Take My Breath Away

Chapter 1

LEDGER

Ihit the wall hard, fingers slapping the touchpad, lungs burning in that good, punishing way that meant the set had actually done its job. When I surfaced, the pool was nearly silent, just the hum of the filtration system and the soft sound of water slapping up against the lane ropes.

Kemery University was my alma mater, and their high-performance training group was the best in Florida.

Athletes like me, postgrads chasing the national team, got a home base here.

I wasn’t a student. I didn’t take classes or sit in on lectures.

I came here for one reason: the pool. Well, that and the coaches, and the chance to make something of my shot at the World Aquatics Championships—the biggest stage in swimming outside of the Olympics.

Everyone else had already cleared out.

Just me. Just lane four.

Just the one thing in my life that still made sense.

I hauled myself out, shoulders aching in that familiar and satisfying way. The air above the water was cool enough to bite at my wet skin, and the scent of chlorine clung to me—sharp, chemical, grounding. Faster than yesterday, the clock told me. But still not fast enough.

Never fast enough.

Not when every tenth of a second was the difference between making a national roster or fading into the long list of guys who almost made it.

I hadn’t spent twenty-six years waking before sunrise, counting calories, and structuring my entire life around a black line on the bottom of a pool just to stall out now.

I had only toweled off my face before I heard Coach Saunders’s footsteps. Heavy. Tired. The kind of cadence she only had when she was about to ruin my week.

“Ledger,” she said, adjusting her hat. The gesture was small, but I’d seen it enough over the years to know it meant bad news. “Got a minute?”

I wasn’t technically supposed to be in here this late, but Coach bent the rules for me. Not because she liked me—though I knew she did—but because she believed I could do the thing no one in my family ever had: rise above our circumstances.

“Yeah.” I slung the towel around my neck, forgoing drying off the rest of me. My blue swim jammer clung to my thighs as water dripped down my legs.

She exhaled slowly. That was worse than the hat thing.

“Look … about that sponsorship the athletic department was negotiating for you.”

Instantly my stomach clenched.

She wouldn’t be talking about it unless—

“It fell through.”

The words hit harder than a kick off the wall.

Not just because it meant money.

Because sponsorships were lifelines at this level. Without one, swimmers like me didn’t just struggle—they disappeared. Quietly. Without headlines. Without a second chance.

“What? Why?”

“Corporate restructuring. They’re shifting away from individual athletes at the developmental level. It’s not personal.”

It felt personal.

Everything felt personal when you’d scraped and clawed for every inch of progress.

I forced my jaw to unclench. “So, what does that mean?”

Coach crossed her arms, bracing herself. “It means your extended lane access and your housing stipend go with it. Without the sponsorship covering the costs, the department can’t continue paying for your off-campus apartment.”

That apartment wasn’t even really mine. It was part of the postgrad training package Kemery offered. Technically off-campus housing, paid for by the department. Or it had been.

Cold slid down my spine.

Losing the apartment was one thing.

Losing consistent access to this pool, this coaching, this training environment, was another.

At this level, a disrupted routine didn’t just slow you down. It ended careers.

“Coach.” I shook my head. “I can’t move backward right now. Not when the US National Championships—the World trials—are four months away.”

Four months.

One shot to prove I belonged on a deck with the best swimmers in the country.

One shot that I might not get again if I lost momentum now.

“I get it.” Her voice softened. “But the lease is tied to the program. Without the stipend, you’re responsible for the full rent. And with your training schedule …”

Meaning: I didn’t have time for a first or second job to make that work.

My throat tightened. I could almost feel the future I’d been chasing slipping.

“What are my options?”

“Not many,” she admitted. “You could move into the shared housing the university offers visiting athletes.”

Shared housing was a generous term. It was basically dorm living for grown adults. Thin walls, communal kitchens, and neighbors who thought heating fish at midnight was reasonable.

“That won’t work,” I said immediately.

“I know.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “There is … one other option, but I’m not recommending it.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

“Because it technically exists.” She cleared her throat. “The university still offers a domestic partnership grant for married or civil-unioned athletes in training programs. Comes with guaranteed on-campus housing and a living stipend.”

