Page 115 of Good Graces

Then the texts start rolling in. More buzzing, more vibrating against the metal bench, each one louder in my head than the last. I try to ignore it. I try to focus on my breathing, on the sound of guys joking around across the room, but the buzzing won’t stop.

I shove the towel aside and grab my phone again. The screen’s flooded with messages, little text bubbles stacking higher and higher. I scroll through, pulse kicking up as I take in the mess of words.

It’s strings of garbled nonsense. Whole paragraphs repeating themselves like he’s stuck on a loop. Half sentences that cut off and start over again.

Dad

Warren where r u

They say im not allowed

Need u t come get me out

Get me OUT GET ME OUT GETMEOUT

My stomach knots up.

He’s at Oakview. He’s been at Oakview for years now. He shouldn’t be able to get his hands on anything. He shouldn’t be able to . . .

I power the phone off, stuff my phone into my locker, and slam the door. I don’t have time for his bullshit right now. No distractions today. No noise in my head.

The stands are busy when we walk out. Family members lean over the railings, teammates slap each other’s backs, the whole place humming with nervous energy. But when I scan the crowd, it’s Quinn I find.

She’s sitting on her own, hands tucked beneath her knees, chin lifted just enough to make it clear she’s watching me.

Something shifts in my chest. Not sharp or sudden, more like a quiet swell, like a muscle remembering how to move.

She used to come to a few of my meets freshman year. She never told me when she was showing up, just appeared in the stands like she couldn’t help herself.

Back then, I remember feeling electrified. A rush filled with pride and something more fragile, something hopeful. Seeing her up there was like stepping into cold water. Your pulse spikes, your breath catches, and then slowly, your body learns how to hold it.

That feeling’s still there now, only warmer. Like sunlight on your back after the plunge. Steady and sure. Something you can lean into.

But not right now.

I shake it off and roll out my shoulders, narrowing in on my first event.

The 200 free is all rhythm and patience. I stay controlled through the first hundred, matching pace with the guy in the next lane. He’s taller—longer reach—but I’m sharper off the walls, four tight dolphin kicks carrying me past the flags before I even take a stroke.

When I flip into the third lap, I shift gears. Switch to a two-stroke breathing pattern, let the tempo build. My stroke rate ticks up, heart pounding harder as I fight to stay clean through the turn. I lock in for the final fifty, holding form, legs burning, driving through the water like it owes me something. The last stretch is all grit. I edge half a stroke ahead just as my fingers slam into the touchpad.

Second place. An okay start.

I pull myself out of the water, and then it’s over, just like that. Second place, but my time still isn’t fast enough to turn heads. No PR, no B-cut, nothing that gets me noticed. Just ... fine.

The 50 free comes next. There are barely ten minutes between events, just enough time to cool down, reset, and get back behind the blocks. For this sprint, I know I’ll have to claw for every inch in the water. It’s all power with no pacing, no room to settle in. Just explode off the block and go.

I snap forward on the start, driving hard through the breakout. Water surges past my ears, my arms digging fast and deep. My legs are still heavy from the last event, the quick turnaround leaving them sluggish, but I hammer each kick from the hips, forcing every ounce of power I can find.

I hit the wall first. A clean finish. But I barely register the win before I’m hauling myself out of the pool, heart thudding like I’ve swallowed it whole.

Still solid. Still sharp.

I glance up at the scoreboard overhead, catching my time. It’s a low twenty-one. Not a personal best, but close. Clean enough to hold my spot, enough to keep Coach off my back.

After I shake out my arms and catch my breath, I spot Quinn again in the stands. She’s on her feet this time, clapping with that wide, full smile of hers. The kind that always looks a little crooked, like she’s halfway through laughing.

I don’t smile back—can’t yet—but something settles inside me.

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