Thirteen
Remington
T oday’s swim meet is going to be epic. Adrenaline is coursing through the house as I walk downstairs. The hum of excitement is in the air as the guys gear up for our battle against the Du Pont Piranhas. They aren’t our largest rival, but they are still fierce competitors. Since I booted Emerson from the team after initiation night, I had to take his place in the backstroke relay. I have faster times than he did anyways.
“Ready to beat these fuckers?” Gray comes up behind me, slapping me on the back.
“Hell yes!” I reply, my competitive spirit igniting. I love swim meets, letting me unleash my drive and determination. This is my domain, and I’m ready to dominate.
I sent a package with Jake to be delivered to Fallon’s dorm. I’m sure she knows about the meet since Gray’s sister is her roommate, but I wanted to make sure she would be there. The package includes a special invite and a swim team shirt with my name embroidered on the back. As I picture Fallon walking in wearing my shirt, a surge of pride and excitement courses through me. It’s not just about winning the meet; it’s about showing the world that she’s mine. If the night of the party hadn’t cinched that thought then initiation night carved it into stone.
“Alright, time to head out,” I roar through the room. The guys jump up with their bags, the air crackling with excitement as they head toward the door.
Phoenix claps me on the shoulder, a determined look in his eyes. “Let’s show them what we’re made of.” The three of us pile into my Jeep while the others take their own rides. This is a home meet, and everyone will be there since we are the leading sport for the school.
As we drive, the tension and excitement build. The Jeep hums with anticipation, the air electric with the promise of competition. Pulling into the parking lot, we’re greeted by a sea of familiar faces—all here to support us. The energy is contagious, and my adrenaline spikes.
We make our way inside, the noise level rising with every step. The pool is a kaleidoscope of color and movement, teams gearing up, coaches shouting last-minute instructions, and spectators filling the stands. Then I spot her. My pulse races as my eyes fix on Fallon. Not in the shirt I sent. Anger surges like a beast clawing its way to the surface when I see her friend chatting animatedly, the fabric of gray and navy proudly showcasing “Ford” across her back.
“What the hell?” I mutter, fists clenching at my sides.
“What’s up?” Phoenix asks, noticing my change in demeanor. He sees Fallon through my line of sight and winces.
“Dude, coach wants a meeting,” he yells over the roar of the crowd but I don’t turn back.
I stomp toward her, my frustration boiling over, the voices of those around us fading into background noise. As I approach, Fallon’s posture stiffens. Good. It means she senses my rage.
“Fallon!” I shout, finally reaching the bleachers. People begin to turn their heads, chatting spreading like wildfire. Her face reddens, not just from the attention but from the confrontation. She stands from her seat and stomps down the stairs.
“What the hell is your problem?” she snaps.
“If you don’t get Gray’s name off of your skin, I’ll tear it to pieces in front of everyone.” Each word drips with barely-contained fury, my composure shattering like thin ice beneath the crushing weight of impending chaos.
Fallon narrows her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest in defiance. It is a signature move, one that makes her look fierce and impetuously beautiful.
“Don’t test me, little fox,” I warn. “Change now!” I command, though the urgency is tinged with a desperate plea, and I hate how much I care.
She pauses, a glittering smile dancing on her lips as she counters, “What if I left it in my room?”
“You didn’t. I know you brought it, because you wouldn’t risk it,” I reply smugly, watching the aggravated demeanor melt into something more vulnerable—if only for a moment.
“Fine,” she spits, the bite of frustration beneath her words mingling with an undeniable intrigue. With a swift pivot, she turns on her heels, marching toward the bathroom with a flick of her blue hair—a storm cloud retreating only to gather strength.
The group of FishNettes, swimmer groupies, eye me suspiciously but I just smile as I make my way back to my team.
“Remy!” A girl shouts behind me. Turning I see Becca, a skinny, fake tanned slut that spreads her legs for anyone on the team.
“What?” I snap.
“Thought we could hang out after your meet.” She flutters her fake eyelashes at me, making me want to puke. I don’t know how I was ever into these chicks. Well, not really into, just more using them for my own purposes.
