Chapter 5 #2
Ren and Dani just graduated from the University of Virginia.
We went to Coral Cove High School together and they’d wanted me to join them at UVA, but I chose UC-Berkeley to follow in Rory’s footsteps.
While I loved my time at Berkeley, there were moments I wondered if I should have chosen differently.
Found a path that wasn’t already paved. Something just for me.
Alex points her stylus toward the mats by the window. “Then you can catch up while you band walk. Mobility first.”
“Wait,” Dani says, running over to grab something from the bench by the door. “We brought you a welcome home treat.”
She produces a platter with a slice of cake so pretty my soul briefly exits my body.
I stop breathing. “Is that—?”
Dani nods proudly. “My meemaw’s famous Hummingbird cake.”
With a hand on my chest, I take in an awestruck breath.
Three golden layers speckled with banana and pineapple, toasted pecans tucked into the crumb.
Cream cheese frosting stacked between each layer like it’s not afraid of commitment—thick, glossy, swirled.
It’s the kind of frosting that you want to drag your fork through just to make the swirl collapse.
Or maybe that’s just me. I do have an affinity for things I can smoosh.
It’s a confectionary masterpiece. A flawless slice.
I press a hand to my chest. “Esther did not.”
Dani lifts her chin. “Esther did.”
Dani’s meemaw, Esther, makes the best Hummingbird cake in all of North Carolina. I mean, I haven’t tasted every Hummingbird cake recipe in the state, but if there was a way to do that, I would. You know, for research.
“A moment of silence,” I whisper.
Ren and Dani go still with me, all three of us staring at it like it might levitate.
“It’s almost too perfect to eat,” Ren says.
“Oh, I’m going to eat it.” I glance around, but there’s no fork in sight. Damn it.
Alex clears her throat, then steps forward and without ceremony takes the plate right out of Dani’s hands. “After,” she says.
With Alex’s movement, the slice wobbles.
I make a small, panicked sound.
“Alex, please be careful with her. She’s precious cargo.”
She looks at me like I’ve lost it. “Bands. Two sets. Knees out. Don’t cheat.”
Ren and Dani grab a resistance band while my eyes anxiously follow Alex’s steps across the room, finally letting out an exhale of relief when the plate of cake safely lands on the counter.
“I knew you’d be excited, but you look downright feral.” Dani laughs.
“You know I haven’t had that cake in years,” I whisper, trying to find a focus that isn’t dessert.
Ren tosses me a band. “I guess it’s motivation to get through the workout.”
We start our warm-up—bands on, hips loose, pretending we’re not thinking about dessert—and then Ren’s gaze locks on something out the window.
“Oh,” she says.
It’s quiet, but it pulls my focus anyway.
“What?” I ask, turning.
Outside, the outdoor pool is bright with late morning glare.
The lanes are filled with swimmers cutting through the water like they’re slicing up sunlight.
Overhead, the Current banners ripple in the breeze.
Everything looks the same as it always has until my attention catches on one swimmer climbing onto the block.
He’s tall, lean, and broad-shouldered in that way swimmers usually are.
His dark hair is pushed back off his forehead like he can’t be bothered to tame it.
Even from behind the glass, I can make out the faint indent of a dimple at the corner of his mouth, like his face knows how to smile even when he refuses to actually do it.
Tattoos climb both his arms, ink dark against wet skin, as it curves over the rounded muscles in his biceps and shoulders.
He bends forward, his back rippling with the movement.
Then, he launches.
It’s a clean arc and strong kickout with no wasted motion. Just power and control, like the water is something he owns, and he’s reminding it who’s in charge.
My pulse trips. It’s not dramatic, but just enough that I notice.
Dani’s voice drops. “That’s him.”
“Who?” I ask, even though my body already knows it’s someone I’m going to have opinions about.
“Connor Fisk,” Ren says.
The name lands heavy.
Connor Fisk.
My stomach drops so hard it’s a miracle my knees don’t follow.
Oh. My. God.
I was just mentally licking the tattoos off Connor Fisk.
As in, Rory’s least favorite person on the planet.
As in, the sponsorship debacle that rocked the swimming world.
As in, the One Who Betrayed My Brother.
Images flicker like a highlight reel in my brain—Rory pacing the kitchen ranting about loyalty and timing, my mom practically drafting hate mail, Logan calling him “Fisk the Risk,” the Current fan forums losing their collective minds.
Meanwhile, I’ve been over here thirsting like I just discovered what shoulders are.
I snap my gaze away so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
Of course it’s him. Of course, the universe would send me a man with muscles and mystery and obvious bad decision energy and then slap a giant DO NOT TOUCH label on him in permanent ink.
