2. On Deck
On Deck
The last two minutes of seventh period drag like water through molasses. Mrs. Dorsey’s voice keeps going on, something about due dates and lab partners. The words skim over Maren like water. She is already halfway to the pool in her head, counting yards instead of minutes.
The clock ticks too loud, each second a slap. Her backpack is half-zipped, goggles stuffed in one pocket, and a protein bar in the other. The bell isn’t a sound anymore. It’s a starting gun.
She knows exactly how long it takes to reach the locker room before the crowd hits.
Three minutes, thirty-two seconds if she doesn’t stop.
She has timed it a hundred times in the past three years.
The trick is to move before the sound swells, beat the rush, beat the echo.
The hallway always smells faintly of pencil dust and floor wax, but today there’s perfume in the air too, something floral and heavy that is clinging to her throat.
Voices rise behind her, laughter bouncing off the desk like ricochets. She tightens her grip on her backpack strap and keeps her eyes on the tile, counting the squares between her and the door. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three.
In the back of the class, a burst of laughter draws her attention.
Reese Callahan leans against a bookshelf, still in her warm-up jacket, tossing a coin and catching it again.
The silver flash makes Maren’s chest twist, too bright, too casual.
She looks away quickly, working her way to the door before the bell even starts ringing.
When it finally rings, she is in the hall before the echo fades.
The hallway floods with motion: slamming lockers, a basketball thudding down the hall, sneakers squeaking. She moves fast, head down, keeping her path clean and predictable. Right at the fish tank, left at the trophy case, down the stairs, one more turn to the locker room.
If she is quick, she’ll get there before the others. Before the explosion of noise.
The stairwell smells like metal and rain, the air cooling with every step.
Her shoes squeak once as she starts going down the stairs.
The echo startles her, quick as a pulse.
Outside the locker room door, the humidity leaks out thick and sweet with chlorine.
It’s the smell of home, but today, it makes her chest tighten.
She is almost there. One more flight.
Coach Hensley appears at the top of the stairs. Maybe if she doesn’t make eye contact, he’ll keep walking.
“Hey, Maren! Just who I was looking for. Got a sec?”
She stops on the landing. The air hums loud. The locker room door banks open and shut below. Almost made it.
He starts talking about season prep, leadership, balancing personalities, but the words blur beneath the mix of chlorine and burnt coffee from the cup he gestures with. When he finally waves her off, she bolts, half running, desperate to reach the quiet before it disappears.
By the time she pushes through the door, it’s already too late.
Laughter and shouting ricochet across the tile. Someone tosses a pair of goggles that nearly clip her nose.
She breathes in. One, two, three, four.
Exhales. One, two, three, four.
Shoulders drop. The locker is open. Suits are still damp from morning practice. She pulls them on, grabs her cap and goggles, and threads through the showers onto the deck.
Her ritual is gone.
Her quiet is gone.
All that is left is noise and the yards written on the whiteboard.
The whistle cuts the air as Coach Hensley steps on deck.
Water churns in every lane, white spray catching the light.
Maren slides into lane three and sinks under, the noise thinning into a dull hum.
Down here, everything slows. The water presses against her shoulders, cool and clean.
The rhythm takes over: reach, pull, breath.
She counts every stroke. The black line steadies her. One, two, three, breath…
A voice from the end of the lane calls, “Clarke, you leading again?”
She nods without looking. Water beads down her shoulders as she adjusts her goggles.
“Of course she is,” Ava mutters. “Human stopwatch.”
The teasing isn’t mean, not really, but it lands heavy anyway.
Maren ducks under the water and pushes off. Her lungs burn, but it’s a steady burn, the kind she understands. The kind that makes sense. Above, she can still hear bursts of laughter, the sharp sound of someone hitting the board wrong, but it feels far away, almost harmless.
On her next stroke, she glimpses Reese’s dive from the corner of her eye. Smooth, fearless. Sunlight catches droplets mid-air, breaking them into glimmers of gold. Maren blinks the image away and focuses on the water ahead.
Maren stretches for the wall, finishing the set, and pops her head above the water. She hears one of her teammates from the next lane over. “You counting your breaths again, Clarke?” She doesn’t answer. Only glances at the board to get the next set.
Practice blurs into drills and lap counts. Maren keeps her eyes on the black line, counting her breaths to make her world small again. When the last set ends, she ducks under, pulls off her cap. Her breathing finally matches the rhythm of the water.
“Maren! Reese! Office. Now!”
Her chest tightens. No explanation, no tone. Just a summons. Water still drips down her arms as she steps into the cold office.
The room is small and humid. A pile of wet towels sags in the corner. A fan hums directly at her.
She leans against the wall; Reese follows her in, stopping briefly to high-five one of the other divers and laugh over some inside joke. A joke Maren is sure is about her.
“Close the door, will you? Don’t let all that heat in,” Coach says.
Reese slides it shut and grins. “So, what’s up, Coach? Are we in trouble or getting medals?”
He glances over, a half-smile tugging. “Depends on how you take this. I’ve been watching you both over the years. You balance each other out.”
Reese’s smile brightens, the kind that would stop traffic.
Maren sinks further into the wall, eyes on her fingernails.
“Tomorrow morning,” Coach continues, “write your names on the board as our new co-captains. Congratulations, ladies. I know you will make the program proud.”
