Page 96 of Good Graces

He runs me through a few slow recovery drills—sculling, fingertip drag, exaggerated underwater pull. Stuff I’ve done a thousand times, but today, it feels like unlearning everything just to get back to neutral. He has me focus on the long exhale off the wall, too, forcing the breath to flow even when my brain’s screaming for more air. It helps. A little.

I hate that I need the help. But I hate how tight my chest feels more.

“Try to stay loose through the shoulders,” Omar adds before I push off again. “You keep clenching up you’re gonna burn out by mid-season.”

By the time Voss calls for cooldown, my arms are burning, my legs shaky.

“Nice work today,” Omar says as we’re toweling off. His voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s waiting for me to lose my shit.

“Thanks.”

I’m still keyed up. Still rattled and wondering why I let Hawkins get to me in the first place. He’s a loudmouth, a try-hard, all bark and no bite.

But Quinn is my hot button. Always has been. Doesn’t matter how good things are between us or how much we’re trying to move forward. One wrong word, one cheap shot, and suddenly, I’m standing there like some hotheaded dipshit, ready to take someone’s head off.

Omar waits a beat. “Look, man . . . I get it. Hawkins is a dick. But you’re better than that.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah, Mercer. You are. Besides”—his voice dips in volume—“you can’t let a back alternate throw you off your game. You’re naturally tense enough.”

He says it like he means it. Like maybe he believes in me a little more than I believe in myself. And it’s good, I think, to know someone on this team feels that way.

Because Voss hasn’t let it go. Not the captaincy, not me. He keeps circling, nudging, making these quiet suggestions. Not outright asking me to take the role from Omar but floating ideas. Co-captaincy. Shared leadership. Like maybe there’s room for both of us at the helm.

But I don’t think that’s what he’s really worried about.

I think he’s afraid I’m going to walk away after this season. That once it’s over, I’ll be done with swimming for good. And maybe the captain talk, the extra work, all of it—it’s his way of trying to keep me tethered to the sport. To give me something bigger than just the clock to chase.

Voss isn’t loud or performative. He’s sharp. Calculated. Never wastes words, never raises his voice unless it counts. He doesn’t tell you what to do. He expects you to figure it out and get it done.

He’s blunt, sometimes to the point of brutal. But he gets results. And I think he sees something in me that reminds him of himself. The way I push too hard. The way I overthink everything. The way I come off cold, even when I’m not trying to be.

He respects that. Respectsme, period.

And maybe that’s why he keeps pushing. The captain thing. The extra drills. The cross-training he insists I need. Like he’s trying to shape me into someone who won’t quit when the season ends. Someone who’s meant to swim long after college.

I’m just not so sure I am.

I rub the towel over my face, trying to scrub away the tension. It’s lodged deep in my shoulders, coiled behind my eyes.

“Thanks,” I say finally.

Omar shrugs. “Just don’t make me save your ass again.”

I bark out a laugh. Short but real. “Deal.”

30

QUINN

There’sa knock at my door. Three short raps, then silence.

I hesitate for half a second, my pulse picking up. Warren. He said seven, but it’s six thirty on the dot. Being on time isn’t unusual for him, but showing up early? That’s not exactly his thing. Not unless something’s weighing on him.

I wipe my hands on my sweatpants and head down the hall, pausing to double-check my reflection in the mirror by the entryway. Hair’s good. Shirt’s clean. Mostly. I straighten out my collar, then smooth a wrinkle near the hem.

When I open the door, Warren’s standing there with his hands in his pockets. His shoulders are tense, weight shifted like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to smile or apologize for showing up at all. His hair’s damp, curling slightly at the ends, and he smells like crisp, piney shampoo.

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