The rational part of my brain helpfully reminds me, He’s your brother’s rival.
The chaotic part of my brain fires back, Yes, but have you seen his arms?
“He’s here?” I ask, and I hate how much interest sneaks into my voice.
“Been here a week,” Ren says. “He showed up out of nowhere.
Dani snorts softly. “People don’t even say ‘Connor’ first. They say ‘Fisk.’ Like he’s a brand.”
Ren nods. “Because he kind of is.”
Connor hits the wall, flips with that crisp, practiced violence swimmers have underwater, and surges off again. When he breathes, it’s a quick turn—flash of cheekbone, dark lashes, that sharp line of his mouth.
He isn’t showy. If anything, he swims like he’s trying to disappear.
But the way his body moves makes it impossible not to look.
“Sponsorships, brand ads, he’s in everything,” Ren says.
“Every other scroll is him in jammers with a watch deal, or a goggle drop, or that energy drink that tastes like battery acid,” Dani adds.
Ren’s mouth tilts. “He’s got the whole vibe.”
“What vibe?” I ask, because I’m too damn curious.
Ren gives me a look like I’m making her say it. “Bad boy swimmer. Mysterious. Broody. Tattoos. Minimal talking. Maximum ‘accidentally hot in a way that ruins your day.’”
Dani’s eyes track him down the lane. “He doesn’t even have to try. He just exists near a camera and people lose their minds.”
“And then there are all the women he’s dated,” Ren whispers.
Dani makes a face. “Depends who you ask. Some people swear he’s a player. Some people swear he’s not even dating anyone; he just gets photographed like he is.”
Ren smirks. “There was a whole thing last year—some influencer posted him like it was a hard launch.”
“And?” I ask.
Dani shrugs. “And he never acknowledged it, which somehow made it worse.”
Ren’s eyes flick to mine. “He’s good at letting people write their own story about him.”
That line sticks because it feels familiar. I’m not a player or a risky teammate, but I do know what it’s like for the media to zoom in on one characteristic and make it my entire personality.
Connor pushes off again like he’s used to the gossip. Let people assume, let people talk, keep moving anyway.
My gaze stays glued to the water. “It’s interesting he’d come here.”
Ren’s mouth tilts. “Yeah. Like the one team where Rory Shields is captain?”
My stomach tightens, because Rory didn’t mention it. And if I were in Rory’s shoes, I wouldn’t be able to keep quiet. But something tells me he’s been a little preoccupied with his new wife.
Connor finishes the rep, then grabs the lane line, chest heaving once before he pushes his goggles up.
As he turns to climb out, the sun hits the side of his torso and my focus snags on something that shouldn’t be there in a pool.
A rectangle of clear plastic film—smooth and shiny—stuck to his ribs, just under his left side.
It doesn’t look like kinesio tape or a bandage, but the kind of protective cover you put over fresh ink so it doesn’t get wrecked by water and friction.
My brain supplies the thought before I can stop it. Must be a new tattoo.
Ren follows my gaze and makes a low sound of appreciation. “Oh, he got new ink.”
Dani squints through the glass. “On his ribs?”
Ren winces like she can feel it in her own body. “Yeah. Psychotic, isn’t it?”
I blink at her. “Maybe it’s not that bad?”
Ren turns, dead serious. “Whitney. Rib tattoos are, like, top five worst places. Breathing hurts. Laughing hurts. Existing hurts.”
Dani nods like she’s confirming a scientific fact. “It’s basically tattooing over a xylophone.”
Ren’s eyes track Connor again as he rolls his shoulders like it’s nothing, water streaming off him. “So, either he likes pain—”
“Or,” Dani cuts in, quieter, “it matters.”
That lands sharper than it should.
Because Connor doesn’t look like someone who does anything accidentally. The tattoos. The training. The way he carries himself like he’s constantly braced for impact. It all feels deliberate.
Outside, he hops down, grabs his towel, and wipes a hand over the edge of the film like he’s checking it’s sealed.
Then his head lifts and his gaze finds the window.
Finds me.
For one beat, he holds it—cool, unreadable, like he’s deciding what kind of moment this is allowed to be.
It isn’t a stare.
It’s one beat.
One clean, electric collision.
My breath goes tight, and suddenly I’m extremely invested in the resistance band around my legs.
“Holy shit. He saw you,” Ren whispers, delighted.
“He absolutely saw you,” Dani murmurs.
Alex’s voice slices through all of it. “Band walks. Now.”
I move into place as instructed. Still, heat shivers through me at the memory of his gaze tracking up to the window. There was recognition there—not that he knows me, but that he noticed. And I’m not dead inside enough to pretend it didn’t send a tiny thrill zipping down my spine.