Page 94 of Good Graces

His gaze flicks toward Quinn like she’s the reason I’ve been off. Like she’s some shiny object I can’t stop chasing instead of the good-luck charm I know her to be. When we were together the first time, I swam cleaner, slept better, felt steadier.

My shoulders tense, heat crawling up my neck. It’s not that I’m ashamed to be with her out loud. But there’s something about Hawkins that makes everything feel like a performance. PDA just gives him more ammo.

“I’ll see you later,” I tell Quinn quietly.

She gives Hawkins a cool once-over before turning back to me. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“I don’t care what he thinks.”

The guy’s been on my case for the last couple of weeks. It’s obvious he resents the medley switch-up, thinks he should’ve been bumped into the lead-off spot instead of me. He’s the backstroke alternate, and I’m the wild card with something to prove. Just trying to relearn my start, relearn my rhythm.

But he’s wrong. I’m not choking. I’m adapting. I’m fighting for it; I just haven’t nailed the first 50 yet.

And it’s not like Omar, our captain, hasn’t had to adjust, too. Voss has him covering anchor just in case Gaines doesn’t make it back in time for the meets. Omar’s been solid so far. He’s a strong freestyle swimmer and a calm finisher, which helps.

But Dayton’s always been a relay-heavy team. We had a stacked medley squad, and then we lost a few top guys last season—some graduated, others took time off to focus on Olympic training—and the rest of us have been filling in ever since.

The pressure’s on both of us, and the last thing we need is Hawkins running his mouth.

“Yeah?” Quinn quirks a brow. “Tell that to the tension in your shoulders.”

I give her a quick kiss, just enough to shut her up. Just enough to let it linger. Then, I turn toward the entrance.

Hawkins is already smirking like he’s won something.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of a glance, just shoulder past him and keep walking.

Inside, the pool deck’s a blur of motion and noise. Voices ricochet off the tile walls. The sharp slap of water echoes from every lane. A few guys are still stretching on the benches, working resistance bands or rolling out their shoulders. Others are already in the water, arms slicing through the surface in smooth, practiced strokes.

Coach Voss stands by the whiteboard, scrawling down split goals for the A relay. Omar leans nearby with his arms crossed, talking quietly with Lyle and Christian, freestyle swimmers who’ve been grinding out pace sets with me all week.

Tonight’s practice is self-led, and somehow, that always makes us go harder. Voss isn’t the micromanaging type, but he expects accountability. This early in the season, no one’s slacking.

I strip off my shirt, grab my cap and goggles, and head to the blocks. The water shocks my system when I slide in, cold enough to make every muscle clench before I force myself to move.

Warm-up’s standard. I fall into the rhythm: four laps freestyle, then four backstroke, followed by a few rounds of kickboard drills. My arms cut through the water in steady rotations, breath syncing up on autopilot.

Today’s focus is pacing. Lately, it’s been nonstop technique work. Relaxing my muscles for a smooth breakout. Stop overworking my pull. Stop forcing the rhythm, start following the glide. Voss wants my backstroke clean, controlled, and fast. He wants me hitting rhythm the second I surface.

Easier said than done.

I’ve got to explode off the block, settle into pace fast, and nail every turn. One mistimed breath or crooked entry, and the whole rep’s off. I’m getting better. Just not fast enough.

Frustrated but locked in, I launch into a 50 at race pace. Arms driving. Legs burning. Lungs tight. The cold rushes past me as I break the surface and power forward.

When I hit the wall, my muscles are on fire, but the split feels close. Better than last week. Still not quite there.

I’m barely gripping the ledge to catch my breath when I hear Hawkins’ grating voice again. “Mercer! Looks like you’re a lot more relaxed this week.” He laughs to himself. “Guess that’s what happens when you’re finally getting laid.”

I snap my goggles off the second I’m out of the pool. Water drips down my face as I glare at him. “You wanna repeat that?”

“I’m just saying . . . you seem real loose, but you’re barely hitting pace.”

“Cut the shit,” I mutter. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly.” He grins wider. “But hey, I’m glad you’ve found an outlet. Lord knows you need one. Though I do wonder what she sees in you. Do you even let yourself crack a smile when she’s sucking you off?”

I’m moving before I can stop myself. I climb out of the pool, water streaming off my arms. My fingers curl tight, nails digging into my palms.

---