She sat in the corner booth, laptop open, earbuds in, her fingers flying over the keyboard. A half-empty lattesat next to her, and she had that focused look people get when they’re in their own little world.
I told myself to keep walking, order food, and leave her alone. But my feet didn’t listen.
“Hey,” I said, standing by her table.
Her head popped up, and when her eyes locked on mine, that same flicker I’d noticed at the bar was there again. Surprise, maybe. Or curiosity. Something I couldn’t find a word for but felt all the way to my toes.
“Talon.” She tugged out one earbud. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Yeah, same. I was just”—I gestured toward the counter—“bribing myself with caffeine and food after practice.”
Her lips curved like she was holding back a smile. “Rough day?”
“Something like that.”
Before I could say more, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Pulling it out, I glanced at the screen to see my dad calling. I pressed the ignore button and put it back in my pocket. Before I could even say another word, my phone buzzed again. I reached into my pocket, silencing it again. But only a couple seconds passed when it buzzed again.
Livvi’s brow lifted. “Do you need to get that?”
I sank into the seat across from her before I could change my mind. “Nah, it’s just my dad.”
The way her expression shifted—subtle, soft—told me she caught more in those words than I meant to let slip.
“Just your dad,” she repeated quietly. “Doesn’t sound like it’sjustanything.”
Something inside me twisted, the kind of tightness I usually shoved down deep and drowned out with endless laps. But sitting across from her, with her steady gaze on me, I didn’t feel like I had to keep it locked up.
I gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Yeah. We don’t exactly … see eye to eye.”
“Like swimming?” she asked, probably remembering what I’d told her a few weeks ago at the library.
I could’ve brushed it off with a simple “yeah.” I almost did. But the way she was watching me—steady, curious, without judgment—made me want to say more than I should.
I dragged a hand through my hair. “Yes, swimming but also everything. My entire life plan, apparently. He’s got an idea of what success should look like, and what I’m doing isn’t it.”
“Has he always been against your swimming career?” she asked, like she was genuinely interested and looking to understand.
I exhaled, staring down at the table like the wood grain was suddenly fascinating. “No. My dad was the one who put me in the pool when I was little. He pushed me, helped train me, supported me all the way through high school. But when I wanted to swim in college, that’s when things … changed.”
Her brows pinched. “Changed how?”
“He wanted me to get a business degree, go into finance like him, follow the path he laid out. But I didn’twant that. I wanted swimming.” My laugh came out rough, without humor. “And he never forgave me for choosing the pool over spreadsheets.”
Her gaze softened, but she didn’t say anything right away, which made it easier to keep talking.
“I’m twenty-five now. This is it. My last shot at the Olympics. Most swimmers peak way younger, and I’m already pushing past my prime. If I don’t make it now, then …” Pressure built beneath my ribs. “Then it’s over. I’m just the guy who wasted his twenties chasing a dream instead of building a career. At least, that’s how my dad will see it.”
Her voice was quiet but firm. “And how doyousee it?”
That was the question I hated. The one that kept me up at night. The one I didn’t talk about. But for some reason, I was about to tell her.
“I don’t know.” My throat worked around the words. “Some days, I still believe I can do it. That all the hours in the pool, all the sacrifices, will finally mean something. And other days …” I shook my head. “Other days it feels like I’ve been swimming in circles my whole life, and the only thing waiting at the end is disappointment.”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “That’s a lot to carry, Talon.”
I huffed out a laugh, but it came out more like a sigh. “Tell me about it.” I leaned back against the booth. “Sometimes it feels like my whole identity’s on a ticking clock. And when the buzzer goes off? Whatthen? I’m just the guy who used to swim fast. Nothing more.”
A quiet settled around us, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then she leaned forward, her voice low. “You’re more than that. I don’t even know you that well yet, but I can see it. You’ve got this drive, this … spark. You’re not just a stopwatch number.”
