Chapter 5 #3
I force myself to focus on the workout card Alex hands me. “Glute circuit,” she says, oblivious, or pretending to be. “Three rounds. Don’t cheat.”
Too late. I already did the biggest cheating imaginable—on my common sense.
Because now my brain has filed Connor Fisk under trouble I absolutely don’t need, but my body is a traitor about it anyway.
By the time Alex finally releases us, my glutes are trembling and my will to live is being held together by spite and the promise of cake.
Dani slides the plate into my hands like she’s passing contraband. “Go. Before Alex changes her mind.”
Ren sighs dramatically. “I’ve never loved anything like Whitney loves Esther’s Hummingbird cake.”
“It’s not just love,” I say, already backing toward the door. “It’s devotion.”
I glance down at the giant slice and inhale like I’m about to propose to it.
Then I pause.
“No fork,” I mutter, looking around the weight room like utensils might materialize out of sheer desperation.
Dani shrugs. “Just bite it.”
“I will,” I say, offended. “But I’d like to bite it with dignity.”
Ren grins. “You don’t have dignity. You have vibes.”
“I have standards,” I insist, shifting the plate carefully in both hands. “Winnie will have a fork. Athletic trainers have everything.”
Alex doesn’t even look up from her tablet. “Don’t steal medical supplies to invent utensils.”
“I’m not stealing,” I say, walking backward into the hallway. “I’m problem-solving.”
Ren calls after me, “Captain Chaos—”
“Don’t manifest disaster!” I call back, because I refuse to invite it when Esther’s mouthwatering cake is involved.
I make it down the stairs. A harrowing feat as the cake’s precarious height battles gravity.
Winnie’s office is just down the hall and around the corner. I’m almost there.
Almost.
But the frosting is right there, too—swirled thick and glossy, practically begging for me to take a taste.
I lift the plate closer to my face and because I’m only human, I take a quick bite off the edge.
It’s not a quick bite.
It’s an ambitious bite.
My mouth is suddenly full of cake. My cheeks puff. Cream cheese frosting hits my upper lip.
Possibly my nose.
No, definitely my nose.
I chew, while trying to keep walking with composure like I’m not currently eating dessert with my face like a feral woodland creature.
I turn the corner and hit something warm and solid.
It’s not a wall, but a man.
A shirtless man.
My hands jerk. The plate tilts. Cake meets skin in a smear of frosting and pineapple and—oh god, not my cake.
I watch in horror as the oversized slice slides off and lands on the tile with a soft, devastating splut.
My stomach drops to the floor after it.
I freeze with my mouth still full, staring down at what used to be perfection, and is now a heap of frosting and decimated cake.
A low inhale sounds above me. It’s controlled and sharp and really the only reason I don’t fall to the ground in agony.
I lift my gaze to find Connor Fisk staring down at me.
This isn’t “across the pool” Connor. Or “through a window” Connor.
This is close-up Connor. And he’s absolutely devastating.
Water still beads on his skin like he just came from the showers, catching the harsh overhead lights and turning his torso into a very unhelpful distraction.
His bare chest is broad and solid—warm planes and hard lines, collarbones sharp enough to hang my bad decisions on, and pecs that look like they’ve never met a rest day.
And then there’s the waterproof film over his left ribs.
I can’t make out the ink beneath it, but it looks small and delicate, nothing like the sleeves of ink he’s sporting.
My eyes catalogue the expansive, elaborate tattoos on his arms. An Olympic torch on his right with numbers—maybe coordinates—and text I can’t fully make out.
His left arm is covered in shades of black and gray ink showing the multiple dimensions of the ocean waves crashing from his shoulder to his wrist. A trident spearing upward toward his shoulder.
Because I’m only human, my eyes drop to notice how the hard lines of his stomach slice down into those wildly unfair Vs of muscle, then disappear into the waistband of his low-slung shorts. The fabric hangs a little loose, like it doesn’t know how to behave around him.
And that’s the thing. I’m a swimmer. I’ve been around shirtless guys my whole life. None of this should be new. I’m basically immune.
Except, I’m not immune.
Because this isn’t generic teammate shirtless. This is Connor Fisk shirtless—inked and wet and looking like trouble with a pulse—and my body reacts like it’s never seen a man in its entire life.
My traitorous eyes drop for just a second.
Look at his dick, my brain screams like a jump scare, and I jerk my gaze up so fast I almost sprain my neck. Yeah, I think I just saw the outline of Connor’s dick.
Finally, I meet his eyes. They’re dark and steady, and pinned on me like he’s trying to decode the situation.
His gaze flicks down to the frosting smeared across his torso. Then down to the floor. Then back to my face.
