Page 33 of Backstroke

The group of FishNettes, swimmer groupies, eye me suspiciously but I just smile as I make my way back to my team.

“Remy!” A girl shouts behind me. Turning I see Becca, a skinny, fake tanned slut that spreads her legs for anyone on the team.

“What?” I snap.

“Thought we could hang out after your meet.” She flutters her fake eyelashes at me, making me want to puke. I don’t know how I was ever into these chicks. Well, not really into, just more using them for my own purposes.

“That won’t be happening,” I laugh, causing her to pout. She sits back down with the rest of her posse as I make my way over to the team.

“You good, bro?” Gray laughs and if it wasn’t a fucking meet, I would punch his smug ass right here.

“Fine,” I grit out.

“Lyndsy probably gave her the shirt, man.” I figured that, but it doesn’t make me any less angry that she purposely defied me.

“Alright, team! Listen up!” Coach Morris’s authoritative voice clears the air. We stand in semi-circles, tension and anticipation taut as the swim caps on our heads. He goes over the heats and lanes, declaring, “You’ve trained hard for this; trust your instincts.”

I slip on my cap, the cool material reminding me of the water’s embrace as I approach lane two, its shimmering surface promising solace in the turbulence of competition.

I see a flash of blue from the corner of my eye and I immediately zone in on Fallon returning to her seat. Relief strikes me like a tidal wave, washing away the ache in my chest.My name should always be on her.

The seconds blur into an endless line, forming a smokescreen for my racing heart. Just as the first whistle echoes through the room, anticipation buzzes like static.

“Swimmers take your marks.” I slide down into the pool by the edge, waiting for the next whistle to begin the race. My hands grasp the bar below the starting block as my mind focuses on the only thing that matters right now. My victory. I can taste it. And then the buzzer sounds.

Water pulls at me, calling me home. With a deep breath, I surge backwards into the frigid water, slicing through the surface as my surroundings transform into a realm governed by fluidity and grace.

Each stroke rushes me further away from the whirlwind of feelings that presses against my chest. But it is also a reminder of the storm that is Fallon—bright, chaotic, deeply intriguing.

My rhythm finds a calming pattern. I inhale, exhale, and my movements synchronize with the pulse of the water. Each lap becomes a meditative rhythm. The water, cool and embracing, serves as a sanctuary from the chaos that churns in my mind. My strokes are powerful and smooth, slicing through the water with practiced ease. The roar of the crowd fades, replaced by the steady cadence of my breathing and the rush of water past my ears.

I surface briefly, catching glimpses of the backstroke flags, telling me how far I am from the wall. My goal is within reach. The tension in my muscles coexists with the strange calm that comes from pushing my limits.

I shove harder, each stroke a declaration of my will, a refusal to be anything less than the best. The final lap looms, and I summon every ounce of strength and focus. The wall approaches, and I give one last powerful kick, propelling myself forward with everything I have.

I touch the wall, the cool tile beneath my fingers marking the end of the race. I emerge from the water, gasping for air, every muscle burning with exertion. A horn blares, and I know the heat is finished. The noise of the crowd rushes back, a cacophony of cheers and shouts. I glance toward the stands, searching for Fallon’s face among the throngs of people. She’s smiling, pulling at something deep within me.

I look up at the board, waiting for the times to be displayed. Finally, the numbers flash and my heart soars. I not only placed first in this heat, but also broke my personal record.

As I climb out, water cascading from my body, I barely listen to the cheers surrounding me. All I can see is Fallon weaving her way through the crowd, her radiant blue shirt glowing like a beacon.

“You’re not as awful as I thought,” she laughs, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Is that your way of complimenting me?” I smirk, throwing the towel over my shoulder.

She steps closer, a playful glint in her eye. “Take it how you want,” she teases, a grin spreading across her face.

“I’ll take it as a win,” I reply, my heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the race. “And I beat my record, by the way.”

Fallon’s eyes widen, and she smiles even brighter. “Of course you did. You’re the ‘Shark’ after all.”

“Oh, little fox, you have no idea,” I reply, a cocky grin spreading across my face. The meet continues until Frampton is awarded the win, not that I had a doubt.

The guys begin cheering as the crowd from the bleachers swarm us.

“Good work, Frampton,” Coach Morris roars beside me. “You’ll be leading us to nationals.” Fallon steps further away as I’m flocked with my team and fans. It’s not until I look up againthat I see she’s gone. The cheering around us is infectious as I celebrate our victory with the team.

Fourteen

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