Page 2 of The Last Five Yards

One. Two. Three.

She flies. The world seems to still as Reese folds midair, a perfect arc of muscle and grace, then slices into the water, with the quiet kiss. No splash. No sound.

When she surfaces, her teammates cheer, and a smile spreads across her lips. For just a moment, it almost looks like Reese is smiling directly at Maren. Heat blooms under Maren’s skin, the flush spreading even beneath the cool water. That’s… new.

Maren’s yanked back to reality by two sharp bursts of the whistle. Squinting toward the deck to see Coach Hensley waving them in. She kicks the last twelve and a half yards like her life depends on it, racing her teammate in the next lane to the wall. She taps just before her friend and pumps her fist, water slick and cold against her palm.

“Maren, do I need to remind you that the only thing you need to beat in this pool is your last time?” The coach shakes his head down at her.

“No, sir. I remember.” Her breath comes ragged and deep, muscles vibrating from that final sprint. She presses her palms to the pool’s edge, water streaming down her arms. The sun is finally up. Light catches the far window, scattering gold glimmers across the lane lines, morning breaking for real.

The coach turns to address the team about that afternoon’s practice. Maren half-listens as she pulls off her cap and hauls herself out of the water. The only thought in her head now is a hot shower, and hoping she can get her hair dry before her first period.

As she starts toward the locker room, the coach calls out again.

“Clarke, Callahan! I need to see you both after this afternoon’s practice. Don’t leave without talking to me.”

Maren glances over at Reese. They both shrug.

What on earth could the coach want with them?

That’s going to be the only thought in Maren’s head for the rest of the day. Routines shattered, replaced by one question looping through her mind. Change always starts small, a single ripple before the wave.

2

On Deck

The last two minutes of seventh period drag like water through molasses. Mrs. Dorsey’s voice keeps going on, something about due dates and lab partners. The words skim over Maren like water. She is already halfway to the pool in her head, counting yards instead of minutes.

The clock ticks too loud, each second a slap. Her backpack is half-zipped, goggles stuffed in one pocket, and a protein bar in the other. The bell isn’t a sound anymore. It’s a starting gun.

She knows exactly how long it takes to reach the locker room before the crowd hits. Three minutes, thirty-two seconds if she doesn’t stop. She has timed it a hundred times in the past three years. The trick is to move before the sound swells, beat the rush, beat the echo. The hallway always smells faintly of pencil dust and floor wax, but today there’s perfume in the air too, something floral and heavy that is clinging to her throat.

Voices rise behind her, laughter bouncing off the desk like ricochets. She tightens her grip on her backpack strap and keeps her eyes on the tile, counting the squares between her and the door. Thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three.

In the back of the class, a burst of laughter draws her attention. Reese Callahan leans against a bookshelf, still in her warm-up jacket, tossing a coin and catching it again. The silver flash makes Maren’s chest twist, too bright, too casual. She looks away quickly, working her way to the door before the bell even starts ringing.

When it finally rings, she is in the hall before the echo fades.

The hallway floods with motion: slamming lockers, a basketball thudding down the hall, sneakers squeaking. She moves fast, head down, keeping her path clean and predictable. Right at the fish tank, left at the trophy case, down the stairs, one more turn to the locker room.

If she is quick, she’ll get there before the others. Before the explosion of noise.

The stairwell smells like metal and rain, the air cooling with every step. Her shoes squeak once as she starts going down the stairs. The echo startles her, quick as a pulse. Outside the locker room door, the humidity leaks out thick and sweet with chlorine. It’s the smell of home, but today, it makes her chest tighten.

She is almost there. One more flight.

Coach Hensley appears at the top of the stairs. Maybe if she doesn’t make eye contact, he’ll keep walking.

“Hey, Maren! Just who I was looking for. Got a sec?”

She stops on the landing. The air hums loud. The locker room door banks open and shut below. Almost made it.

He starts talking about season prep, leadership, balancing personalities, but the words blur beneath the mix of chlorine and burnt coffee from the cup he gestures with. When he finally waves her off, she bolts, half running, desperate to reach the quiet before it disappears.

By the time she pushes through the door, it’s already too late.

Laughter and shouting ricochet across the tile. Someone tosses a pair of goggles that nearly clip her nose.