor over the past few weeks.
And he ghosted me.
He walked into that coffee shop, saw me, and left. Then never appeared online again.
And then he let me kiss him, game with him, laugh with him—knowing exactly who I was.
I hit the wall harder than necessary, water sloshing over the edge as I grab the gutter and haul myself up, chest heaving.
Get it together.
I push my goggles up and climb out, grabbing my towel, while my entire body buzzes in a way that has nothing to do with lactic acid.
That’s when I see him.
Standing a few feet back from the pool edge, hands shoved into his warm-ups, posture tight like he’s bracing for impact, is Connor. He looks wrecked. Tired. Like he hasn’t slept.
Good.
Our eyes meet for half a second before I look away.
I don’t want to talk to him. I don’t want to hear another apology layered over the memory of how good his mouth felt, how easily my body responded to him even while my trust was splintering.
I throw my warm-up parka on, then head for the locker room.
I’m almost to the door when Connor steps into my path.
He’s not blocking me, but close enough that I have to stop or walk straight into him.
“Whit,” he says softly. “Please.”
I tighten my grip on my towel, the cotton rough against my damp skin. “I don’t want to talk.”
“I just—could you give me a minute?”
I laugh, short, and sharp. “You don’t get to ask for more time.”
His jaw flexes, but he nods. “You’re right. I don’t.”
Good. At least he understands that much.
“I shouldn’t have let you touch me,” I say, forcing the words out before my resolve cracks. “Last night was a huge mistake.”
The word hangs between us, heavy and deliberate.
He stills completely.
“No,” he says quietly.
I blink, caught off guard by how fast—and how sure—he is.
“That wasn’t a mistake,” he continues, his voice low and steady, like he’s grounding himself as much as me. “The timing was wrong. The situation was a mess. But touching you—being with you like that—wasn’t.”
Anger flares hot and immediate, sharp enough to burn. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not,” he says right away. “I’m just telling you what it meant to me.”
I shake my head, breath coming too fast. “It shouldn’t have meant anything.”
“But it did,” he says gently. “And I won’t pretend otherwise just to make this easier.”
The certainty in his voice is what does me in. It’s calm and unwavering, like he’s braced for whatever I throw at him next.
“I felt it, too,” he goes on, quieter now. “The pull. The connection. You didn’t imagine that.”
My body betrays me on cue, heat pooling low in my stomach at the memory of his mouth, his hands, the way I’d shattered even while my heart was screaming at me to stop.
That’s exactly why this is dangerous.
“I can’t be around you right now,” I say, the truth slipping out before I can soften it. “My body doesn’t care what my head knows. And I don’t trust myself not to let it happen again.”
His eyes darken, not with triumph, but with understanding.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says. “I don’t want to be the reason you feel off balance.”
“Then give me space,” I say.
He nods once, slowly, like the word distance is a hard pill to swallow. “Yeah. Okay.”
The way he says it—no argument, no bargaining—makes my chest ache.
For a second, we just stand there. Too close. The air between us charged and fragile, like one wrong move would snap it wide open. I’m painfully aware of how easily I could step forward. How easily my body would give in again if I let it.
That’s when Vivi’s voice cuts down the hallway.
“Whitney. Connor. My office.”
I close my eyes for half a second.
Connor steps back immediately, giving me the space I requested, but the pull between us doesn’t disappear. If anything, it tightens—an invisible string I can’t seem to cut.
He looks just as confused as I feel, but that doesn’t soften anything. If anything, it makes it worse. Because confusion means shared space. And I’m not ready for that.
Connor walks behind me down the hall. Keeping a safe distance but close enough that I’m painfully aware of his every move. Of the heat of his body. Of the fact that my traitorous brain keeps replaying the way he looked up at me last night, like I was everything.
Finally, we make it to Vivi’s office.
“Close the door,” she says, smiling like she’s about to deliver great news.
She gestures for us to sit. I remain standing. Connor hesitates, then stays on his feet too.
“I can’t contain my excitement so I’ll just spit it out. Whitney,” she continues, “you’ve been selected as an ambassador for the Rising Tides Swim Program.”
For one suspended second, everything feels right.
Yes. Finally. Something for myself.
Rising Tides was the whole reason I put my name forward—outreach, clinics, working with kids who love the water for the joy of it, not the pressure. And a coastal tour that requires ten days away from Coral Cove. Away from expectations. Away from this feeling that I’m on someone else’s path.
I glance at Connor.
And with what happened last night, it’s an escape that I desperately need right now.