“That won’t be happening,” I laugh, causing her to pout. She sits back down with the rest of her posse as I make my way over to the team.
“You good, bro?” Gray laughs and if it wasn’t a fucking meet, I would punch his smug ass right here.
“Fine,” I grit out.
“Lyndsy probably gave her the shirt, man.” I figured that, but it doesn’t make me any less angry that she purposely defied me.
“Alright, team! Listen up!” Coach Morris’s authoritative voice clears the air. We stand in semi-circles, tension and anticipation taut as the swim caps on our heads. He goes over the heats and lanes, declaring, “You’ve trained hard for this; trust your instincts.”
I slip on my cap, the cool material reminding me of the water’s embrace as I approach lane two, its shimmering surface promising solace in the turbulence of competition.
I see a flash of blue from the corner of my eye and I immediately zone in on Fallon returning to her seat. Relief strikes me like a tidal wave, washing away the ache in my chest. My name should always be on her.
The seconds blur into an endless line, forming a smokescreen for my racing heart. Just as the first whistle echoes through the room, anticipation buzzes like static.
“Swimmers take your marks.” I slide down into the pool by the edge, waiting for the next whistle to begin the race. My hands grasp the bar below the starting block as my mind focuses on the only thing that matters right now. My victory. I can taste it. And then the buzzer sounds.
Water pulls at me, calling me home. With a deep breath, I surge backwards into the frigid water, slicing through the surface as my surroundings transform into a realm governed by fluidity and grace.
Each stroke rushes me further away from the whirlwind of feelings that presses against my chest. But it is also a reminder of the storm that is Fallon—bright, chaotic, deeply intriguing.
My rhythm finds a calming pattern. I inhale, exhale, and my movements synchronize with the pulse of the water. Each lap becomes a meditative rhythm. The water, cool and embracing, serves as a sanctuary from the chaos that churns in my mind. My strokes are powerful and smooth, slicing through the water with practiced ease. The roar of the crowd fades, replaced by the steady cadence of my breathing and the rush of water past my ears.
I surface briefly, catching glimpses of the backstroke flags, telling me how far I am from the wall. My goal is within reach. The tension in my muscles coexists with the strange calm that comes from pushing my limits.
I shove harder, each stroke a declaration of my will, a refusal to be anything less than the best. The final lap looms, and I summon every ounce of strength and focus. The wall approaches, and I give one last powerful kick, propelling myself forward with everything I have.
I touch the wall, the cool tile beneath my fingers marking the end of the race. I emerge from the water, gasping for air, every muscle burning with exertion. A horn blares, and I know the heat is finished. The noise of the crowd rushes back, a cacophony of cheers and shouts. I glance toward the stands, searching for Fallon’s face among the throngs of people. She’s smiling, pulling at something deep within me.
I look up at the board, waiting for the times to be displayed. Finally, the numbers flash and my heart soars. I not only placed first in this heat, but also broke my personal record.
As I climb out, water cascading from my body, I barely listen to the cheers surrounding me. All I can see is Fallon weaving her way through the crowd, her radiant blue shirt glowing like a beacon.
“You’re not as awful as I thought,” she laughs, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Is that your way of complimenting me?” I smirk, throwing the towel over my shoulder.
She steps closer, a playful glint in her eye. “Take it how you want,” she teases, a grin spreading across her face.
“I’ll take it as a win,” I reply, my heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the race. “And I beat my record, by the way.”
Fallon’s eyes widen, and she smiles even brighter. “Of course you did. You’re the ‘Shark’ after all.”
“Oh, little fox, you have no idea,” I reply, a cocky grin spreading across my face. The meet continues until Frampton is awarded the win, not that I had a doubt.
The guys begin cheering as the crowd from the bleachers swarm us.
“Good work, Frampton,” Coach Morris roars beside me. “You’ll be leading us to nationals.” Fallon steps further away as I’m flocked with my team and fans. It’s not until I look up again that I see she’s gone. The cheering around us is infectious as I celebrate our victory with the team.