Prologue #2
I sprint below deck, patching holes on instinct. When I reach overhead, my shoulder protests and I hiss before I can stop myself.
“There it is,” DreamBoat says.
“There is what?”
“The ‘I’ve iced this twice today’ noise.”
I laugh despite myself. “Fine. I swim.”
“Competitive?”
“Collegiate.”
There’s a pause. Longer this time. Different.
“End of season?” he asks.
I hesitate.
This is usually where I deflect. Make a joke. Keep it vague. Because swimming isn’t just something I do—it’s the thing everyone thinks they understand about me. The thing I’m supposed to want without question.
Lately, I don’t.
I’m finishing school. Graduating. Standing at the edge of whatever comes next, and for the first time, the water doesn’t feel like the answer to everything.
I’m still good—good enough that expectations cling to me whether I invite them or not—but my heart has started to waver.
Some days I love it. Some days I’m just…
tired. And I don’t trust myself enough yet to know what that means.
Especially not with Rory looming in the background. The standard. The shadow. The unspoken comparison I’ve been swimming against my whole life.
Letting anyone see that uncertainty feels dangerous. Like admitting it might make it real.
But I’ve already crossed a line tonight.
And he’s still here.
“NCAAs,” I say finally. “End of the month.”
The silence stretches.
“Okay,” he says. “That explains everything.”
“Explains what?”
“Why you sound like you’re holding it together with kinesio tape and spite.”
I laugh out loud, and the tension breaks. But before I can reply, we get boarded.
Chaos erupts—missed blocks, bad angles, everything happening at once. I misstep and get knocked clean off the ship.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter, treading water.
“Hold on,” DreamBoat says immediately. “I’m coming for you.”
“This is becoming a theme.”
“I’m consistent under pressure.”
He scrambles onto a floating barrel and reaches out a hand.
“I’d hate for the sharks to get you before I do.”
I grab on. “You just like rescuing me.”
“I won’t deny that.”
We respawn laughing, the moment stretching softer than it should.
“So,” he says, like he’s trying not to sound casual. “Collegiate swimmer heading to NCAAs. Where do you train?”
It’s not some deeply personal secret. College is basic information—the kind of thing people toss around without thinking. But it’s also a thread you can follow back to a real person, and common sense says you don’t hand pieces of yourself to someone you’ve never met.
A voice through a headset isn’t real life. That’s the rule.
Except, he kind of is.
I’ve spent more time with DreamBoat than I care to admit—listening to the way his voice dips when he’s focused, the way it smooths out when he laughs.
It’s deep and steady, grounding in a way that makes my shoulders relax without me noticing.
There’s warmth there, too. Reassurance. Like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
Like I am, when I’m here with him.
I’ve wondered what he looks like. What it would feel like to hear that voice without a mic between us. I’ve caught myself imagining seeing him across the room as our eyes connect, and those awkward first few seconds of realizing the person you’ve been talking to is real.
That’s the dangerous part.
Because this isn’t just information anymore.
It’s possibility.
But he’s never pushed. Never rushed me. Never made this feel unsafe.
And somehow, that makes me want to step closer instead of backing away.
“UC Berkeley,” I say finally.
“No way.”
“What?”
“I live in Palo Alto.”
My stomach flips. He’s South Bay area while I’m East.
“That’s close.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Close enough to make this dangerous.”
Dangerous because my stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with distance. Because suddenly I don’t want this to stay a game.
We sail in silence for a few seconds, the water lapping against the hull.
“Ever grab coffee near Aquatic Park?” he asks.
“The place with the cinnamon rolls the size of my face?”
“That’s the one.”
“Maybe...” I mute my mic, my heart racing with the kind of excited buzz that’s hard to sit still through. The kind that makes me grin at my own screen like an idiot.
This was supposed to stay simple.
A game. A voice. A distraction.
Instead, I find myself wondering if he’s as handsome as he sounds. If that laugh matches his smile. If meeting him in real life would feel just as easy—or even better.
Once my heart rate is under control, I unmute.
“No pressure,” he says quickly. “We can keep it virtual.”
“I didn’t say no.”
His laugh is low and warm. “I’ll take that as a win.”
I log off later than I should, shoulders still aching—but now there’s something else layered on top of it.
Because this?
This definitely isn’t just a game anymore.
CONNOR
April
I’m so fucking nervous. More nervous than I was walking out for my first Olympics, which is ridiculous.
