It’s the first day of team practice, and the noise already feels like a headache waiting to happen. Half the guys are still dripping from warm-up laps, tracking puddles across the tile. The rest hang around the edge of the pool, bumping shoulders, talking over each other like summer never ended.
“Alright, you overcooked noodles,” Coach Voss calls out. “We’re starting with a 400 IM. Let’s see who actually remembers how to swim.”
There’s some groaning, but guys start stripping off shirts and sliding into their lanes. I’m adjusting my goggles when I hear it—loud, grinning, impossible to miss.
“Hey, Mercer! You taking it easy on us today or what?”
I glance up, and of course, it’s Reed Hawkins, grinning like he owns the place. He’s a backstroke specialist with a strong underwater phase and a sharper mouth. Likes to rile people up, throw them off their rhythm. It might work on some of the younger guys. Not me.
“You want me to slow down?” I ask. “Didn’t know you needed a head start.”
His grin stretches wider. “Man, I can’t tell if you’re funny or just a dick.”
“Could be both,” I mutter, pulling my cap over my head.
Most guys on the team respect me well enough. They know I’m good—maybe not the fastest anymore, but consistent. Reliable. I’ve never been the loud one, never needed to shout or lead the locker room pep talks.
When Coach offered me captaincy last season, I turned it down. Didn’t want it. Didn’t want to be the guy everyone looked to, didn’t want to be responsible for team dinners or leading stretches or pretending I cared about anything other than showing up, swimming fast, and going home.
I like that about swimming. That even though it’s a team sport on paper, the work is mine. My lane. My time. My breath.
Still, I know what they say about me. That I keep to myself. That I show up to practice, push harder than anyone else, and leave before anyone can ask if I want to grab lunch after. It’s not wrong. I just don’t see the point in pretending.
Coach blows his whistle, and I hit the water fast, arms cutting through the surface, body falling into the rhythm I know better than anything else. Kick. Reach. Pull. Breathe.
The tension bleeds out of me as I move. Every doubt, every distraction, every fucking thought—gone. It’s just me and the lane line now. Nothing else matters.
By the time I finish the set, I’m winded but steady, chest heaving as I haul myself out of the pool. Hawkins is still slogging through his last two laps.
“Taking it easy on me, huh?” I call out, dripping water onto the deck.
He sputters something about his shoulder being sore, but I’m already halfway to my towel.
Maybe I’m not the rising star anymore. Maybe the scouts aren’t watching me like they used to. But I put in the work this summer. Showed up every morning. Extra hours on non-work days. While half the team was off drinking or sleeping in, I was in the water.
I’m drying off when Lyle jogs up. He’s soaked, breathless, and annoyingly chipper. He slaps my shoulder hard enough to sting.
“Damn, man,” he says, grinning. “You gonna make us look bad all season or just the first day?”
I smirk. “Just setting the bar.”
Lyle laughs, but it’s easy, no edge behind it. He’s been my closest thing to a friend on the team since freshman year.
“You’re in shape,” he says. “Even after summer break.”
“Didn’t take a break,” I say, shrugging. “Pool was still there.”
Lyle shakes his head like I’m impossible. “You know, some of the guys are pretty unhappy with you. They know you turned down the captaincy last year, and now you’re back outpacing everybody.”
I snort. “Yeah?”
“They say you’re too good to care. That you think you’re better than us.”
I wipe the water from my face, taking my time before answering. “They can think whatever they want.”
I push harder. Train longer. Give up more. Gaines and Ruiz could be just as good—maybe better—if they gave half a shit outside of meet days. There are other guys on this team who’ll probably make Nationals with an A-cut this year, so no, I don’t think I’m better. I just know I’m still in the fight. Still showing up.
Omar is the only senior who pulls weight in and out of the water. Shows up early. Checks on the freshmen. Keeps the energy up when a set drags. That’s why he’s captain now. That’s why he earned it.
