Page 109 of Good Graces

I assumed it would feel like shit to hear it, and it does. She tried to move on, tried to forget me with some guy in her lit class. Someone who got to be close to her, even for a little while.

I wonder if he made her laugh. If she ever looked at him and thought,maybe this could be something.

I swallow hard, pushing the thought down before it festers.

“Even when I was with other people,” I say quietly, “none of it mattered. I could’ve had a hundred hookups, and it wouldn’t have changed a thing. I never forgot the way you made me feel. The way you looked at me ... like I was something good.”

“You are good.” She laughs, soft and sad. “But I sort of hate it, you know. Hateyou. For being with other people. And I know it’s unfair because I tried too, but ... it still hurts.”

“I get it. Part of the reason I ... did what I did was because I assumed you’d move on without looking back. Like you didn’t care. Like I never mattered enough for you to try.”

“That’s not true,” she urges. “I cared. I always cared.”

Silence stretches between us, heavy and lingering. There’s no dramatic resolution, no perfect words to make it better. Just this—sitting in the fallout, letting it exist instead of pretending it never happened.

“I should go,” I say, breaking the quiet. “I’ve got practice.”

Quinn nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

But just as I start to move, she reaches for my hand. Her fingers are cold, but her grip is firm.

“We’ll figure it out,” she says softly. “Right?”

I squeeze her hand in return. “Yeah. We will.”

* * *

I headonto the pool deck still feeling the dull ache in my shoulders from Saturday. Partly from the mock meet, partly from Quinn. My muscles are stretched and overworked. But I did spend the whole weekend getting wrung out, and I’d do it again.

Coach Voss stands near the bleachers, clipboard in hand, already flipping through splits and stroke counts. The rest of the guys mill around, half-dressed in sweats or pulling gear from their bags.

“Mercer,” Voss calls, motioning me over. “Come talk to me.”

I drop my bag near the bench and make my way over, trying to school my expression. I know what’s coming. My times on Saturday weren’t terrible, but they weren’t what they should’ve been.

I hit my marks in the freestyle, but my lead-off wasn’t sharp enough. My turns were clean but not aggressive. My breakout felt like I was fighting through syrup. It’s enough for me to brace myself for the talk.

“So,” Voss starts, his eyes still fixed on his clipboard. “I looked over your times again. I think you’re capable of better.”

“Yeah, I know,” I say. No point pretending otherwise.

“I know you’ve been working hard,” Voss goes on, lowering the clipboard to meet my eyes. “But Gaines is back this week. Shoulder’s healed faster than expected. We’re gonna switch things around for the dual meets coming up.”

I blink. “That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Voss says, scratching something onto his clipboard. “So, we’ll have you back on anchor for the medley and middle leg in the 400 free.”

I nod. “Okay.”

I’m not bothered by swapping back. Gaines is stronger in backstroke; I know that. But still, part of me can’t help but wonder if I should’ve been better at cross-training. If I’d worked harder, if I’d pushed myself more, then maybe Voss wouldn’t have even considered the switch in the first place.

I’m a freestyle swimmer, always have been. But I want to be well-rounded, too.

“Why not anchor in the free?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Voss exhales through his nose. “Because you’re not as sharp as you should be,” he says, like he can read my mind. “You’ve got the stamina, no question. But you’re overgripping the catch, shortening your stroke, rushing your recovery. You need to loosen up. Focus on clean extensions, smooth pull-throughs. Your underwaters could be faster, too. We’ll drill those next week.”

I nod, jaw tight.

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