I stared.

“Coach. I’m twenty-six.”

She shrugged. “People your age get married.”

“Not for housing.”

“Sometimes for housing,” she said, like that somehow helped.

“I’m not getting married.”

“I didn’t say you should. I’m just saying the option is there.”

“Great. Super helpful.” I scrubbed both hands over my face. “And who exactly do you think I might marry? I don’t even date.”

Mainly because I didn’t have time. And because dating meant energy and effort and vulnerability—things I poured into training, not another person who could walk away whenever they felt like it.

Did I sound bitter? Maybe. But after my last relationship? Yeah, no way. I’d spent two years building something I’d thought was solid, only to have her end it like it was nothing. Like I was nothing. I wasn’t stupid enough to let that happen again.

Dating wasn’t just off the table. The table had been flipped and set on fire.

She gave me the kind of look you give a man whose boat is sinking but refuses to grab a life preserver. “All I’m saying is you need a backup plan.”

A backup plan.

Backup plans were for people who had the luxury of quitting.

Swimming had never been a hobby for me. It was the only thing I’d ever built my life around. The only thing that had ever felt like a way out.

“I’ll figure it out.” I slung my swim bag over my shoulder before she could pity me any harder.

“Ledger—”

“I’ve got it,” I repeated, sharper than I meant. I didn’t wait for her to answer.

I stepped outside into the cooling Florida evening.

Early spring here wasn’t chilly, not really, but compared to the humid chlorine-fogged air inside, the breeze felt sharp.

I pulled on a hoodie, the fabric sticking to my still-damp back.

My knee-length swim jammer continued to drip water down my legs, but I didn’t care.

The sun had already dipped behind the palm trees lining the walkway. The sky was streaked pink and orange, pretty in the kind of way I was too stressed to appreciate.

Most of the swimmers I passed were students, but a handful of us postgrads trained here year-round, trying to claw our way into the national circuit.

Some evenings, it felt like we were invisible, just random people in the water, but the stakes were higher now, heavier in a way college had never prepared me for.

The pool didn’t care about age, degree, or money.

I tried to stop thinking about it once I left the water and started toward home, the sidewalk warm beneath my slides, tried not to think about the numbers I’d be crunching later—rent, utilities, groceries, training expenses, travel.

Every dollar I didn’t have translated into fewer hours in the water, fewer meets I could afford to travel to, fewer chances to prove I deserved to be here at all.

Trying not to think about how all of it was suddenly a threat.

Halfway down the back path behind the kinesiology building, I saw her.

Of course I did.

Roxie Montgomery.

Wearing leggings and a cropped tank top that screamed “expensive,” even though she’d probably call it practical. The fabric fit like it had been engineered specifically to be distracting, outlining toned legs and a waist I absolutely did not need to notice right now.

Her curly blonde hair was in a ponytail, and she was power walking like she did every evening at this exact time—head high, purposefully ignoring that it was exercise.

She noticed me the same moment I noticed her.

Her steps slowed. Her eyes narrowed.

Perfect.

“Well.” She tugged out an earbud. A curl slipped loose from her ponytail, brushing her cheek, and for a split second my brain stalled on the way the late sun caught the gold in her hair. “If it isn’t Mr. Competitive.”

I exhaled through my nose. I did not have the mental capacity for this. Not today. Probably not ever.

“Don’t start,” I warned.

She let out a short laugh. “Who said I started anything? You always assume I’m picking a fight.”

“Because you usually are.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” she shot back. “Maybe I just don’t like being talked down to.”

“I wasn’t—” I stopped, jaw tight. “Forget it.”

“You’re dripping everywhere.” She looked me up and down. Which would’ve been less irritating if my own gaze hadn’t already betrayed me by flicking—briefly, stupidly—over the line of her collarbone and the confident set of her shoulders. “Did you walk out of the pool without drying off? Again?”

“I had a towel.”

“Did it not make the trip with you this time?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Roxie. Move.”

“What’s your problem today?” she asked, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re more irritable than usual.”

“Nothing,” I lied.