Chapter 1
one
. . .
CONNOR
Pussy is staring at me again.
She’s perched on the side table like a judgmental little gargoyle, gray fur sleek in the morning light, white chest puffed out, front paws perfectly matched in tiny white socks. The end of her tail is tipped white too, like somebody dipped it in paint and then gave her the confidence of a landlord.
Because she acts like she owns the place.
Like I’m the weird one here, waking up in my bed with my feet hanging off the end because whoever purchased this bed thought grown men maxed out at five-ten.
“No,” I tell her, pushing upright. “You still don’t live here.”
She blinks. Slow. Those green eyes going judgmental like she’s disagreeing with everything I’ve ever said.
Pussy isn’t even my name for her. It’s on her collar.
Big, cheery letters on a pink tag like somebody thought they were hilarious and then lost their cat before they could enjoy the joke.
And now I’m the one living it.
Because I’ve been trying to stay out of trouble. Keep my head down. Don’t chase distractions. No pussy.
And now, Pussy is running my life. The irony is not lost on me.
For a disorienting half second my brain does that thing—tries to figure out what city I’m in, what pool I’m late for, whether I’m supposed to be meeting a trainer or an agent or a sponsor this morning.
The walls are the wrong color. The ceiling fan spins too fast. The sheets don’t smell like chlorine or hotel detergent or anything familiar.
Then my gaze lands on the pile of my things in the corner—duffel bag, the Champion backpack I’ve had since college, two pairs of sneakers, a stack of folded shirts I meant to put in actual drawers but didn’t.
Right.
Coral Cove.
The cat stretches, hops off the side table, and pads across the room like she’s giving me a tour.
She stops at the foot of the bed, tail flicking.
“You were outside three days ago,” I remind her. “You have a whole house of your own somewhere.”
She meows—a sound which I interpret as shut up and feed me—before strutting toward the door.
The rental house is two blocks from the beach, painted a cheerful pastel blue I absolutely did not request, and furnished in what I’m affectionately calling Coastal Granny.
Seashell lamps. Fern-pattern throw pillows.
And wicker chairs. So many wicker chairs.
The previous occupant must have watched Golden Girls during its original run.
I stride to the kitchenette—if you can call four cabinets and a stove a kitchenette—and crack eggs into a pan. The AC unit rattles overhead, the faucet squeals when I fill the cat’s water bowl, and my spine clicks when I lean down to set it on the floor.
I need a massage. Or a chiropractor. Probably both.
The Carolina Current’s training facility has all the recovery services I could dream of, but I haven’t made an appearance there yet.
For someone with sleeves of tattoos and a tongue piercing, I’m kind of a coward.
Just like I was with Whitney.
My gaze falls on the stack of unpacked boxes near the front door. Specifically, the one marked GAMING.
After I left the coffee shop, I’d signed on once debating if I should try to play off the failed meeting attempt, but the second I saw her gamertag in the lobby, I logged off.
Because walking out of the coffee shop hurt.
But getting a front-row seat to her deciding I wasn’t worth her time?
That would’ve wrecked me.
Pussy meows again because I’m taking too long. When I finally set the food down, she nibbles with poise and elegance, like she’s not the same feral cat that screeched at me all night.
I sigh. A cat was not in the plan.
After I shovel down the eggs, I carry a steaming cup of coffee to the couch and flip open my laptop. Pussy appraises me from the armrest.
Because nothing screams “no big deal” like watching footage of the guys I’m supposed to train with and attempt to not disappoint this time.
I queue up last year’s Worlds medley relay—Eli Mitchell on backstroke, Rory Shields on breast, Logan Wilson on fly, and Charlie Wallace anchoring free.
Four swimmers, four strokes, one organism.
Years of trust and shared lanes and inside jokes and whatever chemical bond forms when you sweat and bleed in the same pool for long enough.
Rory hits the wall on breaststroke with that wicked smooth pullout he does—the one I used to study frame by frame like a psychopath—before Logan launches off the blocks and throws down a fly split that would make most swimmers retire and take up pottery.
Charlie brings it home with what was then the fastest freestyle split ever recorded. Until I beat it two months later.
But sprinting the fastest freestyle lap on Earth doesn’t mean much when nobody trusts you with the relay handoff.
Pussy glances at the screen, then at me, tail flicking like she’s assessing the situation. Good luck infiltrating that ecosystem, buddy.
“I didn’t ask for notes,” I tell her.
But yeah. That’s the team. That’s the world I’m trying to walk into.
