Chapter 29
twenty-nine
. . .
WHITNEY
After the skills clinic, the aquatic center pool clears so Connor and I can get our workout in.
At first, there’s relief that I can disappear into my lane and just focus on the sets.
The second I dive under, everything else disappears. The noise from the deck fades, the echo of voices dulls into nothing, and all I’m left with is the steady rhythm of my body moving through the lane.
But there’s one thing the water doesn’t shut off.
Connor.
I push off the wall harder than I need to, cutting clean through the water, trying to anchor myself in something technical—my pull, the timing of my breath, the burn building in my shoulders—but it only takes a few strokes before it slips, and my focus drifts somewhere I don’t want it to go.
His arm around me.
My leg hooked over his like he belonged to me.
The solid weight of him at my back, warm and steady.
I break the surface, dragging in a breath that feels sharper than it should, like I’ve been holding it longer than I realized. But there’s no extra time to breathe before I’m making the next turn.
I’d been awake.
Not the whole time, not enough to have to deal with it in real time, but enough. Enough to know exactly what I was doing. Enough to know I didn’t move, didn’t pull away, didn’t even try to create the distance I keep telling myself I need.
I turn my head to breathe again, and that’s when I make the mistake of looking.
Because of course he’s there beside me, moving through the water like it belongs to him, all clean lines and controlled power, like nothing about last night—or this morning—has followed him into the pool the way it has me.
Which is…annoying.
I mistime my next stroke, water slipping wrong past my arm, and have to correct mid-lap, forcing myself back into rhythm.
Focus.
Except now I’m thinking about this morning.
About the way he said he liked it, like it was simple. Like it didn’t complicate anything. Like I didn’t spend half the night pretending to be asleep so I could stay exactly where I wanted to be without having to explain it.
I push harder, faster, like I can out-swim the thought, like if I just burn through enough energy, I’ll come out the other side of this with something resembling clarity.
I don’t.
Because the problem isn’t what happened.
It’s that I wanted it.
That admission has me losing my rhythm again, sending me flailing. I overcorrect with a hard stroke to the right and run smack into the lane rope.
I pop up, grabbing the rope for support so I can get my bearings.
“Going for a new stroke I haven’t seen before?” Connor’s voice cuts in from the lane behind me.
“I’m training,” I say, not bothering to turn to face him. “You should try it sometime.”
“Yeah, I don’t usually include near-drowning as part of my routine.”
I push off the lane rope and swim over to the wall, pushing my goggles up as I glare at him. “I was fine.”
“You swam into the lane line.”
“I adjusted.”
“To what, exactly?”
I splash water in his direction before I can stop myself, which only makes him laugh—quiet, easy, like this is normal, like we’re normal, like there isn’t something sitting just under the surface of all of this that neither of us is touching.
“Need help?” he asks, and the worst part is he sounds sincere.
“I need you to stop talking.”
“That seems unlikely.”
I push off again before I can say something I’ll regret, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse, because now I’m aware of him in a different way—how close he is, how easily he keeps pace without looking like he’s trying, how every time I breathe, he’s just there.
It’s distracting.
It’s irritating.
It’s undeniably hot. And that’s a problem.
We fall into a rhythm anyway, finishing the set without much more talking, but the silence isn’t empty. It’s full of things we’re both not saying, stretched tight between us like it could snap if either of us pulls too hard.
We end up grabbing food after, because apparently neither of us is willing to acknowledge that going our separate ways would be the smarter option.
It should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.
Again…a problem.
We sit across from each other in a booth, sharing fries without talking about it, slipping into conversation that’s easy in a way that makes something in my chest tighten instead of relax. He leans back, one arm slung over the back of the seat, completely at ease.
“You’re still doing that thing,” I say before I can stop myself.
He glances up. “What thing?”
“That…” I gesture vaguely. “You narrate what you’re doing under your breath.”
His brows pull together slightly. “I do not.”
