Page 95 of Good Graces

I glance toward Voss, but he’s pacing near the diving well, too far to catch any of this. Our assistant coach, Finley, is across the pool, clipboard in hand, deep in conversation with Lyle.

And Hawkins? He’s still standing there, head tilted like he knows exactly what button he’s just pushed.

It’s not just what he said about Quinn. It’s all of it.

All the shit she deals with. The constant flirting at the club from guys who always take it too far. The way they crowd her space, stare too long, push too hard. Like she’s nothing more than something to look at.

And Preston Beckett? He laid hands on her like she owed him something.

These degenerates think they can say whatever they want. Do whatever they want. No consequences. No respect.

It’s fucking disgusting.

“Dude.” Our captain rushes over, cutting through the tension before I can even say a word. He plants a hand on Hawkins’ shoulder, firm and warning. “Knock it off.”

Hawkins’ smile falters just a little, but he shrugs it off. “Just making conversation.”

“You’re making an ass of yourself,” Omar says, voice flat. “Get in the pool.”

For a second, Hawkins doesn’t move. Just stares me down like he’s waiting for me to snap. I’m close—too fucking close—but Omar steps between us, and it’s enough to keep me from losing it.

“Don’t push your luck,” Omar mutters.

Hawkins scoffs under his breath, but he doesn’t say another word as he heads for his lane. Of course he doesn’t. He only talks big when the coaches are distracted. When he knows no one’s watching close enough to catch the way he winds people up.

And if he applies enough pressure? He can make it look like it’s all my fault when things explode. The grumpy guy. The mean guy. The not-a-team-player who’s always one breath away from losing it.

Of course I’d snap. That’s what he’s banking on.

I drag a hand down my face, breathing hard. My pulse is still hammering, my whole body wired like someone forgot to cut the fuse.

“You good?” Omar asks.

“Yeah.” I exhale, slow and unsteady. “I’m good.”

“You need to chill out.”

He’s right, obviously. He’s always right. Omar’s built for this. Confident. Unshakable. The kind of guy who keeps his head when everyone else is losing theirs. Exactly the captain you want when the water starts to boil.

Which is why it still doesn’t make sense that Voss offered the role to me first.

Omar never said a word about it. Never made it awkward. But sometimes I feel it anyway—like a current running just beneath the surface. Like he’s still waiting for me to explain why I passed it up.

Maybe he thinks I didn’t want the pressure. Or the politics. Or the weight of carrying everyone else. Or maybe, like the rest of the team, he thinks I couldn’t be bothered. That I thought I was too good for it.

But if he was really paying attention, he’d realize I didn’t take the role because I wasn’t sure I could live up to it.

I adjust my goggles and slip back into the water, chest still tight. The next set is brutal. Hundreds on the clock with barely a breath between. I start strong, but by the third rep, I feel it. That drag in my shoulders, the way my arms tense too soon and fight the water instead of flowing through it. My jaw locks. My breath shortens.

I know better, but I can’t seem to stop muscling through it. I’m not swimming smart. I’m swimming mad.

Omar notices.

After the set, he waves me over during the break, lifting his goggles to his forehead. “You’re overworking the pull,” he says. “You’re forcing it.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re tense. I can see it from halfway down the lane.” He gestures for me to follow. “C’mon. You’ve got to learn how to work with the speed, not against it.”

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