Page 7 of The Last Five Yards

She darts into the equipment room and reappears seconds later with a Styrofoam cup of frozen water. Peeling back the edge to expose the ice, she presses it carefully into Maren’s hand.

“Here. It’s the best we have got.”

Coach Hensley jogs down the deck, whistle around his neck, clipboard under one arm, an expression somewhere between concern and annoyance all over his face. He crouches down beside Maren, eyes drawn instantly to her ankle, shimmering under the thin sheen of water and so bright, it is glowing red.

“Well, kiddo, looks like you found the gutter the hard way.” His tone is sharp but not unkind. “How bad does it feel?”

“It is fine. A little ice and I will be back in the water. No worries.” Her voice cracks.

He glances at Reese, who is still kneeling close by, then back to Maren. “You are done for the morning. We should have the trainer look at it when they come in. Ice, elevation, and no water this afternoon.”

Maren’s head jerks up. “But—”

“No buts, lady. You are benched until tomorrow at the earliest.” He stands up. “You can use that time to plan the trip to the lake on Saturday. Go over stats and drills. Make yourself useful without getting back in the pool.”

Defeated, Maren looks up at the coach. “Yes, sir,” slips out of her lips.

He nods once, taps the clipboard against the wall, and walks off to start the next set.

Maren sits there for a moment before pushing herself back to rest against the wall. The dull ache from her ankle is starting to radiate up her leg. Reese still has not moved. The air between them feels suspended and heavy.

The pool hums behind them, steady and relentless. A whistle blows somewhere far down the deck, and the sound stretches against the walls. Maren studies the reflection of the ceiling lights in the puddles at her feet. Every drop that falls from Reese’s hair leaves a small ripple she cannot stop watching.

“You should probably get back to practice,” Maren says finally.

Reese hesitates, reaching out to touch Maren’s good leg. “Yeah, you are probably right. See you later, Mini-Coach.”

Maren does not answer. She presses the melting ice cup back against her ankle until the cold numbs everything enough to be able to move a little. When the whistle blows for the cool-down set, she limps towards the bench, grabbing one of the deck towels, resting while the rest of her teammates finish their practice.

The rhythmic slap of water fills the silence, steady and distant. She lets herself drift, watching the surface smooth out again, her reflection rippling across lane one. She hates sitting still. Watching everyone else move makes her skin itch. Each kick and turn out there feels like a reminder that she is not in control of her own body. The longer she sits, the louder her thoughts get. The ice melts faster than it should, water slipping down her foot like an apology.

By the time practice ends, the locker room hums with noise and steam. Maren moves slower than usual, careful with every step, the ache dull but steady. She is sitting in front of her locker when she hears it.

“She is such a hard ass,” one of the girls mutters. “No wonder Coach made her Co-Captain. She acts like she runs the whole team.”

Reese’s voice answers, firm but quiet. “She runs it because she cares. Do you think any of us would be where we are without her keeping us on track? You don’t have to like her, but maybe you should respect her.”

The room stills. A locker door slams, and footsteps fade. Maren stays where she is, eyes on the floor, heart thudding too fast. She does not move until the last of the noise drains away.

The words land softer than she expects. They settle in her chest, somewhere deep and unfamiliar. Nobody has ever stuck up for her like that. Not really. It feels too close to gratitude, too close to something that might matter if she lets it. She reaches for the clothes out of her locker, knowing she has to leave this safety for the rest of the day soon.

When she finally stands, she pulls on warm-ups and sneakers, tucks her wet hair under the hoodie, and slings her bag over one shoulder. The air outside the locker room feels cooler and lighter.

She walks out to the pool to exit, trying to avoid the hallway traffic. The pool area sounds different when everyone is gone. Quiet, but not empty. The vents hum above her, the pool whispering against the gutter. It has always been her favorite part of the day, this in-between space when the world feels rinsed clean. Her footsteps echo unevenly across the tiles as something catches her eye. The whiteboard glows faintly under the overhead lights. Her name, written in plain black letters, sits beside Reese’s looping signature.

Next to her name, someone has drawn a small red heart.

Maren stares for a long moment, unsure if she is supposed to smile or scowl. The hum of the building fills the silence.

She does not go over to erase it. She adjusts her backpack and limps toward the door.

The heart stays behind, bright and quiet against the white board.

4

The Team Trip

They pile out of the school vans in a tangle of towels, swim bags, and laughter that feels a little too loud for the hush of early spring. The shore of Lake Michigan is a wide gray plate, the water bending light, so it looks like a sheet of steel one minute and a thousand silver scales the next. The air is cool but kind enough. It carries the smell of wet stone, crushed grass, sunscreen that no one will remember to reapply, and a faint bite of fish that makes Maren’s nose twitch.