She’s a woman I met online. We don’t have to be anything.
We could keep the headsets, the late-night raids, the flirting that pretends it’s not flirting.
But I’d be lying if I said that spark didn’t jump the screen months ago.
I haven’t been on a real date in years. That’s not an accident.
Casual keeps things simple. Everyone knows the drill, no one expects pancakes or Netflix or falling asleep on my shoulder.
But SailorGirl has me imagining all of it—her feet on my coffee table, my hoodie on her, my kitchen a disaster.
It’s insane. It’s also the first thing I’ve looked forward to in months that didn’t involve a starting buzzer.
The truth is, I’m lonely.
Lonely enough that her voice through a headset feels like home.
I meant to get to the café early, do the thing where you pick a table and look casual. Instead, I changed my shirt three times, stared at a mirror like it contained the answers to life’s greatest mysteries, and now I’m late.
It’s not the first impression I wanted to make. With anyone else I wouldn’t care. With SailorGirl, I do.
I’m reaching for the coffee shop door when my phone rings. It’s Nico, of course.
I should let it go to voicemail. But, if I don’t pick up, he’ll keep calling, and the last thing I want is his voice bleeding into my date—er, meeting. Whatever this is.
So, I answer.
“What’s up?”
“Not you,” he says, papers shuffling in the background. “You’ve dropped to the fourth most relevant swimmer in the world.”
Of course I have.
Relevance. Not speed. Not results. Not the thing I actually get in the water for. I press my thumb into the edge of my phone, jaw tightening, already knowing where this is headed.
“I’m putting up my fastest times. World records.”
“I said relevant, Connor. Campaigns. Impressions. Money. That’s what matters.”
“Actually—”
“Where are you?” he cuts in.
“Coffee shop.”
“Why?”
“Meeting someone.”
“The swimsuit model Jackie lined up?”
“What? No.”
“And you never responded to Trina’s niece. That favor had a watch account tied to it.”
“I’m not dating someone for a sponsorship.”
“Why not?” He laughs, not nicely. “You’ve done more for less.”
There it is. The past, dangled like bait. Nico’s magic trick has always been the same. Push me to the line, sell me the reason, then vanish if it goes sideways. As my manager, he’s supposed to guard the lane ropes for me. Lately it’s felt like he’s selling tickets to watch me drown.
I don’t have the energy for this today.
I hang up before he can dress the next minefield in a bow, then put my phone on do not disturb.
Somewhere between medals and photo shoots I built a brand that turned into a cage.
Lone wolf. No team dinners. No midnight calls to anyone but a publicist. The guys on deck respect my times and keep their distance.
Fans love the myth. Meanwhile, my real conversations happen through a mic to a girl named SailorGirl who knows how to bait a skeleton sloop and how to make me laugh at 2 a.m.
I push into the coffee shop and the bell over the door tings like I’m on stage. It’s busy. A couple people in line. Most already seated. I scan for our signal.
There at a table for two, with a Sea of Thieves guide lined up like a flag, is Sailor Girl.
Her back is to me. Caramel-blonde hair, straight and glossy, falling over a black athletic dress. Even from here her arms scream hours in the pool. I haven’t seen her face, and I’m already half in love with her—already building a life out of the smallest details revealed over late-night gaming.
When a barista walks over to the table and sets down an iced drink, SailorGirl turns her head.
I stop dead in my tracks.
She’s stunning. Blue-green eyes with lashes for days, cheeks warm from the sun, and a heart-shaped mouth that looks like trouble.
Then, my gaze drops lower. Long, strong legs crossed under the table, relaxed but powerful, like she knows exactly what her body can do.
Heat rolls through me, sharp and undeniable.
Then she smiles.
Real and easy. Like she’s already comfortable here. My heart slams against my ribs, breath hitching, because that smile doesn’t just make her beautiful; it makes her irresistible.
For a second, my focus slips.
I imagine she’s close. Warm and soft and sweet. My hands at her hips, while that laugh I’ve memorized goes softer when I pull her in. The weight of her—real, solid, a perfect fit—settling against me.
Fuck. I want her. Plain and simple.
I take a step forward, my pulse hammering.
And then something catches. A flicker of recognition, sharp and cold beneath the heat. A familiarity that doesn’t come from months of late nights and shared wins online.
I know her.
It takes a beat to place her, and then it hits me like the sting of an ice bath.
Whitney Shields.