“You just did,” I say, leaning forward a little. “You said ‘this is a bad idea’ before you took that bite.”
He pauses, then huffs out a quiet laugh. “Okay, maybe I do that sometimes.”
My stomach flips.
Because that’s not new. That’s DreamBoat.
“You used to do that all the time,” I say, softer now, before I can decide if I should.
He stills for half a second, something shifting in his expression.
“Yeah,” he says, just as quiet. “I know.”
And suddenly this doesn’t feel like something that started a few days ago. It feels like something that’s been building for a long time.
I look down at the table, tracing the edge of a napkin just to give myself something to do.
“I liked that,” I admit, then immediately regret it.
His gaze lifts back to mine. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “It was funny.”
“It was me trying not to screw up,” he says.
I glance up again. “You weren’t screwing up.”
“Felt like it sometimes,” he says, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “You were better at the game than I was.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” he says easily. “You just didn’t notice.”
There’s a pause, not awkward, just weighted. Like we’ve both said something without fully saying it.
I reach for a fry just to break it, and of course he reaches at the same time. His hand brushes mine.
I don’t pull away, and neither does he.
It’s just a second, maybe less. But it’s enough.
Enough to remind me how easy it would be to lean into this.
How much I’m afraid I already am.
So, I pull back first.
“Sorry,” I say automatically.
“Don’t be,” he says, just as quickly.
And that’s it.
Back in my room, the quiet feels loud.
I drop onto the bed and grab my phone, letting myself reconnect with everything I’ve been ignoring.
Ren:
Did you survive your road trip or did you fall in love with Tattoo Boy and forget about us?
Dani:
You okay? You’ve been quiet today
Rory:
You make it to Savannah? How was the clinic?
I answer them all with quick, controlled responses—fine, busy, good—careful not to give anything away, like if I keep it vague enough, I won’t have to unpack any of it yet.
My thumb hovers over Winnie’s name, but I don’t text her.
It’s not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t even know where to start.
Hey, remember how I said I wasn’t going to let him get under my skin?
Yeah, that feels like a conversation I’m not ready to have.
I toss my phone aside and sit up, catching sight of the pile of Connor’s clothes I set on the chair earlier.
I reach for the hoodie and pull it on, telling myself it’s because the room is cold and not because it smells like Connor and feels like comfort wrapped in a cloud.
The second it settles over my shoulders, everything in me goes a little too quiet.
Not calm, but more aware.
I tug at the sleeves, push them up, then drag them back down again, like adjusting it is going to make it less…him.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.
I grab my phone, unlock it, stare at the screen without actually seeing anything, then toss it back onto the bed.
I sit. I stand. I pace once across the room, then back again.
The air feels off. Too still. Like I’m waiting for something that’s never going to happen.
At this point, I don’t even know what I need. But I can’t stay in this room.
I grab my room key and head for the door before I can analyze that decision too closely.
The hallway is quiet, the carpet soft under my feet.
I walk with no destination.
Past the ice machine and vending area. Past the elevators and back again, only to realize I’m back at my door. Except it’s not my door.
I stare at the number for a second, my brain lagging behind my body like it’s trying to catch up with this turn of events.
But my body doesn’t wait. It presses on, hand lifting to knock on the door.
The knock echoes, loud and final.
Then, I hear footsteps and the panic sets in.
My brain makes an attempt at being helpful. I should leave.
My body, the rebel that it is, stays.
The door swings open, and there he is—barefoot, t-shirt, hair still slightly damp like he showered not that long ago, and a controller in one hand like I just pulled him out of the middle of something.
His eyes land on me, surprise flickering there first. Then, something softer. Warmer.
“Whitney?” He says it like he’s repeating it. Like he’s been talking to me, and I’m just standing there ogling him.
Damn it. This wasn’t part of the plan.
What was the plan? Oh, right. I didn’t have one.
