20. Lane Assignments #2
Maren walks the deck as practice settles into its steady rhythm, the one she could follow blindfolded.
She calls out the next sets in a clear, even voice and pauses every few laps to yell, “Feet off the bottom.” It’s not at anyone—the whole group still needs the reminder.
The younger swimmers are trying with all their heart just to make it to the other side without stopping, tiny arms windmilling, kicks splashing more than they push.
Lane two is the loudest of them all, a tangle of determination and enthusiasm.
Rowan fights her way through her first full fifty, breathing on every stroke, legs kicking like she’s trying to out-swim gravity.
She stops only once at the halfway mark, hanging on the wall for three big breaths before pushing off again with a grunt of effort.
Maren can’t help the small swell of pride that rises in her chest as she watches.
She glances toward the bleachers without meaning to and catches the faintest shift in Reese’s posture, like she is holding her breath with every stroke Rowan takes.
Maren starts to move down the deck again, eyes tracking lane two as Rowan fights through the last few strokes of her fifty.
The kid is all effort and no rhythm, but she makes it, slapping the wall with a triumphant little grunt before sucking in air like she just defeated the entire Pacific Ocean.
Maren feels her mouth tip into a smile and giggle, she tries to hide behind the edge of her clipboard.
When she glances toward the bleachers, just for a second, she sees it.
Reese isn’t leaning back anymore. She’s forward on her elbows, hands clasped loosely between her knees, watching Rowan with a focus that borders on awe.
Her eyebrows lift, barely, but enough for Maren to see the pride hit her all at once.
It softens her face in a way Maren remembers too well.
Reese exhales, slow and almost shaky, and one corner of her mouth pulls upward as Rowan waves at her across the water.
It’s not dramatic. Just a tiny shift. But it lands in Maren’s chest like a pebble dropped into still water, sending out ripples she is not prepared to feel.
Maren blows the final whistle of the afternoon, one long, easy note that echoes off the tiles and signals the end of the day. A wave of cheers rolls down the lanes, followed by the familiar scramble of kids pushing themselves out of the pool and taking off their caps and goggles.
“Nice work today, guys,” Maren calls, walking the length of the pool as the last few climb out. “Don’t forget anything on deck, or it becomes mine. You know the rules.”
Rowan pops out of lane two like a launched torpedo, water streaming off her as she sprints towards the locker room.
She waves widely at Maren before disappearing; Maren can barely get the word “WALK” out of her mouth before the girl disappears.
Maren watches her go into the locker room, heart doing something warm and traitorous in her chest, then she turns back to start collecting stray kick boards and pulling buoys out of the gutter.
She crouches down to grab a few stray buoys when she feels it again, that shift in the air. Not loud, not sharp, just a presence settling into the space around her. Maren stands up slowly, wiping her damp hands on the sides of her shorts before turning back towards her office.
Reese stands just inside the doorway to the office, her hands stuck into the pockets of her jacket, her expression careful in a way that makes Maren’s pulse stumble.
The locker room hum continues next to them, but out here it is just the two of them and the faint smell of chlorine curling between them like something familiar.
Reese nods towards the empty office.
“Can we talk?” she asks, voice quiet and almost too steady.
Maren swallows hard, shifts her clipboard under her arm, and joins Reese in the office.
Maren pulls the chair out from behind her desk and offers it to Reese, then slides back to sit on the edge of the desk herself.
Reese shakes her head and stays standing, leaning against the cabinet like she needs extra support.
Maren glances down at her fingernails, picking at a cuticle as she forces herself to look up again. “So…what’s up?”
“I didn’t think you’d still be coaching age group,” Reese says, and there’s a tinge of regret in her voice she doesn’t manage to hide.
“I didn’t think you would come back,” Maren replies softly, eyes dropping to her feet as they kick lightly in the air where she sits on the edge of her desk.
Reese lets out a breath, the kind that sounds like it has been held for years.
“Rowan’s mom passed away three years ago,” she says.
Eyes fixed on a scuff mark on the tile. “And then last year, my mom got sick. I didn’t think I would ever need to come home again.
” She swallows, the words catching just slightly before she forces them out. “But here we are.”
Maren breathes in one, two, three, four. “I am sorry,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know.”
Reese shifts her weight against the cabinet, her eyes fixed on the floor. “I didn’t think you’d want to know,” she says, soft and almost embarrassed, like the admission costs her something.
Maren’s fingers pause against her cuticle. She looks up just long enough to meet Reese’s eyes, then down again, grounding herself against the edge of the desk. “I would have wanted to know,” she says quietly. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just true.
Rowan’s laughter hits the pool area before she does, a bright, echoing sound that slams straight into the fragile air between them. A second later, she bursts out of the locker room at full speed, hair half-dry, backpack hanging open, towel dragging behind her like a comet’s tail.
“Coach!” she yells, spotting Maren instantly. “Coach, guess what! I did two fifties, and I didn’t stop the second time, and Emma says otters hold hands in the water, so we were both kinda right!”
Maren startles upright from the desk, the spell between her and Reese fracturing cleanly. “Rowan,” she says, trying not to laugh, “walk.”
Rowan immediately slows to the world’s most exaggerated not running walk, arms swinging wildly as if that somehow proves her innocence. She skids to a stop just outside the office door, grinning up at both of them like she hasn’t shattered something delicate.
Reese straightens from the cabinet, slipping her hands back into her jacket pockets. The careful expression returns to her face, the one she uses when she’s not ready to say anything else. She nods once at Maren, small and grateful and weighted.
“I’ll…see you tomorrow,” Reese says, her voice steady again in a way that makes something in Maren’s chest tighten.
Maren nods back, even though she’s not sure she trusts her voice. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
Rowan grabs Reese’s hand without waiting, tugging her toward the exit with a stream of words about otters and kickboards and how she thinks she’s “probably almost on the fast team now.” Reese lets herself be pulled along, glancing over her shoulder once—just once—before the glass doors swing shut behind them.
The deck is quiet again.
The faint smell of chlorine curls through the air.
Maren lets it all out, long and slow, letting the stillness settle.
She has no idea what to do with any of this.
But for the first time in a long time, the thought doesn’t scare her.