Swimming didn’t come with a retirement plan.
You were either fast enough—or you were done.
Roxie was at the dining table when I got home, papers spread out, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. She looked up when she saw me, smiling automatically before returning to her attention.
“Yes, Friday works,” she said. “I’ll send over a draft proposal by the end of day tomorrow.”
She hung up and exhaled, pushing her curls back from her face. There was a spark in her blue eyes I’d been seeing more and more lately. Confidence. Momentum.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
Her smile widened. “Really well. They’re excited.” She shook her head like she still couldn’t quite believe it. “That’s the second company that’s reached out.”
“Good,” I said, and meant it. Pride cut through the heaviness in my chest, clean and sharp. “I told you they would be.”
She studied me for a second, like she was deciding whether to ask something harder. Then she said, “You okay? You look … wrecked.”
I snorted. “High praise.”
“I’m serious,” she said softly.
I sank into the chair across from her, elbows on the table. The words were there, right under the surface. I hadn’t planned on saying them. Hadn’t planned on letting the weight spill over.
But I was tired.
“Trials are coming up fast,” I said. “And everyone keeps talking about Worlds like it’s the finish line.”
She tilted her head. “But it’s not.”
“No,” I admitted. “It’s more like a cliff.”
She didn’t interrupt. Just waited.
“If I miss the time, that’s it,” I continued. “I don’t get another shot this year. And if I make it …” I trailed off, rubbing my hands together. “I don’t know what comes after. Sponsors don’t love guys who are aging out. Teams don’t build around maybes.”
“And swimming is all you’ve ever known,” she said quietly.
Her statement was as accurate and surprising as a bull’s eye.
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
She reached across the table without hesitation, her hand warm over mine. Grounding.
My first instinct was to grab her.
To pull her into my lap, bury my face in her shoulder, let myself take the comfort she was offering so freely.
Gosh, I wanted it. I wanted the solid presence of her, the quiet reassurance of holding and being held.
“You’re allowed to be scared,” she said. “That doesn’t mean you’re failing.”
I swallowed. “Feels like it.”
She squeezed my hand. “You’ve given everything to this sport. Whatever happens at Trials or Worlds doesn’t erase that.”
I looked at her then, really looked at her. At the certainty in her eyes. The way she believed in forward motion, even when the path wasn’t clear.
“You’re building something,” I said before I could stop myself.
