Chapter 14
jude
A week after I sleep in Bishop and Hollis’ room for the first time, I find myself in the dining hall on a Saturday morning with a full plate in front of me and no ability to eat it.
The first home meet of the semester was proof I could get back in the water.
This one is bigger. More teams, more heats, more bodies moving through our pool like it belongs to everyone at once.
Marsh said it would be a good test of routine, which sounded reasonable when he said it in his office on Wednesday and much less reasonable now that every table around us is packed with swimmers in warm-ups, meet bags shoved under chairs, towels looped around necks, and parents already filtering through the lobby outside the glass doors.
The week between then and now should have made this easier.
I’ve practiced. I’ve done the blocker ritual before and after every swim.
I’ve slept between Bishop and Hollis more nights than I’ve slept alone, though nobody has made a big deal out of that except Hollis, who makes a big deal silently by looking like he’s won something every time I steal his pillow.
My body knows their hands now. Their voices.
The low start of Hollis’ purr before he reins it in because we’re in public.
None of that convinces my stomach to accept breakfast.
The dining hall is already loud, brighter than it needs to be this early, full of scraped chairs and teammates trying to turn nerves into noise. Usually, I can hide inside that. This morning, every sound lands too close, and the eggs on my plate might as well be decorative.
I keep my hands under the table, curled against my thighs where no one can see the shaking.
Hollis finds them anyway, sliding both of his hands over mine without looking down.
His face stays turned toward Nelson, who’s talking about the visiting team’s bus blocking the loading lane, but the purr starts low in his chest and travels through his arms into my wrists.
Quiet enough for the table to hide it. Steady enough that my fingers stop trying to fold into fists.
Across from us, Bishop sets an opened protein bar beside my tray. He turns the torn edge of the wrapper toward me so I won’t have to fight with it, then keeps his hand there for a second before pulling back. “A few bites before we leave.”
I look at the bar and swallow around the tight place in my throat. “I don’t think I can.”
Bishop’s face doesn’t change in disappointment or concern big enough to make me feel worse. His eyes move once to Hollis, then back to me. “Then one bite now. We’ll deal with the rest later.”
Hollis’ thumb moves across my knuckle as I break off a piece of the bar and put it in my mouth before I can argue myself out of it. It tastes too sweet and too dry, but it stays down, and Bishop nods once like that is all he needed from me.
Nelson leans across the table with his towel already around his neck, too much energy packed into a person who should not be allowed near caffeine.
One of the other players catches the direction of his attention and says his name once, before Nelson can turn me into a pre-meet spectacle.
Nelson closes his mouth, looks briefly pained by self-restraint, then taps two fingers against the table.
“Good to have you in the lanes today,” he says.
I look at him for a second longer than either of us is comfortable with and manage, “Thanks.”
Bishop pulls the blocker from his bag and sets it beside his coffee, label facing me. “Ready room,” he says. “Not the locker room. Too many people.”
A little sigh of relief falls from my lips as I nod, following them to the ready room.
It smells like chlorine, old tile, damp towels, and the sharp edge of nerves I can recognize without needing scent.
The rest of the team moves around us in a blur, Coach Marsh in the corner checking logistics, the roster, and timing.
Most of what I would be doing if I wasn’t swimming today.
Reece is near the far wall with Tate, both of them dressed and ready, both of them pretending not to look at me.
I don’t need scent to read that either. Reece’s attention sits on, the same way it did last year before everything became lights and hands and too many people deciding my body was public property.
Bishop steps into my line of sight before I can keep looking, shifting close enough for me to see his face clearly and nods toward the smaller side room by the sinks.
Hollis follows us in and stands with his back near the frame.
Bishop lays the blocker, wipes, and sheet on the counter in a neat line, then turns the tube so I can read the label.
I check the seal myself. My thumb runs over the cap, then the crimp at the end, then the printed lot number I don’t actually need to memorize but do anyway.
