3. jude
jude
The girl in front of me in the dining hall line is an Omega, and I only know because of the way everyone else reacts to her.
The Alpha behind her leaves space he isn’t giving anyone else, just enough to look polite without looking afraid of himself.
The Beta at the register softens her voice when she asks if the girl wants a receipt.
Two guys at the cereal station stop talking as she passes and start again too fast, eyes down like the silence was an accident.
It’s all there if you know where to look, which is useful, because my nose tells me nothing.
The dining hall smells like coffee, burnt toast, industrial cleaner, and whatever the kitchen staff has decided to call eggs this morning.
No designations layered underneath. No sharp Alpha edge, no warm Omega pull, no steady Beta calm.
Just breakfast and bleach. I only wear the blockers so people won’t smell me, because I can’t react to them if I tried.
People think blockers make the world quieter, but they don’t. They make everything else louder.
The Omega drops her student ID while reaching for a banana, and the Alpha behind her grabs it before it hits the floor.
He hands it back with his eyes down, careful enough that she smiles like she knows exactly what he’s doing and likes it anyway.
The whole thing is painful to witness before noon, so I grab coffee, a sealed yogurt, and a plastic-wrapped muffin because anything with enough preservatives to survive the display case can probably survive me.
The cashier looks at my ID, then at my face, and her mouth does the little dip people’s mouths do when recognition shows up before manners.
“Dining dollars?” she asks.
“Unless you’re taking emotional damage as currency.”
She laughs because she decides I’m joking. I let her have that and move before she can place me all the way. Jude Morrison. The Omega from the meet. The one who went into heat in front of half the athletic department. The one everyone has a version of, even people who weren’t there.
I sit near the side exit with my back to the wall and a clear view of both doors.
The guy two seats over is hungover, obvious from the way he keeps flinching at the overhead lights and staring at a dry bagel like it needs to make the first move.
A professor near the window is in a bad mood, shoulders tight, fork stabbing into fruit hard enough to make the table shake.
A girl at the next table is crying into oatmeal while her friend pats her hand with the helpless rhythm of someone who has run out of useful sentences.
Scent is useful until it isn’t. People lean on it too hard, trust biology like it’s never lied, and then act surprised when someone’s body gets turned into a campus story with three different endings and no witnesses brave enough to tell the truth.
My phone buzzes twice on the table. I finish the coffee first because caffeine deserves respect, then flip the phone over. Both texts are from the coach.
MARSH: Gear order got delivered to admin. Can you grab it before practice?
MARSH: Also don’t make Nelson cry today.
A brief smile creeps onto my face at the man who’s become something like a father figure.
He was one of the only people who didn’t immediately throw me out on my ass, the only one who believed I’d still be able to make something of myself.
The only one who’s ever encouraged me to get back into the water.
I stare at the second message, then type back.
ME: Pick one.
The typing bubble appears, disappears, then appears again.
MARSH: Gear order.
It gets another a smile out of me, which is unfortunate for my reputation. I eat a few bites of yogurt, toss the rest, and head across campus with my backpack over one shoulder and my hood up even though the sun is out.
Spring on campus makes everyone stupid. Forty-nine degrees and one patch of grass, and suddenly there are knees everywhere.
Shorts. Flip-flops. A fraternity guy in a tank top pretending his arms aren’t turning purple.
I cut past the library, take the side path by the old science building, and enter the athletics wing from the east doors.
The main entrance is faster, but it takes me past the trophy case, the pool doors, and the stretch of deck near lane three, so I take the long way.
The admin assistant gives me two boxes of replacement caps, three mesh bags, a stack of new kickboards, and a packing slip with backordered stamped across half the items. She frowns at the paper, then looks up and recognizes me before she can hide it.
“Coach Marsh said there were supposed to be six timing plungers.”
“There were supposed to be a lot of things.”
Her gaze drops back to the packing slip, but the recognition stays in her face now. “I can call purchasing.”
“Purchasing will say they sent what they had, Marsh will say that’s useless, purchasing will say they’ll note the account, and then everyone gets to feel employed.”
Her hand pauses over the phone. “So should I call?”
“Definitely. Some traditions matter.”
She laughs despite herself, and I leave before recognition turns into pity. I head to the equipment room and unpack the caps, count the bags, log the missing plungers, and submit the equipment request Marsh will never get funded.
REQUEST: six timing plungers, replacement lane rope section, two pace clocks.
Under justification, I type, Current equipment held together by hope and electrical tape, stare at it for a second, then delete it before submitting the request properly. Marsh would appreciate it and then make me rewrite the form.
The natatorium is empty when I finish. Practice isn’t until later, and the quiet makes the pool look cleaner than it is. No bodies in the lanes. No coaches calling splits. No hands slapping the wall. Just blue water under bright lights, still enough to pass for harmless.
The record board hangs above the deep end, but I keep my eyes off it.
I avoid the straight route across the deck because that would put me near lane three.
The long way takes me behind the bleachers, past the storage cage, and around the side where the deck dips slightly from old water damage.
My shoes squeak against the floor, the sound bouncing once before it turns into hands on tile, someone shouting, water slapping the gutter too hard.
The pool lights had been bright that night.
