Chapter 5
five
. . .
WHITNEY
The parking lot is full in a way that makes my stomach do a weird little flip.
It’s not because I’m surprised the Carolina Current facility is busy. It’s always busy. It’s just…different when you’re not the kid showing up for summer training with a duffel bag and a dream.
Different when you’re showing up as Whitney Shields, NCAA champion, record-holder, Olympic swimmer, allegedly a “brand,” and still somehow the girl who can’t keep a box upright.
I sling my bag higher on my shoulder and stare at the glass doors for half a beat longer than necessary.
Okay. Home.
Except home used to feel like exhaling.
Now it feels like stepping onto a deck where everyone already knows your name—and what they think it means.
The doors whoosh open and the noise hits me first. Echoes off tile in the front lobby. The faint chirp of a whistle behind glass. Water splashing in the distance.
A group of guys comes around the corner on their way out—wet hair, slides hitting tile, faces freshly sun-kissed. They’re talking over each other in that post-practice way, energized and starving and already arguing about food.
Logan is in the middle of them, boisterously waving protein shakes around, one in each hand.
Charlie’s there, too, obnoxious neon sunglasses pushed into his hair, smiling like he’s the kind of person who genuinely enjoys morning workouts. Eli is behind them, easy and warm, saying something that makes Logan laugh harder.
For a second, I hover just outside their orbit.
Like my body remembers the old version of this—me trailing behind Rory with my gear, trying to look like I belonged. Back then I didn’t feel pressure and I felt lucky.
Now I’ve got Olympic medals, and NCAA titles still buzzing in my bloodstream, an agent telling me to capitalize on the moment, and a whole internet nickname that follows me like a shadow. I should feel excited. I do.
But I also feel slightly off, like the floor is familiar, but my feet forgot the pattern.
Then Logan’s eyes land on me and his face lights up.
From behind Logan, Rory appears, eyes on his phone. A nudge to his ribs has him looking up and his gaze falling on me.
I don’t hesitate.
“Hurricane Whitney, incoming!” I call, rushing toward him.
He catches me in his arms, before sweeping me off the floor for half a second—because he’s Rory, and he’s dramatic in the most affectionate way—then sets me down like I’m something precious.
“Welcome home,” he says, grin bright enough to be annoying.
Eli slides in next, all easy warmth and big-brother energy, and Charlie follows with a quick hug that’s gentler, like he still remembers I’m the little sister who used to hover at the end of lanes watching them in awe.
Logan attempts a hug, protein shakes still in both hands making it a bit awkward.
“Captain Chaos,” he smiles affectionately.
I laugh. “Good to know you’re still insufferable.”
He grins like that’s a compliment.
Rory keeps his hands on my shoulders like he’s verifying I’m real. His eyes flick over my face, my bag, my ponytail, like he’s running a checklist.
“You get here okay?” he asks immediately. “No flight delays? No lost luggage? No—” his eyes narrow— “emergency Target runs?”
“I’m offended by how accurate that is,” I say.
“It’s called pattern recognition,” he replies, dead serious. Then he adds, “Winnie texted me you moved in last night. Are you settled?”
I make a face. “Define settled.”
Logan snorts. “At Winnie’s? You’re never settled. You’re regulated. There are rules.”
Rory eyes him. “Aren’t you the reason she made rules?”
“Rule one,” Charlie says, counting on his fingers like he’s giving a seminar. “No wet towels on any surface.”
Logan cuts in immediately, deadly serious. “Rule two: label your food. Every single thing. Because if Winnie thinks it’s communal, it becomes communal.”
Eli laughs. “He’s not kidding. He wrote his name on a banana last summer.”
“It was two bananas,” Logan corrects. “And it worked.”
I blink. “You Sharpied fruit?”
Logan points a protein shake at me like I’m the problem. “Whitney, you think I’m going to let someone take my post-practice carbs? Absolutely not.”
Rory’s grin is bright and proud and way too pleased with all of this. “God, I missed you.”
My throat tightens for half a second, so I cover it with a grin. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get sappy.”
“I just can’t believe how grown up you are.”
“You saw me a few months ago.”
“I know, but seeing you here is different.”
I get it.
“Speaking of being a grown up. You married a woman you met on the beach like you’re starring in a reality show. Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”
Rory’s smile goes soft in the middle. “I’m not being held hostage.”
“Okay,” I say, suspicious. “So, you’re just…happy?”
His expression shifts—less teasing, more certain. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I am.”
For a beat, the loud part of me quiets.