No plan. No excuse. No reason for being here that doesn’t sound like I couldn’t stop thinking about you, so now I’m outside your door.
I search the empty hallway, trying to drum up a reason to be standing here.
Then, I notice his gaze drop briefly to the hoodie I’m wearing. His hoodie.
“Hi,” I say, and then, because apparently panic is my personality now, “I’m returning this.”
I gesture vaguely to the hoodie that is still very much on my body.
“You are?” he asks, and his mouth does that subtle thing where he’s trying not to smile.
“Yes,” I say, committing harder, because doubling down is always the solution. “I just—I forgot earlier and I didn’t want to—keep it.”
This is the worst sentence I’ve ever said, but I don’t wait for him to respond. I grab the hem and yank the hoodie up and over my head in one quick motion, like I’m ripping off a Band-Aid.
Which would be fine, except now I’m standing in his doorway in just my sports bra and a pair of spandex shorts. And there’s a chill, and I’m far less cozy, but I can’t admit that now.
“Here,” I say, thrusting the hoodie toward him like it might restore order to the universe.
He reaches out to take it, fingers brushing mine for half a second longer than necessary, and the second the fabric leaves my hands, I shiver.
It’s not subtle or controlled, just a full body shiver that has my teeth chattering.
Connor’s gaze drops, and my eyes follow. Both of us landing on the thin fabric of my sports bra which is doing absolutely nothing to conceal the situation currently happening with my nipples.
Heat floods my face.
Oh my god.
His eyes flick back up just as fast, like he caught himself, but the moment’s already there hanging between us, unspoken and impossible to ignore.
“Maybe you should keep it,” he says, voice lower now. “In case you get cold.”
I blink at him, then at the hoodie.
“I’m not cold,” I lie, even as another shiver betrays me.
His mouth twitches, but he doesn’t call me out.
He holds it out to me again.
I hesitate for half a second, then take it.
Because clearly, I have excellent decision-making skills.
I pull it back over my head, warmth immediately settling in again, and try very hard not to acknowledge the way his eyes track the movement before he looks away.
This is fine.
Everything is fine.
Behind him, I see a gaming set up on the table facing the bed. Bluetooth controllers. Even a cooling pad so his laptop doesn’t get too hot.
My eyes narrow slightly. “Are you playing—”
“Yeah,” he says, already watching me like he knows exactly what I’m about to do.
I shift my weight, glance past him into the room, then back at him.
This is where I leave.
This is where I say goodnight and go back to my room and make better choices.
Instead—
“Should I?” I point toward the laptop. “Unless you don’t want me to?”
Connor blinks once, like his brain just tripped over something.
“I want you—” he starts, then stops, dragging a hand through his hair. “I mean—yeah. Come in. Inside. You can come inside.”
I press my lips together, failing spectacularly at not smiling.
“Wow,” I say, stepping past him. “That was smooth.”
“Yeah, I heard it after I said it,” he mutters.
I walk past him, doing my best to ignore the delicious scent drifting off him, then climb onto the bed like I’ve done it a hundred times before, grabbing the second controller without asking.
“Don’t make it weird,” I toss over my shoulder.
“I’m not making it weird.”
“You were making it weird.”
“I corrected it.”
“That’s debatable.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh and drops down beside me, close enough that our shoulders brush, the contact light but very, very noticeable.
The game loads and a familiar rhythm settles in.
And just like that, it feels easy again.
Maybe too easy. Like nothing between us has changed. Like we didn’t just spend the entire day trying not to look at each other.
I focus on the screen, on the controller in my hands, on anything that isn’t the warmth of him next to me or the way my body seems to be recalibrating around his proximity.
This is fine. No big deal. Just two teammates gaming in a hotel room.
“Still think this counts as distance?” he asks quietly.
“Hmm,” I say, like it’s an actual response.
Because I know he’s right.
And the worst part is, I didn’t come here to stay away.