He clapped my shoulder as I passed. “Good. Your wife’s here, by the way.”
I stopped short.
“What?”
Talon’s grin turned knowing. “Front stands. Light blue shirt. She looks invested.”
Heat crept up my neck, unwelcome and undeniable. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I didn’t say anything to her,” he said innocently. “Just thought you’d want to know.”
I muttered something incoherent under my breath and headed for the deck, forcing my attention forward.
Knowing Talon, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d nudged her to come after my invite, maybe even suggested she sit front and center where I couldn’t miss her. He liked to meddle when he thought it was for someone’s own good, and lately he’d been looking at me like I was one bad day away from spiraling again. If he thought putting Roxie in my line of sight would balance me, he probably considered it part of the coaching plan.
It was practical to have her here. That was all.
I’d asked Roxie to come because it made sense.
Appearances mattered now in ways they never had before. Married-athlete housing. Reinstated sponsorships. Administrators who suddenly smiled easier because my life looked clean and uncomplicated on paper. Showing up alone raised questions. Showing up with my wife shut questions down before they ever had a chance to form.
That was logic. Structure. Cause and effect.
What it wasn’t was the way my shoulders had loosened when she’d texted backSure. I’ll be there.
Or the fact that as soon as I stepped out onto the pool deck, my eyes easily found Roxie in the stands, like part of me needed visual confirmation that she was really here. She stood near the railing, a fitted tee hugging her frame, hair pulled back in a low ponytail,scanning the pool like she was pretending not to look for someone specific.
She didn’t look like the other spectators. She wasn’t distracted, wasn’t half scrolling on her phone or chatting through warm-ups. Her attention was deliberate. Attentive. Like she understood the difference between noise and preparation, between watching andseeing.
I’d asked Roxie to come because it made sense. Because sponsors watched. Cameras noticed. Appearances mattered. Maybe if I kept saying all of this over and over again, I’d finally get myself to believe it.
It definitely had nothing to do with the way my chest eased when I spotted her.
I shoved the thought aside and focused on the block in front of me. Focus had always been my advantage. Feelings were noise. You filtered them out, or they cost you races.
Still, something about knowing she was watching—actually watching—lit a fuse in me, like I had something to prove.
And maybe I did.
The races came fast. I swam clean. Strong. Aggressive. The fastest I’d felt in months.
I fed off the noise, off Talon’s shouted splits, off Ridge’s claps from the deck. And every time I surfaced, every time I came up for air, my eyes found the stands without conscious thought.
Found her.
She wasn’t flashy about it. No wild cheering. No signs. Just intent. Engaged. Like she understood exactlyhow much discipline it took to stand on this deck and give everything you had to the water.
By my last race, something unfamiliar had crept into the mix. Not pressure—pride. I wanted her to see what I could do. I wanted her to understand this part of me the way she seemed to understand everything else at a glance.
I stepped onto the block, rolling my shoulders as the noise around me dulled into something distant and manageable. Breaststroke was about rhythm—control, patience, power held back until the right moment. It fit me better than any other stroke ever had.
Take your mark.
I inhaled.
The horn sounded, and I dove.
The water closed over me, cool and comforting, and just like that, everything else fell away. My body moved on instinct, glide and pull and kick falling into place like they always had. Each stroke felt clean. Strong. Unrushed.
