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Growing up with a mother who served on the IASA meant I was already familiar with artistic swimming’s governing body when I started researching returning to the sport three years ago. I knew, generally, they let each individual species determine their own qualifying criteria, just like I knew their anti-discrimination bylaws like the back of my own hand.

It turned out banning an athlete based on a gender transition was, in fact, a violation of those bylaws. I wish I’d been there to see my mother’s face when that ruling came across her desk.

Like kicking me out of my home when I came out to her at eighteen wasn’t enough, she’d also done everything in her power to blacklist me from artistic swimming. She probably thought I’d give up years ago. Joke’s on her—mama didn’t raise a fucking quitter.

I got word I'd been cleared to return to international competition only weeks before the qualifying meet for the Clash of Creatures, the largest, multi-sport international competition for both humans and creatures alike. Every four years, teams come from all over the world to compete at the highest level.

I used to be on one of those teams. The siren colony where I grew up was one of the best in the world. We were champions. I was a champion. But I wasn’t myself then.

“Okay,” Damian says, interrupting my thoughts. “This isn’t bad.”

I hop up onto the kitchen counter, leaning my back against a cabinet. “It’s not good, either.” I snag a banana from the bunch sitting at my side.

“You get to compete at the Clash, Aleks. This is what you’ve been fighting for.”

“As long as I have a coach,” I retort, peeling the banana. “And you know how well that shit is going.”

He grunts an acknowledgement.

Ever since I was reinstated for international competition, I’ve been trying to find a coach. I naively thought with my talent and history, there would be someone out there willing to work with me. But artistic swimming is a sport rooted in tradition, and in my case, having a mother who is one of the most influential artistic swimming judges and IASA members on the international stage is biting me in the ass.

She disowned me, and the artistic swimming community followed suit.

I’ve called almost every coach I worked with when I was growing up in the colony. The ones who had the decency to answer told me they were already committed to other athletes for the Clash of Creatures. It’s a bullshit excuse, but it doesn't sting as much as the cold shoulder from the coaches who never responded. I don’t expect much from coaches in this sport—not since the best coach I’ve ever had walked out on my team years ago.

“Any responses to your ad?” Damian asks.

I shake my head, chewing a large bite of banana. I had gone so far as to post ads for a coach on the largest international artistic swimming networking websites. It was humiliating, a last resort, but I wasn’t going to let my pride get in the way of getting what I want.

I don’t need a coach. I’ve handled everything up to this point—my training, my routines, rebuilding my swimming career. I qualified for the games all on my own. Wrote out my own routine, handed the judges the coaching card with all of my elements clearly spelled out, without the help from anyone else.

All I need is someone to stand there, stay quiet, and let me do the work.

Damian goes for the coffee pot, his baggy shirt and pajama bottoms hanging loose from his smaller frame. “Did you see what they said about your appeal to solo?”

I press my lips together. In most other competitions, artistic swimmers can compete in solo, duet, mixed duet, or ensemble, which is composed of eight swimmers. At the Clash, there are only two categories: duet and ensemble.

What I don’t know how to tell Damian is I’ve tried to find a duet partner. I’ve reached out to siren colonies around the world, but the same bad luck I’ve had trying to find a coach has followed me in my search for a partner.

“They’ll agree,” I reply, swallowing the last of the banana. “In Section H of the bylaws, Rule 4a states an athlete may receive a solo exception in the duet category if a qualifying athlete has exhausted all attempts to find a qualified partner.”

“And you have?”

Shaking my head, I jump down from the counter, crossing to the fridge. I don’t look at Damian as I grab a ViperVenom energy drink. “Yeah, D. I have. Not only will no one coach me, but no one wants to swim with me, either. Swimming alone is my only chance.”

Damian’s arms wrap around my middle, and I sink back into the contact. He’s shorter than me, but his solid warmth is comforting. “People are shit,” he says, voice muffled against my back.

“Yeah.”

“I wish our mom wasn’t such a twatwaffle.”

I snort. “A what?”

“Twatwaffle.”

“That sounds vaguely offensive to British women.”

“Maybe, but our mom deserves it.” He sighs. “I should probably stop spending so much time on AO3.”