Page 14 of The Last Five Yards

By Friday, it almost feels easy.

Between practices, small things start to change. Reese brings coffee one morning without comment. Maren offers her spare whistle after Reese’s old one cracks. They trade playlists, bad jokes, and half-eaten granola bars. The team notices, there is no way they couldn’t notice, but no one says much.

Reese’s laugh has become part of the pool’s soundtrack now, echoing off the water along with the pulse of Maren’s whistle. They move around each other without thought, like currents crossing under the surface. It’s easy—easier than Maren expected. She doesn’t want to admit it out loud, but maybe her mom was right. She is just Maren, and Reese is being Reese, and it is working.

Still, when she catches Reese looking her way across the deck, that quiet pulse in her chest stumbles every time.

The light has shifted in the pool area, golden rays coming through the windows and skylights, causing the whole pool to glow in an amber-gold color that makes the water look deceivingly warm and thick. Maren’s muscles are loose and tired as she pushes herself back on the deck after the cool-down for the evening.

Reese, walking toward the locker room, looks down at Maren, who is moving slowly and just enjoying the burn in her muscles. “You okay there, Mini-Coach?” she teases.

“Oh, you know me. No pain, no gain. Got to make it burn if it’s gonna work, friend,” she calls back.

All she can think of is a nice hot shower and the movies she plans to watch this evening, curled up on the couch in her family room.

A short, sharp whistle breaks the air. “Clarke, Callahan, may I have a moment?” Coach Hensley always has a way of knowing when Maren is done for the day and then pushing her just a little further.

They glance at each other and make their way over to his office, dodging the age-group swimmers pouring out of the locker rooms.

“Would you two mind staying for a bit? The age-group teams need some eyes on their work. Half of them think they are dolphins, the other half are just trying not to drown. And I have a parent meeting for the first half of practice.”

Maren visibly deflates, her body shrinking down with every syllable coming out of the coach’s mouth. She knows, and he knows, she won’t say no, even if she really wants to. She will always show up for these kids like the swimmers before her showed up for her.

“Hey, I’ll even sweeten the deal and order you two a pizza for when you’re done,” Coach Hensley adds.

Reese jumps in. “Make it pineapple pizza, and you got yourself a deal,” she says, not even bothering to look over at Maren.

“We got you, Coach.” Maren steps back out of the office, heading toward the locker room to at least throw some warm-ups on.

Maren returns to deck with her whistle in hand. Seeing Reese across the pool already working with a young boy on how to tighten his rotation, she gives the whistle a quick burst, catching all the swimmers’ attention. They look up at her from the water with an admiration she remembers feeling for the high school swimmers when she was their age. She calls out some easy drills and gently corrects a few of their forms. There is something peaceful in this space; within the chaos and noise, Maren finds her calm.

One of the smaller kids keeps popping up mid-lap, gasping and laughing all at once. “Keep your head down, Dylan,” Maren calls, trying to sound firm but gentle.

Across the pool, Reese crouches near the diving board, helping a girl no older than nine with her rotation. Tighten your knees,” she says, demonstrating a tuck in slow motion. The girl mirrors her movements, then giggles when Reese tumbles forward onto the mat.

“Totally nailed it,” Reese says, sitting up and brushing her hair from her face.

“You are a terrible example,” Maren calls out from across the pool.

“Motivational,” Reese corrects. “Fearless leadership.”

The little girl tries again, and this time makes it halfway around before splashing down. Reese cheers like she’s won the Olympics.

Maren shakes her head, but she is smiling, that same soft pull in her chest that always comes when she sees someone fall in love with the water for the first time. The kids’ laughter bounces off the walls, bright and uneven. In the middle of the noise, she feels an unexpected calm settle over her, the kind that hums somewhere deep inside instead of just sitting on the surface.

Coach Hensley returns to the deck closer to the end of the practice than the middle, as he had promised. The younger swimmers start to file out of the pool, water dripping off them in trails that glimmer in the last of the overhead light. Maren directs them to put away their kickboards and pull buoys, watching out of the corner of her eye as Coach Hensley slips back into his office.

Reese finishes with the last diver, offering a high-five before sending him toward the locker room. She looks across the deck, catches Maren’s eye, and smiles.

“Handled them like pros, girls,’ Coach calls as he steps back out onto the deck. “Thank you, the pizza will be here in five.”

“Pineapple?” Reese asks, hopeful.

“Half,” he answers, bending down to scoop up a stray kickboard before disappearing into the equipment room. The heavy door swings shut behind him, the sound echoing loudly through the near-empty space.

Maren grabs her backpack and slips onto the bleachers by the entrance. She flips open her laptop, pulls out a folder, and starts entering notes into the spreadsheet she’s been keeping. State times, relay splits, dive scores. All the things she will never admit that she is tracking, for fun.

A few minutes later, Reese drops down beside her, towel over one shoulder and two paper plates in her hands. She sits close enough that Maren is aware of the warmth through the thin space between them.