10. The Last Lap
The Last Lap
Maren takes the left and turns carefully into the parking lot.
It’s starting to hit her that this will be her last practice.
Why Coach Hensley wanted to end with a Saturday morning, she will never know.
Sliding into her usual parking spot, she notices the sun hasn’t even begun to tip over the horizon.
She sits for a moment in the car, just taking it in.
Down the sidewalk, the hallway lights click on one by one.
The glow spills onto the pavement, familiar and sharp in the early blue light.
She smiles to herself, wondering if Coach Hensley will get to sleep in next year or if someone else will start showing up just as early as she has for the past four seasons.
Walking inside, everything feels the same.
The buzz of the fluorescent lights. The smell of chlorine hanging in the air, mixed with the faint gasoline drift from the auto shop across the hall.
She opens the door to the pool, and humidity hits her hard enough to steal her breath.
At least that’s what she tells herself. It’s the humidity.
Still, she can’t ignore that everything looks exactly the same, yet somehow feels heavier, like the room itself knows this is the last time.
Passing the office. Coach Hensley gives her a small nod.
She spots the unmistakable stack of pink boxes on the desk, donuts from her favorite shop in town.
Off limits during the season, which makes this a real treat.
She wonders what kind of deal the coach made to get them this early.
The thought makes her smile, and she feels a small lift in her step as she heads toward the locker room.
The weight in her chest has been tucked away for later.
Maren moves through her routine. Locker open, suit and cap out, goggles in hand.
She changes quickly, then steps out onto the deck.
A wrench sits waiting on the bleachers, right where she always leaves it.
She smiles again. Coach Hensley knows her well enough to expect that, today of all days, she will still want to check the details.
She makes her rounds, tugging at the lane lines until each one hums tight, pulling out the kickboards and buoys, setting everything just right.
When she walks to the whiteboard to write the warm-up, she glances at the top, and it hits her all over again.
Their names have been up there all season.
Reese’s in her looping cursive besides Maren’s block letters.
The little heart is still sitting at the end of her name.
Her grin breaks wide before she can stop it. If anyone had seen her in that moment, they might have thought she had lost her mind.
The sound of the locker room door opening cuts through the quiet.
Footsteps echo against the tiles, quick and familiar.
Maren doesn’t need to look to know it is Reese.
Before she even turns, she can feel Reese smiling.
There is a soft shake of her head as she crosses the deck, setting a coffee cup from Red Cup down on the stool next to the whiteboard.
“You didn’t think I’d forget your coffee, did you, Mini-Coach?” Reese teases. “You know, all season I’ve been trying to beat you here. I only managed it that first day. I’ll never know how you do it, Clarke.”
Taking a sip from her cup, Maren says. “It is a very complicated and secret system involving a few alarm clocks and anxiety.”
Reese laughs, shaking her head again. “I don’t even know what to do with you some days Maren. You know that, right?”
“Well, I could think of a few things.”
The words slip out before Maren’s brain can stop them, her internal filter failing her yet again.
Her face burns. She grabs the coffee and takes a long drink, the heat doing nothing to hide the color rising on her cheeks.
Turning back to the whiteboard, she scribbles the rest of the warm-up set with deliberate focus.
Reese giggles, light and unbothered. “Well, I guess we can talk about that later,” she says as she spins away, heading toward the diving well.
Maren exhales, forcing herself to focus. She sets her cup on the bench and walks to the edge of the pool. The water looks calm, waiting. She crouches, dips her fingers in, and then slides the rest of her body in quietly. The cold wraps around her like a reset button.
She pushes off the wall and starts an easy warm-up lap. Stroke. Breathe. Turn. Push. The routine steadies her heartbeat again.
By the time she surfaces, the locker room door opens a second time, followed by a burst of voices and laughter.
The rest of the team floods in, their chatter bouncing off the walls.
Towels drop on benches, someone splashes a teammate, someone else yells good morning.
Some join in and swim warm-ups with Maren.
Others just sit and chill on the side of the pool.
They all know this is the last one for the while, and they have no meets left to be practicing for anyway.