And when his eyes land on my mouth—still full, still chewing—something tightens in his expression.
He blinks once. “You okay?” The silver glint of a tongue ring flashes.
I didn’t think my humiliation could get worse, but it just got worse. Because now I’m thinking about that tongue piercing and how it moves when he talks, and how it might move and feel when he does other things with his tongue.
“Hmm?” What was the question?
Heat crawls up my neck.
His eyes flick to the dot of frosting on my nose. And his jaw flexes, like he’s restraining a reaction.
Then, he starts to crouch, reaching for the cake.
My brain finally registers something other than shirtless Connor with a tongue ring and becomes alert to the real emergency.
The cake.
“NO!”
It comes out muffled because my mouth is still full, but he must understand because he freezes mid-crouch and looks up at me, eyebrows lifting.
“I was going to—"
“Throw it away?” I finish, horrified. “Absolutely not.”
He glances from the frosting crime scene on the tile to my face like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking.
“It’s on the floor,” he says carefully. “There are germs.”
“Five second rule,” I claim like I’m enacting a peace treaty.
“The five second rule isn’t really a thing.” His eyes trail over the fallen cake. “Especially not in this situation.”
“Okay, Mr. Discovery Channel,” I snap, already dropping to my knees. “Not helpful.”
I bend down and use the edge of the plate as a scoop to lift the cake back onto the plate, then give it a little push with my hand. It’s not great. The slice is now a tragic heap of frosting and pineapple and crushed pecans, but it’s still Esther’s famous Hummingbird cake. Still mine.
I cradle the plate like it’s a lifeline.
“It was perfect,” I say, and my voice comes out smaller than I mean it to. “It was Esther’s Hummingbird cake.”
Connor pauses for the briefest second, eyes flicking up to mine like he caught the sincerity.
“You’re still going to eat that?”
“Absolutely.”
He gestures vaguely at me.
“You’re Rory’s sister.”
The words land soft.
They still hit hard.
Because it’s a reminder that in this world, I’m not always me.
Oftentimes, I’m reduced to my proximity to Rory.
Like I didn’t earn my own medals, my own lane, my own life.
Like I’m not standing here with cake on my face and a whole future I’m trying to build that doesn’t have to be in Rory’s shadow.
And somehow it stings more coming from him—because Connor Fisk isn’t looking at me like I’m someone’s little sister. He’s looking at me like a problem. A temptation. Like even though he’s calling me Rory’s sister, he knows there’s more.
My smile snaps into place—bright, sharp, sugar-coated.
“My name is Whitney,” I say, sweet as frosting and twice as dangerous.
Connor’s gaze doesn’t waver. “Whitney,” he repeats, slower—like he means it.
Which is infuriating, because my pulse jumps like it recognizes him.
It does. Because we’ve met before. At one of my national swim meets in San Diego when I was thirteen. So many years ago, when we were different versions of who we are now.
“I’m Connor,” he says. Offering his name like he’s not standing here shirtless and frosted while my nervous system drops off a cliff.
“I know,” I say, because I refuse to give him the satisfaction of thinking I’m stunned for any reason other than the cake tragedy. “We met at a meet when I was thirteen.”
Something in his face stills, and his eyes narrow like he’s rewinding.
The memory flashes, bright and annoyingly clear: humid pool air, the echo of whistles, me in an oversized parka that swallowed my hands. Rory laughing with Connor like the world wasn’t complicated yet.
Connor leaning down, hair falling into his eyes, a dimpled grin that looked as easy as breathing.
You’re fast, kid. Keep that kick.
I remember how proud I felt—how seen—like I wasn’t just Rory’s shadow trailing behind him.
Connor’s gaze stays locked on mine, unreadable for a beat.
“Whitney,” he says, like the name belongs in his mouth more than it should.
“Anyway,” I say briskly. “You’re wearing my cake.”
“Because you ran into me.”
“Yeah, well, you came out of nowhere,” I argue.
“I was walking,” he says flatly.
“Then why were you shaped like a wall?” I snap.
The corner of his mouth twitches like it wants to lift. Like he’s fighting it.
His gaze dips to my mouth again—quick, involuntary—then back to my eyes.
I swallow, suddenly very aware of my lips, my breathing, how close he is.
He nods at the plate. “And you’re really doing this.”
“I am,” I say. “This cake is from Dani’s meemaw. And Esther doesn’t bake for just anyone.”
Connor’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but his dimple threatens like a warning shot.
“So, you’re willing to gamble your immune system for this cake?”
“Correct.”
Connor stares at me like he’s deciding whether to argue or admire my commitment to chaos.