Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
WHITNEY
Last night with Connor was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. The most fun I’ve had since I gamed with DreamBoat.
Which is…annoying.
I’m supposed to be napping—actual recovery, actual rest, the thing coaches and trainers chant like it’s a spell—so I do what I always do when my brain won’t shut up…I turn my bedroom into an ocean.
The wave projector clicks on, and blue light starts rolling across the ceiling in slow motion. I drag Skipper into my arms—my pink weighted axolotl that’s heavy enough to pin my nervous system down by force. Skipper is my emotional support sandbag. My sidekick on the rollercoaster of life.
I’m basically a toddler, except with brand deals and gold medals.
It doesn’t help that this morning at practice, Connor did the thing where he was technically present and still impossible to catch.
Every time I thought I spotted him, I’d turn around and he was gone.
Opposite end of the deck. Different lane.
Already walking away. Like we were playing a game of whack-a-mole and he’d decided I was the mallet.
I roll onto my side and grab my phone off the nightstand, thumb hovering over his name.
Fine. If he’s going to dodge me in person, I’ll do what I do best—text.
I need a Pussy update. How’s she doing?
It takes a minute, which is long enough for me to roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling full of ocean waves.
Then, my phone buzzes.
Connor
Fine.
That’s not an update. It’s a hostage note.
“Fine” like she’s fine or “fine” like she committed crimes in the clinic?
Connor
Fine like the vet recommended the expensive wet food.
I sit up.
EXCUSE ME.
Connor
Apparently she needs “highly palatable nutrition.”
I choke on a laugh.
Pussy has a luxury lifestyle.
Connor
Pussy has a line item in my budget now.
I grin into my pillow so hard my cheeks hurt.
SAY IT AGAIN.
Connor
I’m not going to say it.
This is huge for you. Welcome to fatherhood.
Connor
She is not my cat.
The expensive wet food says otherwise.
Connor
I’m picking her up after practice.
I stare at his message longer than necessary, my thumb hovering. I want to see her, and I also want an excuse to see him that isn’t I’m thinking about you.
When can I see her?
The second I hit send, my stomach dips.
Too much?
Connor
Whitney.
Connor.
Connor
I’ll let you know.
That’s not a no, but it’s also not a yes.
My brain, being my brain, immediately supplies the worst interpretation.
He’s pulling back because I’m a lot.
Which, fair. I am a lot. But also, he was laughing last night. It was fun and flirty and then he ran out so fast I thought he might roll an ankle on the curb.
Cool. Buy her the fancy food and kiss her little forehead for me.
Connor
Absolutely not.
At least tell her I said hi and see if she likes her new tickler.
Connor
Don’t call it that.
I will call it that forever.
I should stop and just let it be casual.
Instead, I take one more swing.
Do you want to game later? We can continue the mission of humiliating you on the high seas.
Even as I send it, a thought flickers through my brain. Rory would hate this.
Then a louder thought follows. Rory doesn’t get to decide who I’m friends with.
Connor’s reply comes after a long pause.
Connor
Can’t tonight. I’ve got to pick her up and keep an eye on her.
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
It’s not me, it’s the situation. He’s got Pussy to take care of after her night at the vet. And it’s not because I’m too chaotic or because he thought last night was a mistake. Not because—I clamp down on the mental spiral and type something breezy.
Okay. Go be a responsible father and buy your cat her gourmet dinner.
Connor
She’s not my cat.
Sure, Fisk. See you on deck.
I drop my phone beside me with a resigned sigh.
A moment later, my screen lights up again. There’s hope in my chest as I grab it, but it’s a different thread.
Marcy
Can you talk at 3? Two brands want to move fast. Also sending a “Captain Chaos summer” concept I think you’ll love.
I make a face so dramatic I’d medal for it.
Captain Chaos is a nickname. It’s not a lifestyle subscription.
I type back with one thumb.
I can do 3. No to Captain Chaos.
Marcy
Wait why no?? It tests SO well with your audience. It’s sticky!
It’s sticky because people like watching me be a mess. I’d like to focus on being fast instead.
Marcy
LOL okay. We can make it more “polished chaos.” Skincare wants four posts and one appearance. Energy drink wants a meet-and-greet.
My phone feels heavier in my hand.
Because under the offers, under the constant move faster, say yes, stay visible, there’s the tab I keep opening and closing like it’s a dare.
Rising Tides Ambassador Application.
I tap it open again.
Name. Athlete bio. Social links.
Then the one that always makes me pause.
Why do you want to be an ambassador?
I stare at the blank field until my screen dims, then tap it awake.
I could write the polished answer. The “I love giving back” answer. The one that sounds good and means nothing.
But the honest answer is the one that makes my chest tighten in that good way—like standing behind the blocks, knowing I’m about to do the thing I actually care about.
I type carefully.
I need to keep my calendar flexible. Rising Tides might overlap with appearances.
Three dots appear immediately.
Marcy
Rising Tides is a maybe, Whit.
Maybe. Sure.
But it’s also the only thing that feels like it could be mine. Something I don’t have to perform for.
I know. I’m still applying. If I get it, I’m doing it.
A longer pause—like she’s doing math and trying not to say something she can’t unsay.
Marcy
Okay. Send me the dates the second you have them, and we’ll build around it. No commitments that lock you out until we know.
Relief hits so fast my shoulders actually drop.
I pull the Rising Tides application back to the top of the screen.
Okay.
Focus.
I start typing—real words, not polished ones—because for once I don’t want to perform.
I want to mean it. I want something that feels like mine.
While Connor feels like a problem I don’t know how to solve, Rising Tides is something I can go after with complete certainty. So, I will.