Reese laughs. “Guess you’re stuck with me, huh, Clarke.”
“Looks that way,” Maren says softly.
“So, starting tomorrow, you’ll handle warm-ups, plan breakfast rotations, and check in with me weekly,” Coach adds.
Reese salutes with a wink. “Basically, keep the place from imploding. Got it.”
Coach flips through papers, distracted.
Reese tilts her head towards Maren. “You handle the numbers, I’ll handle the humans?”
“Something like that,” Coach says without looking up.
“Numbers are humans,” Maren mutters. “Their times are…”
Coach chuckles. “See? Perfect balance.”
“I balance all the time on the board,” Reese quips, already backing toward the door. “See you tomorrow, Coach Hensley.”
Maren hesitates, glancing at him before following.
“You’ll be great, kiddo,” he calls after her.
She pretends not to hear. Reese thinks this is a joke, her mind reels. Three years of work, and now I must share it.
Maren knows she should feel proud. That is what leadership means. Instead, it feels like someone loosened a bolt in her chest.
She has spent three years learning how to keep the deck silent, for herself. Now she will have to share it with the loudest person in the room.
She heads to the locker room, the floor slick under her bare feet.
The others are gone. Only the hum of the filters and the faint drip of the shower heads remain.
She sits on the bench, a towel around her shoulders, staring into her locker.
The echo of the word ‘Co-Captain’ still rings in her ears. The word tastes wrong. Too crowded.
She used to picture this moment: Coach calling her name, teammates clapping, her name alone on the board.
The image had weight, symmetry, the way numbers line up on a split sheet.
She never imagined sharing the space. Now the future she rehearsed tilts slightly, off-balance, and she can’t find her footing.
She presses her palms against her knees until they sting, waiting for the sound in her head to settle, but it never does. The hum of the filters becomes its own metronome, slow and steady. She counts with it - one, two, three, for.
Somewhere in the locker room, Reese’s laughter rings again. It rolls through the tiled walls like sunlight and static.
Maren dresses and walks out into the hallway, finding Reese leaning against a locker waiting for her.
“Come on, co-captain. You’ll make us look good.”
Maren doesn’t answer. Co sits wrong in her mouth.
* * *
The front door slams hard enough to rattle the picture frames, down the hall. Maren winces. She didn’t mean to do that. Or maybe she did.
From the kitchen, she can hear her mom call, “If that was a ghost, tell it to take it shoes off. If it was you, same rule.”
Maren drops her backpack on the bench and pushes her shoes back under the bench. “Sorry, Mom.”
Her mom steps into view, holding a wooden spoon like a microphone. “Welcome home. On a scale of one to ten, how dramatic was that entrance supposed to be?”
Maren drags her hand down her face as she blows out a slow breath. “About a nine, I suppose.”
“Good. It felt like at least an eight from here,” her mom says, then softens. “What happened, kid?”
Maren hesitates and then blurts, “Coach made me CO captain.”
Her mom’s face brightens up. “Hey, that’s great!”
“With Reese Callahan.”
There is a pause. Her mom’s eyebrows rise. “Ahhh,” she draws out. “The human firecracker.”
Maren groans as she reaches down and grabs a carrot off the counter, “Exactly.”
Her mom leans against the counter, thoughtful. “Well, that is…an energetic pairing?”
“Yes,” Maren mumbles around her bite of carrot.
“Well,” her mom says, “Maybe Coach thinks you will work well together. You know you are the structure, she can be the sparkle.”
Maren lifts her head, horrified. “Please don’t call it sparkle.”
Her mom laughs. “Ok. Sparkle with an edge.”
“Mom.”
“Fine. Controlled Chaos,” she offers. “Better?”
“Not really.”
Her mom taps the spoon against the counter. “Look. You are steady. Reese is… enthusiastic.”
“That’s one word for it,” Maren mutters.
Her mom grins. “She is like a glitter bomb someone opened indoors.”
Maren’s eyes widen. “Mom, you’re making it worse.”
“But accurate,” her mom says. “You, on the other hand, are the vacuum that saves the day.”
Maren squints, trying to follow her mom’s logic. “So I’m a vacuum now?”
“A very reliable vacuum,” her mom says, lifting the spoon like this is a declared fact. “Top of the line. Never loses suction.”
“MOM!”
“What? I am complimenting you. I am just saying you are very reliable.”
Maren scrubs her hands over her face, but she is fighting a smile now. The tightness in her chest loosens, just a smidge.
This time, Maren doesn’t argue. She just stares blankly, the kitchen finally feeling like solid ground.
Her mom lowers the spoon. The humor eases into something steadier. “I am saying you do you. You will lead in the way that Maren leads, and Reese will do it in her own way. And maybe the team will get the best of both of you.
The house feels quieter than the locker room by a mile right now. She takes refuge in the quiet.
Her mom pushes the cutting board with the carrots towards her. “Come help with dinner. If you stop eating the carrots, I will let you chop them. Even angrily, if it helps.”
“It might,” Maren admits.
“Great. Aim away from your fingers. I don’t need an ER visit tonight.”
Maren picks up a knife, the familiar rhythm already settling her pulse. Her mom bumps her shoulder again, gentle and sure. “Co-captain or not, you will be fine.”
Maren is not convinced just yet, but it no longer feels impossible.