Page 63 of The Last Five Yards

“Deep breath,” Maren adds. “You all know what to do.”

They do. Mostly. Enough.

A whistle shrieks from the head official, jolting everything into place. Warm-ups are done, and the deck shifts into meet mode. Parents retreat to the bleachers; timers take their spots at the lane ends, and the younger swimmers huddle in groups like birds waiting for a cue.

Maren checks her clipboard again. Heat sheets in order. Events highlighted. Notes scribbled in the margins from practice. Rowan’s name catches her eye. First event up. Butterfly. Not her favorite stroke, but she has worked hard for weeks to get her timing right.

Maren walks down the deck, weaving through damp footprints and discarded towels. She stops near lane one where her younger swimmers gather, bouncing on their toes as they wait to be lined up.

Rowan sees her and straightens immediately. Her hands twist the strap of her goggles. Maren sees this for what it is—a nervous tic.

“You ready?” Maren asks.

Rowan nods too fast.

“Deep breath,” Maren reminds her.

Rowan obeys, cheeks puffing out as she inhales. She lets it out in a rush, but her shoulders drop. Good enough.

Maren guides the whole group forward to the edge of the pool where the timers are waiting. The official calls the first heat to the blocks, and the swimmers step up.

Rowan climbs onto the block, tiny and determined. Glancing over at Reese, she smiles as she adjusts her goggles one last time. Maren checks her stance. Knees set. Hands firm. Shoulders tight, but that is expected.

The noise around them rises again, a blend of whistles and echoes, and the constant hum of the filtration pumps.

Maren feels her own breath slow. Meet nights are chaotic, but once the first heat begins, everything narrows into a single line of focus. One race at a time. One swimmer at a time.

The long whistle cuts through the air.

Rows of heads bow toward the water.

Maren’s hand tightens around her clipboard.

The next buzzer will send them off.

The pool goes still in a way that feels impossible. Dozens of kids on the edge of motion, nothing but the quiet buzz of the overhead lights filling the space.

The buzzer blasts.

Rowan flinches.

She explodes off the block a half of a second too early, her body pitching forward before anyone else leaves the block. The splash is loud and wrong, the sound that makes several timers jerk back out of instinct.

The official’s arm shoots straight into the air.

False Start.

Maren’s pulse jumps, but she does not move. Not yet.

Rowan surfaces in a frantic burst of bubbles, her arms catching on the stop rope. She reaches over and clings to the lane line, her eyes huge and desperate as she looks back towards the deck. Not at Maren. At Reese.

Reese is already halfway out of the bleachers, her body pulled forward by instinct alone.

Maren steps into her path before she even thinks.

“Give her a minute,” she says softly, just loud enough for Reese to hear.

Reese freezes, her body physically tight and confusion written across her face. She looks from Maren to Rowan and back again.