Then I snap back to my natural state. “Fine. I’ll stop roasting you for five minutes. But I need to meet your wife.”
“You will,” he says immediately, like he’s already penciled it in. “Tonight. After dinner. Or—” he squints like he’s doing mental math, “after my recovery block, if you’re not dead.”
Logan lifts a shake. “Summer’s cool, Whit. You’ll like her.”
“Well, either way, I promise not to break down into hysterics like our mom did. Though I do a pretty good impression if anyone wants to see it.”
Rory laughs, then squeezes my shoulder again, and I catch the quick flicker behind his eyes—proud, a little emotional, trying not to show it in front of the boys.
“You good?” he asks, quieter. Just for me.
I nod. “Yeah. Just…recalibrating.”
Rory’s gaze holds mine like he gets it. Like he knows what it’s like to come home with a resumé people want to read.
“Okay,” he says. “Go find Alex. And tell her I said don’t go easy on you.”
“Rude,” I call after him, waving to the guys as they head for the exit.
As I make my way through the lobby and toward the main hallway, a cluster of female sprinters jogs past in warm-ups, ponytails swinging, goggles perched on their foreheads.
Two of them—Jessa and Quinn—give me quick waves before ducking into the modality room for NormaTec boots.
On the other side of the glass wall, Maren and a couple of the butterfliers are finishing a brutal round of 75s while Coach Owens stalks the deck with a stopwatch and that famously unreadable expression of his.
Voices carry easily in these hallways. They always have. Especially when people forget you can hear them.
“—that’s Rory’s sister, right?”
“Yeah, Whitney. She went to Berkeley.”
“Wasn’t she at Worlds last year?”
“Dude, she’s Rory Shields’ sister. Of course she was.”
I keep my face neutral, but something tightens low in my chest. I love my brother and I’m proud of everything he’s accomplished. I just don’t love how being “Whitney Shields” turns into being “Rory Shields’ sister” before I’ve even made it to the weight room.
Like I’ve done a hundred times before, I follow the hallway of champions—the stretch of the aquatic center that displays thirty years of Carolina Current photographs and trophies.
There’s the slew of World Aquatics Championship trophies, the photograph of the ’98 team that managed to send its entire team—ten Carolina Current swimmers—to the Olympics that year.
And then there’s the picture of Rory and me.
Him at seventeen, all lanky limbs and broad shoulders, preparing for his first Olympics, and me in a pink tutu swimsuit with matching floaties.
My hair is a cyclone of frizzy waves. Shortly after this photo was taken, someone called my flamingo floaties adorable, so I yanked them off and insisted on swimming on my own.
I didn’t want to be adorable; I wanted to be strong and fast just like my brother.
Even then, we were who we are now, Rory, the golden boy of swimming, and me, his chaotic, sidekick sister.
I make my way up the stairs and toward the weight room.
It’s a standard weight room, with all the equipment Alex, my trainer, requires to torture me.
Rubber floors to soften box jump landings, dumbbell racks, kettlebells, resistance bands, and a thousand different types of stability balls.
But the thing that I love most is the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the outdoor pool deck.
When I walk in, Alex is there loading plates onto a bar at one of the squat stations.
“You made it,” she says, bouncing on her toes before wrapping me in a hug. “You ready to suffer?”
“Always,” I laugh at the excitement in her voice. “What do you got?”
She releases me to wave an arm toward her workout setup.
“Mobility, then glutes, then shoulder stability.” She turns back to wag a teasing finger at me. “If you behave, I’ll let you do core.”
“A tempting offer,” I say, moving to set my bag down. I don’t get far before Dani and Ren come rushing into the room.
“She’s back!” Ren screams. Then she’s on me. Full-body tackle hug. Her long dark ponytail whipping me in the cheek.
“I’m back!” I yell, wrapping my arms around her shoulders.
Dani crashes in a half-second later, arms wrapping around both of us, and suddenly we’re tangled in a group of limbs, laughing and screaming like we’re frenzied teenagers finally meeting our favorite boy band.
“We missed you!” Dani exclaims.
Ren cackles. Dani is already laughing, and the three of us are bouncing like we’re about to start chanting someone’s name.
Alex claps once—sharp, commanding.
“Okay,” she says, deadpan. “Love this. But if you scream again, I’m adding an extra set.”
Ren whispers dramatically, “She’s evil.”
“I’m efficient,” Alex corrects, not looking up from her tablet.
“Come on, Alex.” Ren pouts. “We need a moment to catch up. We haven’t seen each other since NCAA Championships. That was two months ago.”