7. The Meet The Pressure #2
When Coach Hensley calls for the divers to line up, Maren slips her notebook out of her bag.
She flips to the section she started weeks ago, the one marked with a pink tab.
Dive sheets, past scores, notes in her cramped handwriting.
She tells herself that it is just a habit.
Captains keep track of everyone. But when her pen starts moving, she knows she is tracking her.
The first divers take their turns. The sound of each entry echoes differently here, deeper, more hollow. Maren writes down the scores automatically, the numbers slotting neatly into their columns. She does not look up until Reese’s name is called.
Reese steps onto the board, back straight, eyes fixed on the far wall.
The noise of the crowd dims into a low murmur.
Maren watches the way her arms extend overhead, the small bounce before she commits.
The air catches around her as she spins, one, two, clean rotations, and then she slices into the water with barely a ripple.
The scoreboard lights up. 7.5, 7.5, 8.0.
Maren notes it quickly, her hand steady even as her chest feels anything but.
Two more dives to complete the evening. Each one is more difficult and cleaner than the last. The numbers climb by the time Reese steps up for her final attempt, Maren’s page is a neat column of data points that mean more than she will ever admit out loud.
Reese pauses at the edge of the board. For a moment, she glances toward the bleachers, then across the deck. Maren thinks, or maybe imagines, that their eyes meet.
Then Reese moves.
The dive is sharper this time, faster, like she is chasing something through the air. When she hits the water, it sounds like a single breath being held. The scoreboard flashes again. 8.5, 9.00, 8.5.
Maren’s pen hovers over the page. The numbers blur slightly before she presses them into ink.
She does not look up again until the noise swells, and the team erupts around her. Reese has already climbed out of the water, hair slicked back, smile bright enough to catch every bit of light.
Maren closes the notebook, her thumb tracing the damp edge of the paper. Her own race still burns in her muscles, but something else is humming underneath, quieter, steadier, impossible to name.
The diving scores roll through the speakers, followed by a burst of applause. Reese’s final numbers lock in at the top of the board. Maren catches herself smiling before she can stop it. She leans down and tucks the notebook back in her backpack.
The meet moves fast after that. The last few events blur into white noise, each one melting into the next. Maren stretches her shoulders, shakes out her arms, and feels the pulse of readiness returning to her bones. It is almost time for the 400 Relay, the last event, where she swims anchor.
When Coach Hensley calls them over, she already knows the order. Ava leading off, then Jules, Nicole, and finally, Maren. It is a good lineup, solid and balanced. Reese passes by on her way to the bleachers, hair still wet, cheeks still flushed.
“Finish it strong, Mini-Coach,” she says just loud enough for Maren to hear.
Maren looks at Reese and nods once, unable to form words.
The relay swimmers take their spots behind the blocks.
The adrenaline courses through their veins.
The deck feels cooler now, like the air has shifted.
The pool lights shimmer in a shifting gold.
Across the water, Marquette’s team is loud again, stomping and chanting, but it all fades into a background hum.
The first swimmers explode off the blocks.
Ava dives in clean, a long reach cutting through the surface.
The rest of them fall into their own rhythm, cheering and shouting.
Jules takes the exchange, her stroke quick and compact.
By the time Nicole hits the water, they are trailing by less than half a body’s length.
Maren crouches, hands pressed to her thighs, timing every stroke. When Nicole’s fingers near the wall, she inhales once, sharp and steady.
The touch.
Maren explodes from the blocks.
Cold closes around her like glass breaking.
She feels the pull of the water, the stretch of her body lengthening through each stroke.
The first fifty is about control, the next twenty-five about pacing, then the final length’s about refusing to give an inch.
The crowd’s roar barely registers, only the echo of her own heartbeat is inside her brain.
At the final turn, she sees the blur of the swimmer in her peripheral vision. It is close, too close. She drives her head down and empties everything she has into the last stretch. The world narrows to a single black line of tiles beneath her. One arm, then the other. Then the wall.
Her hand hits the pad.
For a second, there is only silence. Then the scoreboard flashes.
Everton – 3:29.48. Marquette – 3:29.91
A beat of disbelief, and then the sound breaks open.
The team surges together, screaming, laughing, and the noise bouncing off every wall. Maren pushes herself up on the gutter, lungs burning, the world shimmering in motion and light. Reese is the first to reach her, pulling her into the chaos, her voice rising over everything.
“You did it! You really did it!” Pulling Maren in for a tight celebratory hug, Reese starts jumping them around in a small, tight circle, celebrating.
Maren can barely breathe, but she’s smiling so hard, it hurts.
Reaching up, she rips her cap off, water dripping from her hair into her eyes.
The sounds all start to blur together—clapping, cheering, and splashing.
Through it all, she feels that same steady pulse of the water that calls to her, that drives her through her life on a daily basis.
The whistle. The water. The rhythm of two currents finally finding sync.