Maren keeps swimming, letting the motion drown out the noise, following the black line in the middle of the lane for a few more laps before she climbs out. The air is warmer now, heavy with energy and chlorine.
Coach Hensley’s whistle cuts through the chaos, sharp and familiar. The team gathers along the shallow end, still buzzing, ready for whatever this last practice brings. He leans back against the wall, looking out across the team. He pauses for a moment, just looking out at the team.
“You know, I’ve known most of you since you were in age group.
Some of you started as young as six.” He glances over and winks at Maren.
“I’ve watched you all grow into some of the best young women I’ve ever had the pleasure of coaching.
I’ve even had to referee more than one argument and put a little drama to rest. Yes, I am looking at you, Jules and Nicole. ”
The team laughs, eyes turning toward the two girls standing in lane two.
“Seriously, if we looked up the word frenemy in the dictionary, it would be your pictures.”
Nicole dunks herself under the water to escape the teasing.
“But what I’m trying to say,” the coach continues, with a slight catch in his voice, “is that you girls are a family. Whether you want to be or not. You’ve shown up for each other time and time again, and I hope you always do that.”
He clears his throat. “Now, without further ado, Maren, Reese, get your butts up here on deck.”
Maren pushes herself out of the pool, water streaming down her arms. She feels the weight of every eye on her as she walks across the deck. Reese waves her way through the divers, brushing Maren’s shoulder with a light nudge and a quiet smile. One that says, hey, I got you, one last time.
“Ok, gang,” Coach says. “I must admit, when I decided to appoint two captains this year, I was worried. But I think you have to agree, these two made it work.”
Maren feels the heat climb up her cheeks again.
“I wasn’t sure how it would go, but from the moment I asked them to lead, they stepped up and got the job done. I’m proud of both of them, and I cannot wait to see what they do next, both in and out of the pool.”
The team starts to clap. A few of the divers shout “TAR HEELS!” at the top of their lungs, and soon, the rest join in. Maren glances at Reese. Her smile is bright, but it stings a little, too.
Coach Hensley blows his whistle, a sharp burst that makes Maren flinch from how close it is. “All right, all right, settle down. Since this is the last practice of the season, and these two’s last day with us, it’s Captain’s Choice.”
The team erupts again. Reese looks at Maren, eyes sparkling. “Water?” she starts to ask, and before she can finish, Maren yells, POLO!”
Maren ducks into the equipment room and comes out with a ball while the others drag the nets toward the diving well. The pool deck fills with noise, laughing, splashing, and arguing over teams.
When Maren steps out holding the ball, Reese snatches it from her hands with a grin.
“You know, I was going to say that sometimes you have good ideas, Callahan,” Maren calls after her.
Reese laughs and slips an arm around Maren’s shoulders as they walk toward the nets. “You know what, Maren?” I said it before, and I’ll say it again. You make us look good.”
The pool erupts before the whistle even sounds.
Half the swimmers are shouting about who’s on which side, and the divers have already claimed the bleacher side of the diving well as home turf.
A diver cannonballs in before the teams are even decided, sending up a wave that drenches Coach Hensley as he walks past.
Reese’s laughter carries across the noise. “That’s one point for the divers already,” she calls, tossing the ball from hand to hand.
“Not a chance,” Maren yells, grinning in spite of herself. She climbs to sit on the lane line, balancing for a second before pushing off into the water. “Swimmers are taking this one.”
“Loser buys breakfast?” Reese taunts.
Maren shrugs. “You already owe me coffee.”
The whistle blows sharp and short, and the ball hits the water.
Chaos follows. Arms cut through the surface, shouts echo off tile, Nicole yells about the rules no one is following.
Reese dives under, slippery as a fish, popping up behind Maren to steal the ball.
Maren spins, blocking her with both hands, and their laughter blends with the splash.
It isn’t competitive, not really. It’s the kind of game that’s more about being together than winning. Someone calls for a pass that sails completely off target, someone else tries to dunk a teammate, and the ball vanishes for thirty seconds before reappearing at the far end.
Coach Hensley watches from the deck, his clipboard tucked under one arm and coffee in the other. He shakes his head and mutters, “This is the reason none of these girls play sports that involve balls.”