Chapter 52
fifty-two
. . .
CONNOR
I’m halfway down the deck when the whistle cuts through the warm-up noise.
A sharp, authoritative blast that makes heads turn and conversations drop.
“Shields!” Coach Owens’ voice carries across the facility, and I slow without meaning to. I’m on the periphery of everything as usual—close enough to witness, far enough to not be invited.
Rory peels away from the warm-up pool, goggles still on his forehead, and jogs toward Coach. I keep moving, telling myself it’s none of my business.
My individual medley prelim is in an hour. I’m supposed to be dialed in. Focused. In my lane—literally and figuratively.
I angle toward the warm-up pool, already mentally ticking through my order—fly, back, breast, free—when movement by the benches catches my eye.
Charlie.
He’s sitting hunched forward, face tight, clutching his shoulder like he’s trying to hold it in place. Winnie’s kneeling beside him, calm in that terrifying way trainers are calm when something is wrong.
My pace slows again.
I should keep going, but I don’t.
Coach says something I can’t hear over the ambient roar, but I see Rory’s body react—shoulders going rigid, jaw tightening. Eli and Logan climb out of the pool and head that direction, too, like gravity pulled them.
A relay problem.
A team problem.
The kind of moment that decides whether you’re actually part of something or just wearing the same logo.
I force my feet forward, because walking away is what I’ve done in the past.
I take three more steps, then stop. Because I didn’t come to the Current to hover at the edges and be grateful for scraps.
I didn’t come here to be a ghost with a lane assignment.
I came here to fix things. And fixing my relationship with Rory isn’t a speech.
It isn’t an apology I’ve already given, and he’s already refused to take.
Fixing it is showing up when it matters—even if it costs me things I’ve put more value on in the past. Like my individual performances.
I pivot and head back toward the benches.
As I get closer, I hear Charlie’s voice, strained. “Felt a snap on the catch.”
Coach’s response is low and clipped. “Rotator cuff, maybe. He’s out.”
The words hit like a gut punch.
I know what out means for a swimmer. It’s not just physical. It’s everything. The waiting. The uncertainty. The fear that you’ll never feel the water the same way again.
Rory steps in close. His captain voice comes out steady, like he can hold everyone’s panic in place if he grips it hard enough.
“Hey, Charlie,” he says. “We got you. No matter what.”
Charlie nods, eyes dark. Winnie helps him up, guiding him toward the medical facility.
I watch them go, and something twists in my chest.
Because this is exactly the kind of moment I used to be part of—before I became the cautionary tale.
Coach turns back to the group. Rory, Eli, and Logan huddle around him, all wet shoulders and focused eyes.
I hang back at the edge of their circle, because that’s where I belong, apparently.
Rory’s voice carries. “Who are you thinking? Xio?”
Coach crosses his arms. “His split is fast, but he’s recovering from his fifty win.”
Logan throws a look toward the pool. “Finn, then.”
Coach doesn’t answer immediately. He’s thinking. Likely calculating the risk.
I can already feel where the calculation lands, and it’s not on me.
My stomach tightens.
I should walk away. I should get back in the warm-up pool and do my IM prep like a good, responsible athlete who understands the politics of these decisions.
I start to turn, but then the week at Rising Tides flashes through me—Whitney laughing in the passenger seat, all bright chaos and sharp edges, somehow making everything in me go quieter, like she could see the man I was trying to be and liked him anyway.
She forgave me for what I did, or she’s trying to.
And if I’m going to keep telling myself I’m changing, then I have to act like it.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. A chance to show my team I can be more than a risk or a reminder of the past. I can be someone they rely on.
I step forward into the circle before I can talk myself out of it.
“I can do it,” I say.
Logan’s head snaps toward me like he heard a joke. “Yeah, right. I’m not swimming my ass off just to get a DQ because you can’t handle the exchange.”
I keep my face neutral even as heat crawls up my neck. “I’ve been practicing takeovers.”
Logan scoffs. “Not with any of us.”
Coach looks at me, brows drawn. “You’ve got IM prelims in an hour. It’s not enough recovery time.”
“I’ll be fine.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “It’s important. Please.”
Coach’s gaze slides to Rory, because Rory’s the captain and everyone knows it.
And Rory hesitates.
I can see it in the tight line of his mouth. The way his eyes flick over me like he’s weighing a time against a history.
For a beat, I’m sure he’ll say no.
Then he nods, slow.
“Yeah,” Rory says slowly, like he’s still weighing the consequences. “Let’s do it.”
Relief hits so hard my lungs forget how to work.
Coach nods once and turns away to make the change with the officials.
Logan mutters something under his breath, disgusted.
Eli claps Logan’s shoulder. “Come on. We’ve got to finish warming up.”
I follow them to the pool, heart hammering, because I’ve just stepped into the exact thing I’ve been trying to earn back.
And now I have to deliver.
Ten minutes later, the meet official signals for our event to line up, and the ready room shifts from restless to sharp.
Parkas unzip. Goggles get adjusted. Everyone suddenly remembers how to breathe like it’s not a choice.
We file out onto the pool deck, and the air hits different out here—louder, brighter, charged with the kind of attention that makes your heart beat in your throat.
I keep my face neutral. Eyes forward.
But I feel it anyway.
The stares.
In the lane next to ours, the Savannah Sharks team slows down like they’ve spotted a glitch.
One of them actually says it. “Connor Fisk is on a relay team. Damn. Did we enter an alternate timeline?”
A couple guys laugh.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t react. I’ve been a headline before. I know how this goes.
Then Dorian Wells from Milwaukee calls out, loud enough for half the deck to hear. “Hey, Fisk. Didn’t think you played well with others.”
Heat crawls up my neck. That old instinct to go still, to keep my expression blank so nobody can see where it lands.
