Prologue #3
Rory’s little sister. Rory—the guy who taught me to love the grind and hate the noise. The guy I disappointed in the ugliest way. The one who turned into a rival after I took a shortcut and carried the fallout alone.
The last time I saw Whitney she was thirteen, maybe fourteen, all braces and bright eyes at a national meet.
She was cute then. Now, she’s devastating.
She thanks the barista, then laughs at something the woman says—head tipped, throat bare—and my stomach pulls tight.
Her gaze drifts toward the door—toward me—and I step sideways into the narrow hallway by the bathrooms. I need a moment to decide if I’m the guy who walks over and detonates the only good thing in his life, or the guy who swallows it and backs away.
It doesn’t take long for me to decide.
I know how this goes.
The second she sees me, it’s over.
She won’t see DreamBoat. She’ll see the guy who burned her brother. The headline version. The one who shows up in photos with different women and never sticks around long enough for anyone to expect more. The flashy, arrogant version Nico’s been selling for years.
And that’s not fair to her.
She didn’t sign up for baggage. She didn’t sign up to reconcile old grudges or sort truth from rumor. She logged on to play a game. To laugh. To feel safe.
Walking over means asking her to carry all of that the second she looks at me.
I won’t do that to her.
I take a breath, then another, like I’m steadying myself on the blocks. My body hates it.
For a second, I picture walking over, saying the line we agreed on—Permission to come aboard?—and watching her face light. For a second I want it so badly it hurts.
Instead, I turn toward the door and leave.
The scoreboard flips and the natatorium spikes—bleachers, whistles, that bright echo you only get over chlorinated water.
First place by two-hundredths of a second.
Knife-edge win. My ribs buzz like I’m still mid-stroke.
I haul myself out—cap off, goggles shoved to my forehead—and the pool deck tilts toward everyone else.
Two lanes down, a swimmer points at his family and gets a whole section on its feet.
Another is wrapped in a towel, his teammates pounding his back.
The camera peels off toward the hometown runner-up for his interview.
My first-place finish keeps blinking on the board.
Connor Fisk. Lane four.
I wait for it—the clap on the shoulder, the quick nod, the good swim. Anything that says this mattered to someone other than a camera.
Nothing comes.
“Second turn was soft,” Coach says, stopwatch parked on his chest. “You lost the wall. Tempo went to hell the last fifty.”
Tom Kincaid has a way of standing like he owns whatever deck he’s on—shoulders squared, chin lifted, eyes already moving past you to the next thing that might be useful.
His coaching style is control by omission.
He never gets wet. Never yells. Doesn’t need to.
His power lives in the stopwatch and he expects you to apologize to it.
“I won,” I say, breath still ragged. “Fastest of the season.”
“Barely.” He taps the watch. “If you want to stay relevant, you don’t finish like that.”
Relevant.
Nico’s word from yesterday. Campaigns. Impressions. Dollars.
The noise fades like someone turned a dial. I’m vibrating and hollow at the same time. Whitney flashes through my head—flower straw, our stupid signal, and the hallway where I chose not to walk toward her.
“I negative-split the back half,” I say. “It wasn’t soft.”
“Don’t argue.” Kincaid’s eyes slide past me to the boom mic drifting closer. “You’re late for media.”
“I just got out of the water.”
He sighs like I’m the inconvenience. “You think wins hide lazy habits. They don’t. If you did what I told you, you’d be untouchable.”
Lazy.
Like double sessions when my shoulder buzzed electric. Ice later, content now.
Like tacking lifts onto pace work because a sponsor photographer showed.
Like asking for a sports psych and getting, You don’t need to lay on a therapist’s couch. You need thicker skin.
Like the no fraternizing rule that only applied when teammates invited me to dinner.
I’d sent feelers out to a handful of coaches weeks ago. Quiet ones. Most never replied. The ones that did were polite in a way that meant they wanted nothing to do with me.
I laugh once. Flat. “Untouchable like the block-start optimization we shot for a brand deal instead of prelims?”
His mouth tightens. “Brand matters. Your problem is attitude.”
“My problem,” I say, steady now, “is I’m coached like a billboard.”
He steps closer, deck lights carving his face into hard angles. “You going to run again? That your move—go dark, sulk, bite the hand—”
“What I want,” I cut in, “is coaching. Not punishment. Not press notes. Coaching.”
“You think Owens is going to fix you in Coral Cove?” he snaps. “You think he wants your mess?”
There it is. Not a guess. A threat.
Kincaid knows. Every quiet email. Every door I knocked on that didn’t open. I should’ve expected it. This is how he keeps control—by making sure there’s nowhere else to go.
Something clicks.
The fog lifts.
Nico sells relevance. Kincaid sells control. I’ve been buying both because it was easier than saying what I really want.
I unzip my mesh bag and pull out the envelope I’ve carried for a week—half dare, half lifeline—and hold it out.
He doesn’t take it. “What is this?”
“Thirty-day termination,” I say. “Clause twelve. Training environment fails performance and medical standards.” The cashier’s check is clipped inside. “I’m out.”
He barks a laugh that echoes off the rafters. “You think you can just walk?”
“I’m honoring my contract,” I say evenly, letting the nearby mic catch it. “I’m documenting why. I’m telling you before I tell anyone else.”
“You’ll burn every bridge,” he says.
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe I’ll finally build one.”
He snatches the envelope. “You’re done here.”
“I know.”
I shoulder my bag and head for the tunnel.
Nico peels off a pillar like he’s been waiting for his cue. Sunglasses indoors. Of course.
“That finish was messy,” he says. “We spin it gritty—”
“You’re fired.”
He laughs. “Be serious.”
“I am.” I don’t slow. “Termination per clause nine. Check your email. Legal’s handling it.”
My phone buzzes.
Evan
Saw the swim. You still serious about changing things? Owens is in town.
Evan Brooks is one of the few guys I trusted from the circuit. He’s retired now but knows Coach Owens.
There’s another vibration, and a text comes in from an unknown North Carolina number.
Coach Owens
Connor—if you’re serious about a change, come swim a trial block. No cameras. Just water.
I glance back at the pool. Lane lines glow under the surface. I used to love that glow. Somewhere along the way, I traded it for ring lights.
“Go home, Nico,” I say, and keep moving.
The tunnel is blessedly dim—cinderblock, old meet posters, a thin river of water finding a drain. I sit on a gear case and scroll to the voicemail I never delete. The timestamp is years old.
I shouldn’t hit play.
I do anyway.
“Hey, baby,” my mother says, bright like she’s walking through the door with groceries. Not a care in the world. “Swim your race. Call me after. Love you.”
The recording clicks off. She was still alive then. And I was still trying to fix everything.
I press the phone to my sternum until the ache steadies.
“I quit,” I tell the empty hallway.
For once, it sounds like a choice. Not an escape.
I text Owens back.
Yes. Trial block. Monday.
Then to Evan.
Thanks for the nudge. I appreciate you.
No chats. No posts. No excuses. If I’m going to be the man who shows up, I have to show up clean.
Back on deck, I turn in my credential. I feel Kincaid watching me from the opposite end of the pool. Nico’s already on the phone, spinning the loss.
I don’t look at either of them.
I look at the water and think about a different deck—salt air, faded paint, a coach who cares more about my stroke than my sizzle, a team that might actually look me in the eye.
I think about a girl with golden hair and a sun-kissed smile who deserves a version of me that doesn’t hide.
Then I go pack.