Chapter 53
fifty-three
. . .
WHITNEY
Connor hauls himself out of the water, dripping and breathless, and for a second he just stands there—hands on his knees, chest rising hard—like he’s making sure that really happened.
Logan’s already grabbing him, yelling in his face, shaking him like a champagne bottle, then trying to kiss him. Connor laughs, coughs, tries to shove him off.
Then Connor’s gaze lifts.
He scans the deck, quick and controlled, like he’s searching for something—someone—specific.
And then his eyes find me. A full, locked-in look that makes the noise around us blur at the edges.
My cheeks go warm, and I tighten my grip on my parka like it’s going to keep me grounded.
Connor straightens a little, still breathing hard. Even from this distance I can see the water clinging to his dark lashes.
And then my eyes drop to the way his ribs expand and settle with every rough intake of air. To the sailboat tattoo there—dark ink against wet skin—rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic motion like it’s caught in its own tide.
He can feel exactly what I’m looking at, his hand lifts, his fingers brushing the tattoo.
It’s a quiet little signal, just for me, and the rush of it hits so fast I forget how to breathe.
I lift my brows at him—okay, I saw that—and force a small smile like I’m not standing here short-circuiting in front of everyone.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to grin back.
For one second, it’s just us. Deck chaos and screaming teammates and cameras don’t matter. Only that look. Only that sailboat.
Then Coach waves them toward the mix zone, and the media herd swoops in like seagulls at the beach.
Connor’s gaze holds mine for one more second, and then he’s gone, swallowed by bodies and microphones and the win.
I blink like I’m waking up.
I’ve had a good meet. A great one, actually. My races went exactly the way I needed them to, and under normal circumstances, I’d be riding that high all night. But right now, the thing lodged in my chest isn’t my own wins.
It’s the fact that Connor got his shot.
He got to be part of the relay, to step up when it mattered, and then he absolutely delivered. I can still see him climbing out of the water, stunned and bright-eyed and looking for me like I was part of the moment too.
By the time interviews start wrapping and everyone funnels off deck, I’m too restless to stand still. I tell myself I’m heading toward the locker rooms because I need to grab my stuff, but really I’m looking for Connor.
The hallway outside is cooler, quieter, the roar from the pool muffled by cinderblock and closed doors. Swimmers and coaches move through in clusters, all damp hair and team jackets and leftover adrenaline.
Then I spot him.
He’s half turned, talking to Logan, still damp, warm-up jacket unzipped, relay medal already hanging crooked around his neck. Logan says something that makes Connor laugh before clapping him on the shoulder and peeling off down the hall.
Connor turns and finds me immediately.
When he sees me, his whole face changes.
It’s that same awareness from the deck, sharpened into something quieter and warmer and entirely too focused.
His gaze moves over my face, soft and intent. “You swam great today.”
The compliment lands warm, but I shake my head. “I’m happy about my races, obviously. But mostly I’m just happy you got to be part of that relay.”
Something in his expression shifts.
His mouth softens. His shoulders do too, like the words hit somewhere deeper than I meant them to.
“Whitney,” he says, quiet enough that it feels private.
“You were so excited out there,” I say, because now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop. “And then you looked at me like—” I cut myself off, laughing softly. “I don’t know. Like you couldn’t believe it was real.”
His eyes hold mine. “Maybe I couldn’t.”
That does something reckless to my pulse.
I take a breath. “I’m so happy you got that moment, Connor.”
For one second, he just looks at me.
Then he steps in and opens his arms like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“C’mere,” he says softly.
And not even caring where we are, I easily go to him.
His arms wrap around me, damp and warm and solid, and the second I settle against him, something in me loosens. My hands slide around his middle, his medal pressing cool against my sleeve while one of his palms spreads over my back.
It’s just a hug.
Except it doesn’t feel like just a hug.
It feels like relief. Like pride. Like something dangerously close to wanting.
His chin brushes the top of my head as he exhales. “You have no idea how good it was seeing you there after.”
My heart knocks hard against my ribs.
I tip my face up enough to look at him. “You did all the work.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to mine, “but it helped knowing you were there.”
My breath catches.
There’s too much in this hallway all of a sudden, so naturally, my survival instinct kicks in by making me deflect.
“You’re welcome for my emotional support presence,” I say lightly.
His laugh is quiet and low, and his hold on me tightens for one brief second before he lets me go just enough to look at me properly again.
“Congrats on your races, by the way,” he says. “In case your emotional support duties distracted from the fact that you were kind of incredible.”
I grin. “Kind of?”
“Fine,” he says. “Annoyingly incredible.”
“That’s better.”
His eyes flick between mine, and for one suspended second, it feels like he might say something else. Or do something else. Like kiss me.
Instead, footsteps echo farther down the hall, so I step back first, because I have to, because if I don’t, this moment might turn into something I’m not ready to name.
Connor’s hand slips from my back slowly, like he feels it too.
“Rory said we should talk.”
For a second, I just stare at him.
Rory wants to talk to Connor.
Not glare at him from across the pool or barely tolerate him because the team needs to function. But talk.
I blink. “That’s a good sign.”
“Yeah, I think it is.”
It lands somewhere warm in my chest, because as much as Connor tries to act like he can handle anything, I know this matters. Probably even more than the relay spot.
I want Rory and Connor to work through whatever sits between them, but for the first time, it hits me that those issues belong to them, so no matter what happens between Connor and Rory, I know one thing with bone-deep clarity. I want Connor, and I’m not going to feel guilty about it.
“Find me after,” I say, taking a step back.
His lips pull into a warm grin. “Always.”