Page 64 of Good Graces

Lyle studies me for a beat. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that.”

We’re halfway to the locker room when Coach’s voice cuts through the noise. “Mercer, hang back!”

I backtrack, stopping at the edge of the pool deck. “Yeah?”

“Gaines is out for at least a month—shoulder injury,” Coach says. “I’m moving you to third leg in the freestyle relay, and you’re gonna lead off the medley with backstroke. I want you first in the water, and I’ll have Omar anchoring.”

I blink. That’s .. . unexpected. Not bad. Just weird. Backstroke isn’t my specialty. I’ve been anchoring since sophomore year, ever since my split got fast enough to clean up whatever mess the rest of the relay left behind.

When you’re swimming first, there’s no one to chase. No adrenaline spike from a tight finish. No cleanup mission. You’re setting the tone, not closing the gap. One bad turn and you screw the rest of the relay before it even starts.

And Hawkins is supposed to be the alternate there, so either Voss doesn’t trust him, or he’s testing me.

“Alright,” I say, shrugging my towel higher on my shoulder.

“You sure you’re good with that?”

“I said alright.”

Coach narrows his eyes like he’s waiting for me to crack. Like maybe I’ll tell him what I’m actually thinking. But I won’t. Because what’s the point? It’s not like I can sayHey, Voss, I don’t really trust anyone else to finish the way I would.OrYeah, putting me first is fine, but you better hope the guys behind me don’t screw it up.

So, I keep my mouth shut.

“You know—” Coach says, voice softer now, like he’s talking to the kid under the cap. “Being the best doesn’t mean much if you’re always swimming alone.”

When you race solo, there are no missed turns, no bad handoffs, no one else dragging your time down. Maybe I’m lonely outside the pool, but at least in the water, I’m in control. That counts for something.

“Just keep your head straight,” Coach says, voice quieter. “This is still your season if you want it.”

Is it that I want it, but only on my terms?

That I know I’m fast enough to win, but I don’t want to carry anyone else’s weight?

That I don’t trust anyone enough to let them carry mine?

Not Hawkins. Not Omar. Not anyone. Being captain would mean more than just showing up and swimming hard. It would mean leading. Being visible. Letting people rely on me and risking what happens if I fail them.

I’ve spent the last three years avoiding everything that comes with being part of a team. The small talk. The bonding. The nights out after practice. The part where trust isn’t just implied—it’s required.

Maybe that’s why the pressure never really lets up. Why it coils tighter after every meet, every practice, every time someone looks at me like I’m supposed to lead when I barely know how to follow.

Ten minutes later, I let the shower scorch my back, hoping the heat will unwind something in my chest. It doesn’t. The tension sticks, clinging like chlorine—sharp and stubborn—and no amount of heat or steam can burn it off.

I should be thinking about the season. About the relay. About how Voss is already testing me by switching my spot in the lineup. About how Hawkins and the others have been running their mouths about my attitude, my so-called ego.

But I’m thinking about Quinn again. Her eyes finding mine in that classroom. The way her pulse fluttered beneath my fingers when I grabbed her wrist. The way she’s been flashing hot and cold—too sharp one minute, too soft the next—like she doesn’t know what to do with me anymore.

I scrub a hand down my face.Jesus.

I wasn’t meant to see her again once we both finished the season.

When I enrolled in Lang’s section last spring, I knew Quinn’s major—of course I did—but I wasn’t expecting her to be the one standing at the front of the room, watching as I half-heartedly skimmed the syllabi like I couldn’t feel her gaze burning into me.

And now I’m stuck with her once again. Twice a week. Two hours of her clipped voice, her presence, her sharp little comments when someone asks a question that’s already been answered five minutes earlier. Two hours of pretending I’m not still holding on to some tiny sliver of whatever the hell we were.

Meanwhile, she’s decided to act like I’m nothing more than another student with a notebook and a bad attitude. I could deal with Quinn being angry. With her getting in my face, snapping back like she used to. I know how to fight with her.

Hell, in between all the messy, heated, tangled-up moments, we were always bickering about something—who could carry the most trays through the banquet hall, who could fast-talk their way out of a double shift, who could get the most half-hearted praise from Robbie by cutting corners in the clean-up room.

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