Page 21 of Good Graces


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“Not bad. Keep your wrist straight. Don’t let your shoulders get sloppy.”

I reset and punch again. Harder. Then again. Faster.

Without overthinking, I just hit. Over and over, breath coming in sharp bursts, fists slamming into the bag with more force, more certainty. I don’t stop until my lungs are burning, my arms aching, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. Until the tension in my chest finally starts to uncoil.

I step back, hands braced on my knees, sweat dripping from my temple, muscles trembling from the effort. I fumble for my inhaler without thinking, take a quick puff, and press the back of my hand to my forehead. The old man doesn’t say anything about it, and I don’t care if he does.

The release is sudden. Startling. I expected to feel ridiculous, self-conscious. Instead, I feel lighter.

“You’ve got something to work with.”

I tense at the pseudo-compliment. “Yeah? And how would you know?”

“I own this place. Been doing this shit longer than you’ve been alive. Seen enough to know when someone’s got too much fight bottled up for their own good.”

I wipe my forehead, still catching my breath. “Yeah, well, I don’t really have time for this. I’d rather sleep.”

“Oh? You just spent an hour proving otherwise.”

I glance at the heavy bag. At my shaking hands. At the space I just carved out for myself here. Something real and raw and mine. Something that doesn’t ask anything of me except effort.

I don’t need this. I’m busy. Tired. Spread too thin already. I have things to do, bills to cover, plans to salvage. Priorities that should come first.

I shouldn’t come back, but I already know I will.

8

WARREN

The water shocksmy system the second I dive in. Sharp and bracing, like it’s trying to scrape clean everything I’ve been carrying. Regret, frustration, the weight of my conversation with Quinn. It all dulls under the surface.

By the second lap, the noise in my head begins to quiet. The ache in my chest doesn’t disappear, but it fades, just enough to breathe around it. The pull of the water gives me something else to focus on. A clarity I can’t find anywhere else.

Each stroke cuts a little deeper through the static. The push off the wall. The stretch. The breath. Nothing matters except the turn ahead. I’m not thinking about what I should’ve said. I’m not thinking about the way she looked at me or how fast I caved when she got close again.

It’s just me and the lane now. Ten 200-meter repeats. Descending intervals. The kind of set that leaves no room for doubt, no space for anything except the burn in my shoulders, the tight coil in my core, the steady tick of the pace clock pushing me forward.

I’ve been swimming since I was eight years old. My mom signed me up for summer league after I nearly broke my arm falling out of a tree in the backyard. Said I needed something to burn off energy, something to keep me out of trouble. I rolled my eyes at the time, but the second I hit the water, something in me clicked.

The way the world disappeared, the way everything slowed down to just my body, my breath, my control—it made sense. And by the time I was ten, I wasn’t just good. I was winning.

By high school, swimming was everything. Morning practices before the sun, afternoon doubles, weight training, dryland workouts. I qualified for Junior Nationals at sixteen, state champion in the 200 and 400 free by seventeen. Scouts started watching. Schools started calling.

Dayton gave me the best offer. The best training. The best chance to push myself further.

Now, I’m a senior. Final year. Last shot.

I’m no longer the prodigy or the one to watch.

I’m still good—damn good—but not NCAA champion material. Not Olympic circuit. Not the kind of swimmer who racks up NIL deals or has SportsCenter knocking. And that’s okay. I’ve made my peace with it.

I still chase the time clock like it owes me something. Still crave the quiet clarity that comes with pushing my body to its edge. I don’t need medals to prove I’m getting better. I just need the water.

I finish my last rep and grip the pool’s edge, dragging in lungfuls of air. My arms shake, my pulse pounds, my whole body hums with exertion.

That was good, but not good enough.

I duck under, run a hand over my face, let the water mute everything for a few seconds longer. When I finally pull myself out, I check the time again. Another tenth of a second shaved off.