“Throat first,” he says.
I nod before his fingers touch me. The blocker is cool against my skin, and my breath still catches when he smooths it over the side of my neck.
Bishop keeps his eyes on mine while he works.
When his hand moves, he tells me where. When he pauses, he waits until I nod again.
Wrists next, then behind my ears, the part I hate because I can’t see it coming even though I know exactly where he is.
Hollis' purr deepens from the doorway, filling the edges of it, giving me something steady to put my breathing against. Bishop finishes the last pass behind my right ear and caps the tube before handing it to me so I can see it closed.
Hollis steps closer after I sign the sheet like I always do, cementing that I’ve applied the blocker and won’t cause a scene.
My Alpha lowers his forehead enough that I can choose whether to meet him, and I do, because the purr is easier through contact.
His skin is warm against mine. My breathing evens after three slow pulls of air, and when I step back, he lets me.
Bishop folds the sheet into the folder. “Warm-up, then one more bite.”
I look at the protein bar in his hand and decide not to argue because my throat is still tight and he already knows.
I manage to stretch and swim a lap, trying to shake off the anxiety rolling through me.
Every few seconds I glance over at Hollis and Bishop to make sure my scent isn’t betraying me.
They just offer me a smile so I can continue, but the need for that validation is fucking with my concentration.
It isn’t until I’m called that I move toward lane three, my cap tight over my hair and my goggles pressed to my forehead.
The crowd shifts at the same time, a rush of voices rising from the bleachers as another heat finishes and people clap for names I don’t hear.
I glance back over at Bishop, my Beta offering me a small nod and mouthing the words, ‘You’ll do great. ’
I sure hope so.
One whistle slices through the noise, and my body answers before my brain can tell it not to, bringing back last year’s incident.
The awful seconds when my body became something everyone else got to react to before I understood what was happening.
I remember looking for a face that would tell me what was real and finding nothing but people watching.
“Morrison,” Bishop says from the deck, his voice low enough that it doesn’t turn into another spectacle. “Sweetheart.”
I twist my head to find Bishop again, my Beta standing near the lane rope with the clipboard tucked under one arm, his attention fixed on my face like the rest of the room can wait.
He doesn’t reach for me. He doesn’t tell me I’m fine.
He points toward the lane in front of me and says, “Look at the water.”
The words don’t fix the panic, but they give it a direction.
I make myself look down. The lane line cuts through the pool beneath me.
The surface moves under the lights, and the water doesn’t care what anyone in the bleachers thinks they know about me.
My breathing comes back in pieces while the starter calls us forward.
I step onto the block with Bishop’s voice still in my ear, and when I bend over the lane, I keep my eyes on the water until the room turns distant enough to survive.
The horn goes, and I dive before the memory can put its hands on me again.
The water closes over my shoulders, and for the first few strokes, all I can feel is the violence of my own heartbeat.
I’m too fast off the start. My breath comes rough on the first turn, and my arms burn earlier than they should, but the lane gives me something to answer.
By the final length, my shoulders are screaming and my lungs feel scraped raw, but something in me has gone clear.
The year I lost is still there. The fear is still there.
Reece is still somewhere on the deck with his eyes on me.
None of it gets to swim this heat for me.
My hand hits the wall hard, and I come up gasping with both hands on the gutter, water streaming down my face while the crowd folds back around me.
Hollis makes a sound from the next lane that catches somewhere between a laugh and a broken breath.
I turn before I look at the board, and he’s staring at me with his goggles crooked, his mouth open, his whole face so bright with feeling that it hits harder than the race.
He reaches across the lane line and gently squeezes my shoulder before pointing to the board.
“I… won?” My voice shakes a little. It’s nothing compared to last year but I won this heat, with a time beside my name that is better than I expected and better than anyone who wrote me off deserves to see.
The number stays there on the board, and I stare at it until my vision blurs because my body did something in front of everyone and nobody got to turn it into shame.