Page 17 of The Last Five Yards

She hauls herself out of the water, arms shaking, and is swallowed immediately by her teammates. Everything around her is noise and motion, cheers, clapping, and the roar of victory. All the sensations competing with the sound of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

For once, she does not want to quiet it.

Maren grabs her parka and slides it onto her wet body, the fabric clinging to her shoulders. Her body is humming, the aftershock of the race running through her legs and arms. She should probably cool down, but she cannot bring herself to move just yet. The energy in the room has shifted.

The swim events roll on, but her eyes keep drifting toward the diving well at the far end of the pool. Reese is over there, stretching her shoulders, hair pulled into a tight knot at the base of her neck. Every movement is measured and controlled.

When Coach Hensley calls for the divers to line up, Maren slips her notebook out of her bag. She flips to the section she started weeks ago, the one marked with a pink tab. Dive sheets, past scores, notes in her cramped handwriting. She tells herself that it is just a habit. Captains keep track of everyone. But when her pen starts moving, she knows she is tracking her.

The first divers take their turns. The sound of each entry echoes differently here, deeper, more hollow. Maren writes down the scores automatically, the numbers slotting neatly into their columns. She does not look up until Reese’s name is called.

Reese steps onto the board, back straight, eyes fixed on the far wall. The noise of the crowd dims into a low murmur. Maren watches the way her arms extend overhead, the small bounce before she commits. The air catches around her as she spins, one, two, clean rotations, and then she slices into the water with barely a ripple.

The scoreboard lights up. 7.5, 7.5, 8.0.

Maren notes it quickly, her hand steady even as her chest feels anything but.

Two more dives to complete the evening. Each one is more difficult and cleaner than the last. The numbers climb by the time Reese steps up for her final attempt, Maren’s page is a neat column of data points that mean more than she will ever admit out loud.

Reese pauses at the edge of the board. For a moment, she glances toward the bleachers, then across the deck. Maren thinks, or maybe imagines, that their eyes meet.

Then Reese moves.

The dive is sharper this time, faster, like she is chasing something through the air. When she hits the water, it sounds like a single breath being held. The scoreboard flashes again. 8.5, 9.00, 8.5.

Maren’s pen hovers over the page. The numbers blur slightly before she presses them into ink.

She does not look up again until the noise swells, and the team erupts around her. Reese has already climbed out of the water, hair slicked back, smile bright enough to catch every bit of light.

Maren closes the notebook, her thumb tracing the damp edge of the paper. Her own race still burns in her muscles, but something else is humming underneath, quieter, steadier, impossible to name.

The diving scores roll through the speakers, followed by a burst of applause. Reese’s final numbers lock in at the top of the board. Maren catches herself smiling before she can stop it. She leans down and tucks the notebook back in her backpack.

The meet moves fast after that. The last few events blur into white noise, each one melting into the next. Maren stretches her shoulders, shakes out her arms, and feels the pulse of readiness returning to her bones. It is almost time for the 400 Relay, the last event, where she swims anchor.

When Coach Hensley calls them over, she already knows the order. Ava leading off, then Jules, Nicole, and finally, Maren. It is a good lineup, solid and balanced. Reese passes by on her way to the bleachers, hair still wet, cheeks still flushed.

“Finish it strong, Mini-Coach,” she says just loud enough for Maren to hear.

Maren looks at Reese and nods once, unable to form words.

The relay swimmers take their spots behind the blocks. The adrenaline courses through their veins. The deck feels cooler now, like the air has shifted. The pool lights shimmer in a shifting gold. Across the water, Marquette’s team is loud again, stomping and chanting, but it all fades into a background hum.

The first swimmers explode off the blocks. Ava dives in clean, a long reach cutting through the surface. The rest of them fall into their own rhythm, cheering and shouting. Jules takes the exchange, her stroke quick and compact. By the time Nicole hits the water, they are trailing by less than half a body’s length.

Maren crouches, hands pressed to her thighs, timing every stroke. When Nicole’s fingers near the wall, she inhales once, sharp and steady.

The touch.

Maren explodes from the blocks.

Cold closes around her like glass breaking. She feels the pull of the water, the stretch of her body lengthening through each stroke. The first fifty is about control, the next twenty-five about pacing, then the final length’s about refusing to give an inch. The crowd’s roar barely registers, only the echo of her own heartbeat is inside her brain.

At the final turn, she sees the blur of the swimmer in her peripheral vision. It is close, too close. She drives her head down and empties everything she has into the last stretch. The world narrows to a single black line of tiles beneath her. One arm, then the other. Then the wall.

Her hand hits the pad.

For a second, there is only silence. Then the scoreboard flashes.