Page 4 of Depths of Desire
Laps blurred. One set became another. Stroke after stroke, I chased the perfect moment where my arms moved faster than the water could resist, where the timing was so exact it felt like I wasn’t even swimming. I was flying.
By the time Coach Johnson blew the final whistle, I was vibrating under my skin. Not from fatigue, but from satisfaction. I knew I’d hit the zone. That rare alignment where body, breath, and focus lined up so clean I forgot I was human.
I hoisted myself out of the pool without using the ladder. My muscles trembled, but it felt good. Clean.
Coach clapped a hand on my back, heavy and wet. “That last set, Hayworth, that’s what I want to see more of.”
I didn’t say anything. I just nodded. I didn’t need his approval. But I wasn’t above letting it settle somewhere warm in my chest.
The air outside the swimming pool was colder than I expected. My skin tightened as I padded barefoot into the locker room, a towel hanging around my neck. The tile floor chilled my soles, and my legs still felt rubbery with use, the kind of burn that told me I’d gone to the edge without falling over it.
I turned the dial in the locker I always used, third from the left, bottom row, dented corner from the time someone slammed it too hard after a loss. The routine was the same as it always was: suit off, towel off, hang everything neatly. No wasted motion. I hated wasted motion.
The locker room was empty except for me. Evening sessions always ended that way. Guys went home, went out, went anywhere but here.
I preferred this.
In the shower, I turned the heat up just past reasonable. The water hit my shoulders and spilled down my back like the sound of static turning to silence.
I braced both hands against the cool tile and let my head fall forward, eyes closing, breaths steadying a little.
God, I needed that.
Not the swim, but the stillness after.
No noise in my head. No pressure waiting in the wings. Just the warmth on my back, the sharp scent of chlorine bleeding off my skin, the small thrum of satisfaction that came from doing the thing right.
Coach had been pleased.
I’d been sharper than yesterday. I’d kept my hips high on the water and got out of my own way.
If I didn’t have to go home for the holidays, I could’ve built on that. Kept the streak going. Every week away from the pool was a step backward. Every day with family was noise I didn’t know how to tune out.
But I couldn’t think about that now.
I took one more breath under the stream of water and let it all roll off me—expectation, distraction, whatever came next. None of it mattered.
The swim was done. The work was done. For now.
And it had been good.
After drying and dressing, I left the pool and went to my place. It was an apartment on the thirteenth floor, just off campus, with a view of Westmont’s landscape, its dormitories, faculty buildings, recreation centers, library, and student center. I’d wanted to be close enough to the coach and the pool.
The apartment itself wasn’t huge. Open kitchen, living area, one bedroom, small balcony. But it was mine. Quiet, clean, easy to maintain. The kind of space I’d never had growing up, where the walls weren’t paper-thin and I didn’t have to share a bathroom with three people.
There was more money now; sponsorships helped, endorsements, gear deals. I had a pair of running shoes in the closet worth more than my old bike. But it didn’t mean much to me. I didn’t buy flashy things or host parties. The extra cash went to groceries and water filters and the same meal-prepservice that shipped the exact portions of vegetables and protein I needed for training. My sister teased me about it constantly.
I dropped my bag by the door, shrugged off my jacket, and walked into the kitchen. There was a rhythm to my movements. Everything was pre-set, pre-measured, and clean. I didn’t even have to think about what I was making. Chicken, spinach, a little rice. I cooked it in silence, not because I didn’t like music, but because I didn’t like distraction.
Once it was ready, I carried the plate to the couch, set my tablet on the coffee table, and called Lena.
It rang twice before she picked up, her face filling the screen in warm lamplight. She was wrapped in a hoodie, chin deep in a blanket, and smiling like she’d been expecting me, which she probably had.
“Well, if it isn’t Captain Hydration himself,” she said. “Still alive?”
“Barely,” I muttered, stabbing a fork into the rice.
“How was practice?”
