Page 46 of The Last Five Yards

Courage feels a lot like finishing a hard set.

She stands.

Her knees crack. The laptop looks smaller now, like something she is finally allowed to let go of.

She tucks it back into her backpack, zips it closed. She opens her locker, pulls out her suit, and changes quickly. Grabbing her goggles, she heads toward the deck.

The air warms as she steps onto the deck. The surface of the water lies mostly still, cut by the soft burble of the filter. She steps up to lane three and dives in.

The water wraps around her in cool silence. Stroke after stroke, she lets everything pour through her body. Fear. Relief. Grief. Hope.

The water cradles her the way it always has. Not soft. Not forgiving. But honest. It holds her mistakes and her strength in the same space. Her arms burn. Her lungs stretch. Her legs ache in a way that feels like a confession.

She thinks about every version of herself who has touched this water. The little girl who clung to the lane line. The teenager who refused to get out after a bad set. The captain who tried to be unbreakable even when she was crumbling under the surface.

All of them are here with her, moving through each stroke.

On the last length, she watches the lane line shift colors at the last five yards, the signal she has always trusted.

She reaches the T and touches the wall.

She climbs out, dripping, feet bare on the deck.

As she walks back to the locker room, her wet footprints mark the floor behind her, dark at first, then softly fading.

By the time she reaches the doorway, the first few are already disappearing.

She looks back once, watching them fade. She wonders how many times she has traced this same path, wet feet slapping softly against the tile. How many mornings has she started here. How many endings she has imagined.

Today feels different.

Today, the fading footprints do not feel like erasing. They feel like clearing space.

She turns forward and walks into the locker room to get ready for practice.

17

The Bonfire

Maren hears the locker room door slam shut. She has been sitting at her desk keeping track of how many times the door opened and closed, and if her count is right, that was the last swimmer leaving evening practice. She grabs her keys and calls into the boy’s locker room to make sure it is clear. No one answers. She reaches inside and feels along the cool tile for the light switch.

On the other side of her office, she pushes open the door to the girls’ locker room. The familiar scent hits immediately. Conditioners, lotions, perfume. Tween girls trying so hard to smell good that every scent fights every other one. It is like walking through the perfume counter at the mall. The sharp sweetness sits hard in her gut as she walks through. She picks up a couple of wet towels and a pair of goggles, which she will toss into the lost and found.

She almost never has to do this much cleanup in the boys’ locker room. The girls keep her busy nightly. They would forget their own heads if they were not already attached. Maren never remembers being like this. She always knew where her things were and where the backups were, just in case.

Back in her office, she drops the goggles on the desk. Her laptop sits in the corner, lid open, screen black. She swears she can feel judgment radiating from it. She mouths “I’m sorry” at it as she bends down for her backpack, noticeably lighter now, and picks up her keys.

She steps out of the office door and pauses. The pool is still. Not a ripple. The flat surface reflects her shape back at her. She takes a deep breath, letting the locker room smell clear from her lungs until all she can smell is chlorine, that familiar home smell. She looks at her reflection once more and rolls her shoulders back, standing a little straighter.

“Okay,” she says to no one. “Let’s do this.”

She tosses her keys into the air, catches them, and heads out to her car.

The sun is just beginning to set when she reaches the parking lot. Everything is bathed in pink and gold light. The warmth is still there, but a soft breeze slides through the air and reminds her to double-check that she grabbed a hoodie.

She digs around in the backseat until her hand finds the familiar soft cotton of her favorite hoodie. She pulls it free, shakes it once, and tosses the Tar Heel blue shirt onto her passenger seat. The smell of laundry detergent and something faintly like the lake clings to it. She must have worn it the last time she stopped by the beach after practice.

The thought makes her stomach flutter in a way she tries to ignore.