Warm, tight-knit, already in sync.
And then there’s me, showing up late to the party with guilt and a suitcase.
A very expensive suitcase—AIR travel systems, the luxury line—like a shiny little reminder that I used to be the kind of guy companies wanted to put on billboards.
They terminated my contract. I kept the luggage. A souvenir from when I was marketable.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Once. Then again.
I ignore it at first. Because ignoring things has always been my best skill. But the third buzz forces my attention to it.
It’s Leo, the agent I hired after I cut ties with Nico, and the closest thing I have to a plan right now. I’ve known him since my days at the Bay Area Swim Club, and unlike Nico, Leo isn’t distracted by shiny things. He deals in receipts, boundaries, and the annoying habit of being right.
Leo
You seeing this?
A link follows.
I’ve learned links to headlines are never good. I exhale slowly, hesitate, but tap it anyway.
It loads fast.
“FISK FIRES TEAM, COACH CLAIMS ‘SELFISH PATTERN CONTINUES’”
Below it, a photo of me pre-race—jaw clenched, goggles on. The swimmer next to me extending a hand while my focus is set on the pool.
I scroll.
Another outlet.
“FORMER MANAGER: ‘CONNOR FISK HAS ALWAYS DONE WHAT BENEFITS HIM’”
And another.
“‘FISK NEVER THINKS ABOUT OTHERS,’ SOURCES SAY”
My jaw tightens.
Of course they’re talking. Of course they are. They always do when they lose control of the story.
I skim quotes I recognize too well.
Uncoachable.
Difficult.
Doesn’t commit.
Burns bridges.
I huff out a short, humorless laugh.
Funny how no one mentions that I paid for my mom’s treatments out of my own endorsements when the bills piled up.
Or that I stayed quiet when my coach used my name to land his next contract.
Or that firing my manager was the first decision I’ve ever made that wasn’t about keeping someone else comfortable.
But yeah. Sure. Selfish.
My phone buzzes again.
Leo
We need to talk.
Another text follows immediately.
Leo
They’re framing this as you running instead of resetting. If you don’t get ahead of it, Coral Cove becomes “another bad decision.”
Running.
I stare at the word.
Running used to look different for me.
When the headlines got loud or the questions got uncomfortable, I didn’t hide—I indulged.
Flights booked last minute to places where no one asked follow-ups. Hotel rooms bigger than my apartment. People who liked me fast and loud and uncomplicated. Nights that blurred together until the morning felt distant and optional.
I told myself I was blowing off steam. That I’d earned it.
But really, I was numbing. Distracting. Filling space so I didn’t have to think about why being alone felt easier than being seen.
Pleasure was cleaner than accountability. Applause was safer than trust.
I glance around the rental—the pastel walls, the stupid seashell lamp, the cat now loafed on the couch like it’s her place, I just happen to be here.
This doesn’t feel like running.
This feels like finally breathing.
I type a response. Delete it, then type again.
It’s fine. Let it cool.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Leo
Connor, you don’t get unlimited grace right now. You walked away from your coach, your manager, and everyone who built their income around you in the same week. People are going to assume the worst.
I lock my phone and toss it onto the couch.
Because the worst part?
For the first time in my life, I don’t regret it.
I click to the next saved video without thinking.
Whitney’s NCAA championship highlights reel video loads. It’s a mashup of her events—100M freestyle, 100M butterfly, and individual medleys at both 200 and 400 meter distances.
The clip finishes on the home stretch of the 400IM. She destroys the field in her last fifty meters, her split something outrageous. She touches the wall and rips her goggles off with a feral grin like she knew the outcome before the starting beep.
I’ve watched this clip a dozen times. Maybe more. Watched each individual race as well.
Studying her kick tempo. Her turn speed. Her finish mechanics.
That’s the excuse I’ve given myself anyway.
But the truth sits lower in my ribs…watching Whitney swim is the closest thing I’ve felt to joy in months. It’s unfair how effortless she makes fast look.
“I know,” I tell the cat, who hasn’t made a sound, but is staring like she can tell my pulse just changed. “Shut up.”
I snap the laptop shut before I can hit replay for the thirteenth time. The cat blinks at me like she’d already tallied the count.
There was a time when this kind of restlessness would’ve sent me looking for noise.
A flight. A party. A body to disappear into for the night.
It always worked. Until it didn’t.
Now I just sit here, coffee cooling on the table, a stray cat judging my life choices, and the unsettling awareness that I don’t actually want any of the things that used to fix this feeling.