I remember that clearly, along with the first wrong note under my skin and the open pocket on my bag where the spare blockers should’ve been.
After that, I can’t remember much, so I keep walking.
I drop the boxes in the equipment cage, lock it, and take the side door out.
Near the vending machines, two freshmen stand shoulder to shoulder, voices low.
They’re both in team sweatpants, hair wet from morning lift showers.
I don’t know their names yet, but one has terrible posture and the other keeps checking his reflection in the vending machine glass.
My name hits the air before I reach them.
“...Jude?”
“Yeah. The Omega. I heard he just lost it in the middle of the meet.”
“Like, full heat?”
“I don’t know. Reece said it was insane.”
Of course Reece did.
One of them sees me in the vending machine reflection too late.
His face goes white, and the other turns with his mouth still half-open around whatever stupid thing was coming next.
I could stop and correct them. I could say blockers don’t fail like that when you’ve taken them the same way for years.
I could say heat doesn’t make you a public service announcement.
I could ask why Reece has been allowed to tell that story for a year without anyone asking what happened to my bag.
Instead, I glance at the vending machine. “Don’t get the tuna sandwich. It’s been there since Tuesday.”
Then I walk out before either of them finds a response. Correcting people costs more than the lie does. The truth is expensive, and everyone wants you to pay for it in public.
Outside, the quad is full of students but I just shove my hands into my hoodie pocket and head toward the dorms, already sorting the rest of the day into something manageable. Shower. Class. Notes. Practice later, where I’ll stand on deck and pretend the water is just water.
I make it halfway across the quad before I see Bishop and Hollis near one of the stone benches by the path, half tucked out of the traffic.
Bishop has his phone in one hand, reading something with the same focused expression he gives pace sheets and badly executed turns.
Hollis is wrapped around him from behind, arms looped around Bishop’s waist, chin hooked over Bishop’s shoulder, his huge body bent to fit.
Bishop scrolls with his thumb and reaches back with his free hand, settling it on Hollis' hip without looking up. There’s no calculation, no flinch, no checking who might be watching. They’re just there... together. I’m jealous. Kind of.
I slow for half a step, and Bishop’s head lifts, his eyes finding mine across the path. Hollis follows his gaze and softens before he manages to rein it in, too much warmth passing across his face before he remembers I can see him.
Bishop’s hand stays on Hollis' hip.
“Jude,” Bishop says.
“Captain,” I answer. “You know he’s using you as furniture, right?”
Hollis smiles before Bishop can answer, warm and pleased with himself. Bishop’s gaze drops to the folded equipment form in my hand. “Did Marsh get his order?”
“He got the concept of an order. The timing plungers are backordered, the kickboards look like they were manufactured during a budget crisis, and if he cries, I didn’t see it.”
Bishop’s smile spreads across his face as Hollis' arms tighten around his waist for a second. Hollis looks at the form, then at me, his voice warm without tipping into pity. “Thanks for grabbing all that.”
It’s normal. That’s the problem. He says it like I did something useful and not like I’m a campus tragedy walking around in old team gear. “Somebody has to keep Nelson from timing laps with his phone,” I say, already stepping back. “He’d drop it in the pool by the second set.”
Bishop’s hand shifts once on Hollis' hip. “Practice at four.”
“I know.”
His mouth moves again, like he’s holding back something that would only make me want to leave faster, so I do the sensible thing and leave first. Behind me, Hollis says something low that I don’t catch, and I don’t turn around to find out whether Bishop is still watching me.
My phone buzzes before I reach the dorm entrance. The number isn’t saved anymore, which means nothing, since deleting a name doesn’t delete the memory of a body.
You free tonight?
No hello. No punctuation. No strings either, which is the point.
He’s a Beta from econ who likes my mouth and doesn’t ask me to stay.
We hooked up twice, maybe three times depending on whether the night after the library counts as a hookup or a poor use of a study room.
He’s fine. Nice enough. Careful once I told him where not to touch.
It would be easy. Shower, show up, take something uncomplicated, and leave before the air changes. No scent. No breakfast. No one wrapped around me on a quad bench.
I leave the Beta on read, heading to my room instead, happy that it’s empty.
No roommate, no questions, no one pretending they don’t notice the corner by the window where I’ve built something I refuse to call what it is unless forced under oath.
It’s a nest. Technically. A sad, one-person nest made of my own clothes, two old hoodies, three blankets, and a pillow that has given up on structure.
Nothing in it belongs to anyone else. No Alpha shirt tucked into the side.
No Beta sweater stolen and kept under my cheek.
No borrowed warmth. Just laundry and an embarrassing amount of fleece.
I drop my backpack by the desk and toe off my shoes, staring at the pile in the corner like it might explain me to myself if I wait long enough. It doesn’t. My phone buzzes again, and the follow-up sits on the screen exactly how I expected it to.
Guess not?
I flip it face down on the desk.
I pull my hoodie over my head, toss it onto the pile, then crawl into the corner, tucking my knees up and dragging the softest blanket over my legs. Blowing out a heavy breath, I start repeating the mantra I’ve been saying since the incident.
I’m okay. I’m fine. One day, I’ll swim again.
By now, it almost sounds true.