Page 3 of The Last Five Yards

She breathes in. One, two, three, four.

Exhales. One, two, three, four.

Shoulders drop. The locker is open. Suits are still damp from morning practice. She pulls them on, grabs her cap and goggles, and threads through the showers onto the deck.

Her ritual is gone.

Her quiet is gone.

All that is left is noise and the yards written on the whiteboard.

The whistle cuts the air as Coach Hensley steps on deck.

Water churns in every lane, white spray catching the light. Maren slides into lane three and sinks under, the noise thinning into a dull hum. Down here, everything slows. The water presses against her shoulders, cool and clean. The rhythm takes over: reach, pull, breath. She counts every stroke. The black line steadies her. One, two, three, breath…

A voice from the end of the lane calls, “Clarke, you leading again?”

She nods without looking. Water beads down her shoulders as she adjusts her goggles.

“Of course she is,” Ava mutters. “Human stopwatch.”

The teasing isn’t mean, not really, but it lands heavy anyway.

Maren ducks under the water and pushes off. Her lungs burn, but it’s a steady burn, the kind she understands. The kind that makes sense. Above, she can still hear bursts of laughter, the sharp sound of someone hitting the board wrong, but it feels far away, almost harmless.

On her next stroke, she glimpses Reese’s dive from the corner of her eye. Smooth, fearless. Sunlight catches droplets mid-air, breaking them into glimmers of gold. Maren blinks the image away and focuses on the water ahead.

Maren stretches for the wall, finishing the set, and pops her head above the water. She hears one of her teammates from the next lane over. “You counting your breaths again, Clarke?” She doesn’t answer. Only glances at the board to get the next set.

Practice blurs into drills and lap counts. Maren keeps her eyes on the black line, counting her breaths to make her world small again. When the last set ends, she ducks under, pulls off her cap. Her breathing finally matches the rhythm of the water.

“Maren! Reese! Office. Now!”

Her chest tightens. No explanation, no tone. Just a summons. Water still drips down her arms as she steps into the cold office.

The room is small and humid. A pile of wet towels sags in the corner. A fan hums directly at her.

She leans against the wall; Reese follows her in, stopping briefly to high-five one of the other divers and laugh over some inside joke. A joke Maren is sure is about her.

“Close the door, will you? Don’t let all that heat in,” Coach says.

Reese slides it shut and grins. “So, what’s up, Coach? Are we in trouble or getting medals?”

He glances over, a half-smile tugging. “Depends on how you take this. I’ve been watching you both over the years. You balance each other out.”

Reese’s smile brightens, the kind that would stop traffic.

Maren sinks further into the wall, eyes on her fingernails.

“Tomorrow morning,” Coach continues, “write your names on the board as our new co-captains. Congratulations, ladies. I know you will make the program proud.”

Reese laughs. “Guess you’re stuck with me, huh, Clarke.”

“Looks that way,” Maren says softly.

“So, starting tomorrow, you’ll handle warm-ups, plan breakfast rotations, and check in with me weekly,” Coach adds.

Reese salutes with a wink. “Basically, keep the place from imploding. Got it.”