Chapter 11 #2
The water closed over me, cool and comforting, and just like that, everything else fell away. My body moved on instinct, glide and pull and kick falling into place like they always had. Each stroke felt clean. Strong. Unrushed.
I surfaced at the turn, lungs burning just enough to remind me I was alive.
I finished my last event with my lungs on fire and my pulse roaring in my ears, and when I looked up at the scoreboard, my time glowed back at me like proof.
Not just that I could still do this. But that I was good.
Talon slapped my shoulder hard enough to sting. “There he is.”
Ridge grinned. “I guess you just needed a wife.”
I shot him a look. “Don’t start.” But I was smiling. I couldn’t help it.
Confidence slid back into my bones where it belonged, settling deep and rooted. I’d nailed my turns, pushed my glide just a second longer than usual, felt the power coil and release exactly when I’d needed it to.
Showing off?
Maybe.
But maybe this was what I’d needed all along.
To prove to myself that the window hadn’t closed, that I still belonged in the conversation.
Worlds had always been the goal, the line I’d been swimming toward since I was a kid counting tiles at the bottom of the pool.
The last few weeks had made that dream feel fragile, like it could slip through my fingers if I loosened my grip even a little.
Today reminded me it was still there. Still possible. Still mine to chase.
And when I climbed out and caught Roxie clapping, her smile wide and proud like she was a doting wife, I couldn’t help playing the part too, throwing her a wink that earned an eye roll I knew far too well.
After cooldown, towel slung low on my hips, hair still dripping, I made my way toward the stands. That was part of the deal too, letting people see Roxie and me together. No hiding. No ambiguity.
As I climbed the steps, I saw her laughing.
With some guy leaning too close, elbows braced on the railing like he belonged there.
Something ugly twisted in my gut.
The guy said something, and Roxie tilted her head, lips curving into that sharp, amused smile I knew way too well.
My steps slowed, irritation flaring sharp and fast before I could make sense of it.
She was allowed to talk to other people.
Heck, she was allowed to flirt if she wanted.
So why did it feel like someone had hooked a finger under my ribs and yanked?
I told myself it was instinct. Territorial reflex. Leftover adrenaline from racing. The same part of me that guarded my lane without thinking, that reacted before logic ever caught up.
I didn’t let myself consider the other explanation. The one that suggested this wasn’t about optics or performance at all.
The guy leaned even closer, and whatever fragile reasoning I had evaporated.
I didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Just stepped in beside her and rested my forearm on the railing, close enough that my presence was unmistakable.
“Hey,” I said pleasantly. Then, to him, “You mind giving my wife some space?”
The words echoed.
My wife.
Roxie went still. The guy blinked, eyes flicking between us before he cleared his throat and stepped back.
“I didn’t realize,” he muttered, already retreating. He said something about a great race and disappeared down the steps.
I watched him go, my pulse pounding harder than it had during any race.
I’d heard people say it before. Your wife. In passing. In paperwork. In meetings.
But this was different.
This wasn’t a checkbox or a contract. This was me claiming it out loud, instinctively, without thinking about who might hear.
Roxie turned to me slowly, color high on her cheeks. “You didn’t have to be rude.”
I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance even though something inside me was still vibrating. “Didn’t think I was.”
“You basically marked me as your territory.”
I leaned closer, lowering my voice. “Seemed efficient.”
She crossed her arms, giving me a haughty look, but her lips twitched despite herself. “You’re impossible.”
I gave her a cocky grin, the one I knew she despised. “Yet somehow you married me.”
That earned me a look—half warning, half something warmer—that I pretended not to see.
She studied me for a beat, then shook her head. “You swam really well.”
The way she said it, quiet and genuine, cut deeper than any cheer from the stands.
“Thanks,” I said. “For coming.”
“Appearances,” she reminded me.
“Right.”
I didn’t tell her that I’d looked for her in the stands every lap. That knowing she was there had steadied me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. That hearing it from her—not a coach, not a teammate, not a stranger yelling my name—felt different.
I told myself it didn’t matter. That this was just part of the arrangement. She’d shown up because she was supposed to, said the right thing because that’s what wives did.
But the warmth in my chest didn’t listen to logic. It spread anyway, unwelcome and persistent, making it harder to keep everything neatly contained.
As we walked out together, I told myself the jealousy had been nothing. A reflex. A performance.
But the truth pressed in, undeniable and unsettling.
The armor was cracking.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted to fix it.