“And Connor,” Vivi adds, glancing between us, “will be joining you as your co-ambassador.”
The word co lands like a crack in the floor beneath my feet.
Oh. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.
Vivi keeps talking, unaware—or choosing not to acknowledge—what has to be a look of horror on my face.
“It’s a ten-day program,” she says. “You’ll be traveling to several cities along the coast—Savannah, Myrtle Beach, and Wilmington. Each stop includes youth swim clinics during the day, community appearances in the evenings, and a few sponsorship dinners with local partners.”
That’s a lot of hours in the same space. Like, a dangerous amount.
“With cameras,” Vivi adds lightly. “And press. Rising Tides is very visible.”
Cool. So I have to look calm while internally combusting next to Connor.
“This year, the program is leaning more heavily into storytelling,” Vivi continues. “We’ve already had sponsors respond very positively to the ambassador pairing.”
My stomach drops.
“Positively?” I echo before I can stop myself.
Vivi nods. “They loved the contrast. Different styles. Different paths. It feels dynamic.”
Fantastic. My emotional disaster is marketable.
“You’ll both be featured across Rising Tides’ social channels,” she says, scrolling on her tablet. “Joint interviews, behind-the-scenes footage, arrivals, and departures. It’s nothing invasive, but you’ll be photographed together frequently.”
Together.
So, no distance at all.
“And just so you’re aware,” she adds casually, “the announcement copy is already drafted. It goes live later today.”
Wait—this is already happening? Like, without my input? Seriously?
“This program is really important to me,” I say carefully, because I refuse to let my voice crack. “I was excited about it.”
Connor shifts beside me. I don’t look at him, but I feel it—the way his presence has suddenly threaded itself through something I wanted to be mine.
“Of course, you’ll still be maintaining your training schedules,” she continues. “Morning practices, recovery sessions when possible. We’ve coordinated with facilities in each city.”
I nod automatically while my brain scrambles to keep up.
Ten days.
Multiple cities.
Driving.
Hotels.
Meals.
Cameras.
My brain ticks off the boxes, meanwhile a flash of panic rises above it all. With Connor.
I laugh once, sharp, and humorless, like I just got the punchline. “You’ve got to be joking.”
Vivi studies my face now, her smile sharpening into something more perceptive. “Is everything okay between the two of you?”
No, there is a massive, mouth-on-my-body, heart-in-my-throat problem.
“No,” I answer.
“Yes,” Connor says at the same time.
The room goes still.
Connor straightens immediately. “This won’t affect anything professionally.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Afraid of what I might say if I open my mouth.
“I’m sure it won’t,” Vivi says, her tone gentler but somehow more final. “But Rising Tides is built on trust and connection. You’ll be presented as a unit—especially in media coverage. We can’t have visible tension.”
So I’m not allowed to look mad. Or hurt. Or anything other than pleasant.
“This program resonates because of authenticity,” Vivi continues. “Kids respond to what feels real. And Whitney”—her gaze settles on me—“you’re one of our most relatable athletes. Your energy is infectious and people feel an instant connection to you.”
Great, no pressure.
“Backing out or requesting a reassignment at this stage would raise questions,” she adds, like she’s doing me a favor. “Questions we don’t want attached to a program built on access and goodwill.”
There it is.
The part where I realize I don’t actually have a choice.
I straighten my shoulders. “We’ll manage,” I say, because that’s the answer she needs. “I’m committed to Rising Tides.”
Vivi’s smile returns, satisfied. “Good. Because the selection wasn’t accidental. You both bring different strengths, and that balance is exactly what the program wants to highlight.”
Balance.
Sure.
“You leave in two days,” she finishes. “Media prep and talking points will be emailed this afternoon.”
Two days to push past the hurt and humiliation I feel when Connor looks at me.
Two days to stop imagining him on his knees apologizing with his mouth.
I nod once, sharp and contained. “Thank you.”
Connor turns toward me as we head for the door, concern written all over his face, and that nearly breaks my composure.
This was supposed to be my reset.
My escape.
Ten days to remember why I love this sport—and forget the man who just humiliated me.
Instead, it feels like a carefully scheduled prison sentence.
“Whit, I’m sorry. About the tour situation, but also for the way I handled things.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t get credit for telling the truth after you lied to me.” I step past him, walking down the hallway toward the locker rooms. Every step solidifying my new reality.
Ten days on tour with Connor.
No room to breathe.
No room to fall apart.
And nowhere to hide from the man my body still wants—even when my head knows better.