Chapter 3 #2
Good for him, seriously. It just makes me wonder what I’m doing with all my chaos now that it’s been left unsupervised.
I take a sip of iced coffee to hide the way my mouth tips up. “Honestly? It’s kind of iconic. I’m proud of him.”
Winnie hums in agreement. “Summer brings out the best in him.”
“I hope so,” I say, because I mean it.
I also hope Summer likes me, because we’re stuck with each other now and I’m not great at playing the composed little sister. That’s never been my lane. My lane is more wandering and unruly.
Like meeting a guy online who made me laugh so hard I forgot I was lonely.
Like spending late nights gaming with someone who didn’t know my last name or my swim stats or my family tree.
Like saying yes to meeting him in real life even though half of my friends and teammates would have made me carry pepper spray and a location tracker.
A guy who didn’t show.
I take another sip of coffee, then tip the cup toward Winnie, because apparently everyone’s romantic life is a little weird right now, and she’s not getting out of this check-in unscathed.
“What about you?” I ask. “Still seeing Xavier?”
Winnie’s smile stays in place, but something behind it shifts. “Yeah. Still with Xavier.”
My brows lift. “That sounded wildly enthusiastic.”
She huffs a laugh and looks down at her coffee. “He’s fine. We’re fine.”
I know that tone. Fine is what people say when something is not fine, but they’re hoping no one asks for details.
“For the record,” I say, “I support you being adored obnoxiously.”
Her smile turns brighter. “Thank you.”
“And fed. Snacks are important.”
“Obviously.”
Then I let it go, because Winnie has been here for me and I’m not trying to repay her kindness by immediately interrogating her personal life.
“Give it time,” she says cheerfully.
I blink. “With Xavier?”
“Summer,” she says, laughing as she flops onto my half-made bed. “Give Summer time. You’ll like each other.”
“Oh. Right.” I wave my coffee vaguely. “Sorry. I got lost in the relationship weeds.”
“Understandable. It’s a dense forest.”
Her smile lingers for another second, then she gives me a look so sharply athletic-trainer it could probably diagnose inflammation from across the room. “Speaking of things we’re not ignoring forever…”
I groan. “Please don’t make that face.”
“What face?”
“The one that says you’re about to ask me if I’ve been taking care of my body like a responsible adult.”
“Well.” She pops one of the energy bites into her mouth and points at me. “Have you?”
I take a very long sip of iced coffee. Her eyes narrow.
“So,” she says, chewing thoughtfully, “how’s the shoulder?”
I rotate it experimentally. “Fine. Just the usual end-of-season hangover.”
Winnie raises one eyebrow. The one that says, you’re a terrible liar, and I have a degree in detecting that.
“When was the last time you took a break that didn’t involve an ice pack?” she asks.
I open my mouth, then close it again.
My eyes drift toward the stack of envelopes and folders on the dresser—my swimmer paperwork pile. Most of it is from my agent. Brand briefs, social media talking points, and a cheerful cover letter reminding me how “fortunate” I am to be a marketable athlete with a decent following.
Apparently, I’m supposed to be filming unboxing videos of new goggles, smiling through meet-and-greets with executives who’ve never been in a pool longer than a hotel lap lane, and posting skin-care content because if the product can make my chlorine-infused skin glow, then it’s a winner.
It’s fine. It’s part of the job. It just feels like the part where you’re playing the role of Professional Olympian? rather than being a person who used to get in the water because it made her head feel less complicated.
Tucked under the stack—almost hidden on purpose—is the application that actually made me pause when it showed up in my inbox last month.
A call for new Rising Tides Foundation Ambassadors.
Rising Tides Foundation uses its partnership with professional athletes to teach water safety, fund swimming lessons, and expand access to pools in communities that don’t have them.
It’s also the first thing in months that made my brain spark with joy. It felt like a chance to do something that wasn’t about brand metrics or follower counts or engagement.
My silence is Winnie’s answer.
“Exactly,” she says, victorious.
I drop onto the floor next to my half-repacked box. “I’m here, aren’t I? That counts.”
Winnie softens, which is extremely unfair because I did not ask to be understood today.
“You don’t have to force anything yet,” she says. “Just train. Breathe. Maybe remember you’re allowed to like swimming just for swimming’s sake.”
I swallow. Not because she’s wrong—but because she’s too right.
The part I don’t say—not yet—is that I used to love the water so much it felt like flying. I chased times and medals because it was fun. Because I was good. Because it was mine.
Somewhere between Olympics and college and expectations and living in Rory Shields’ very large, very shiny shadow, it stopped feeling like mine.
And now I don’t know how to get that part back.
“You’ll get out of your rut,” Winnie says, nudging my knee with hers. “This place is magic.”
I snort. “You mean because all the swimmers here are hot and emotionally unstable?”
“Exactly,” she says, completely unbothered. “Plus, the ocean is right there.”
As if on cue, a gull screams outside like it’s auditioning for the role of a murderous crow in Wednesday.
I raise my iced coffee. “Perfect ambiance.”
She hops off the bed. “I’m doing recovery rounds at the facility in an hour. If you want, I’ll get you a lane.”
I nod. “Yeah. Okay.” Swimming without pressure might actually help. Maybe.
She heads for the doorway, then pauses and looks back.
“And, Whit?” she says, voice softer. “You don’t have to become Rory. We already have one.”
My throat tightens around something heavy and stupid. I wave her off like a normal, well-adjusted person who definitely is not feeling things.
When she’s gone, I look at the controller box again.
I refuse to touch it.
Then I very maturely kick it farther under the bed and think about other activities I can replace gaming with.
Needlepoint. Crochet. Mahjong. Baking sourdough bread.
New start. New era. New hobbies.
Even if a tiny, traitorous part of me still wonders why he didn’t show.