Before I can decide what to do with it, Rory’s voice cuts in—calm, sharp.
“Forget about them,” he says, low enough that it’s meant for me. “They’re just trying to get to you.”
I swallow and nod once. “Yeah. I know.”
Rory turns his attention outward like he’s flicking a switch. “Hey, Dorian—you worried about our lineup, or just pissed that we’re still going to beat you?”
Dorian lifts his brows, amused. “Didn’t think he was relay material.”
Rory shrugs like this is the easiest thing in the world. “Maybe you should spend more time training and less time running your mouth.”
The words hit me in a place I’m not prepared for.
Because it’s not just trash talk.
It’s Rory—captain, golden boy, the guy I betrayed—standing there like I’m part of his team.
I force my focus back to the routine. Unsnap the parka. Drop my slides in the bin behind our lane. Let my body go through the steps because if my brain has room to think, it will.
That’s when I see her.
Off to the side near the deck ropes, arms folded, eyes sharp as a blade is Whitney. And she’s watching me. Not the way other swimmers watch, looking for the mistake they can critique later.
She’s watching like she’s trying to figure out who I am. Like she’s deciding whether to trust me with something that matters.
My chest tightens, and I drag my focus away before it becomes a problem.
Eli drops into the water and grabs the backstroke ledge to start us off.
Logan, Rory, and I stand behind our lane, eyes glued to Eli’s first strokes as the race detonates.
Savannah pushes hard. Milwaukee stays glued. This isn’t Trials or Worlds, but it matters—because people remember who holds up under pressure. People remember who cracks.
Eli touches, and Rory is already moving.
Rory dives in, and for a second, I let myself watch him the way I used to—clean lines, controlled power, like pressure is fuel instead of weight.
When Rory hits the wall, Logan takes over, and my pulse starts climbing into that familiar pre-race chant: don’t screw this up don’t screw this up don’t screw this up.
Logan’s leg is pure rhythm. He’s all brute force wrapped in experience, ripping through the water like a graceful maniac.
I don’t cheer or talk or do anything that might pull my timing off.
Instead, I stand on the edge of the block and watch Logan close in on the wall, my whole body tightening in preparation.
This is where relay swimmers become legends or jokes.
Logan comes in hot, and for half a second the world narrows to one thing: his hand slapping the pad and the precise moment I’m allowed to leave.
I count it in my bones, not my brain.
Ready. Set. Now.
Then, I go.
It’s a clean transition as my feet launch and suddenly, I’m in freefall, cutting through air, then water, every sound dropping out the instant I’m submerged.
When I surface, I’m a fraction ahead of the guy in the lane next to me.
It’s not much of a lead, but it’s enough to shift the energy.
Riding on the surface of the water, I hear something from the deck—our team, our lane—but I don’t let it in.
My strokes lock into place, crisp and efficient, the kind of clean water work you only get when your head stays quiet.
And my head is quiet. Not because I’m calm, but because I’m focusing so hard it’s like I’ve turned myself into a machine.
The far wall rushes up fast.
At the fifty, I flip—tight and fast, then push off underwater, dolphin kicks snapping, lungs burning, as I prepare to breakout into the second length.
This is where people fade. This is where sloppy sneaks in, but I refuse to let that happen.
My arms are on fire. My chest is tight. But my stroke stays sharp—clean entry, tight line, no wasted motion. I refuse to let fatigue turn me careless.
Halfway down the second length, I steal one quick glance to the side—just enough to locate Whitney again like my brain needs proof she’s still there.
She is.
Right where she was, eyes locked on my lane, mouth set like she’s holding her breath.
For a second, a thought hits me so hard it almost knocks my rhythm loose.
Don’t give her another reason not to trust you.
So I don’t.
I dig deeper.
I push the last fifteen meters with everything I have left, legs turning over, lungs screaming, water turning thick as concrete.
The wall is right there.
I stretch, then touch.
For a beat, there’s nothing—no sound, no certainty—just my heartbeat trying to climb out of my chest. Then, the board flashes.
We win.
No, not only win—we pull a meet record.
The deck erupts and the sound crashes over me in a wave as I haul myself out, water pouring off me, lungs dragging in air like it’s the first time I’ve ever had it.
Logan is there instantly, grabbing my arm. Eli is shouting. Rory’s expression is blown wide open in that rare way it gets when he’s too caught up to be careful.
Then Logan does what Logan does—wraps me up like I’m a damn trophy and shakes me like he’s trying to rattle the chlorine out of my ears before he grabs my face like he’s going in for a kiss.
I jerk back, sputtering, half laughing, half choking on water. “Not—” I cough. “Not gonna happen.”
Eli barks out a laugh, then Logan finally lets me go so I can bend forward put my hands on my knees and try to get my heart rate to settle.
Then I look up and immediately start searching for her.
My gaze moves over the deck once, twice—then finds Whitney.
Everything around me goes blurry at the edges.
She’s standing near the crowd in that parka, one hand wrapped tight around it like she’s holding herself in place. And she’s looking at me like she forgot for a second she was supposed to be on guard.
Warmth hits my chest so fast it almost knocks the air right back out of me.
I straighten a little and because I know exactly where her eyes have gone, I lift my hand and brush my fingers over the sailboat on my ribs.
It’s a small motion, but it’s just for her.
Her brows lift, then she gives me this tiny smile that feels more exhilarating than the race did. My mouth twitches before I can stop it.
For one second, all the noise fades. Logan, the screaming, the cameras waiting at the edge of the deck—it all disappears beneath the weight of her looking at me like that.
Before I can do something dangerous like rush over and sweep her up in my arms, Coach waves us over to the mix zone.
But I keep my eyes on her for one more second, then I let myself get swallowed by microphones, medals, and the win.