The Omega drops her student ID while reaching for a banana, and the Alpha behind her grabs it before it hits the floor. He hands it back with his eyes down, careful enough that she smiles like she knows exactly what he’s doing and likes it anyway. The whole thing is painful to witness before noon, so I grab coffee, a sealed yogurt, and a plastic-wrapped muffin because anything with enough preservatives to survive the display case can probably survive me.
The cashier looks at my ID, then at my face, and her mouth does the little dip people’s mouths do when recognition shows up before manners.
“Dining dollars?” she asks.
“Unless you’re taking emotional damage as currency.”
She laughs because she decides I’m joking. I let her have that and move before she can place me all the way. Jude Morrison. The Omega from the meet. The one who went into heat in front of half the athletic department. The one everyone has a version of, even people who weren’t there.
I sit near the side exit with my back to the wall and a clear view of both doors. The guy two seats over is hungover, obvious from the way he keeps flinching at the overhead lights and staring at a dry bagel like it needs to make the first move. A professor near the window is in a bad mood, shoulders tight, fork stabbing into fruit hard enough to make the table shake. A girl at the next tableis crying into oatmeal while her friend pats her hand with the helpless rhythm of someone who has run out of useful sentences.
Scent is useful until it isn’t. People lean on it too hard, trust biology like it’s never lied, and then act surprised when someone’s body gets turned into a campus story with three different endings and no witnesses brave enough to tell the truth.
My phone buzzes twice on the table. I finish the coffee first because caffeine deserves respect, then flip the phone over. Both texts are from the coach.
MARSH: Gear order got delivered to admin. Can you grab it before practice?
MARSH: Also don’t make Nelson cry today.
A brief smile creeps onto my face at the man who’s become something like a father figure. He was one of the only people who didn’t immediately throw me out on my ass, the only one who believed I’d still be able to make something of myself. The only one who’s ever encouraged me to get back into the water.
I stare at the second message, then type back.
ME: Pick one.
The typing bubble appears, disappears, then appears again.
MARSH: Gear order.
It gets another a smile out of me, which is unfortunate for my reputation. I eat a few bites of yogurt, toss the rest, and head across campus with my backpack over one shoulder and my hood up even though the sun is out.
Spring on campus makes everyone stupid. Forty-nine degrees and one patch of grass, and suddenly there are knees everywhere. Shorts. Flip-flops. A fraternity guy in a tank top pretending his arms aren’t turning purple. I cut past the library, take the side path by the old science building, and enter the athletics wing from the east doors.
The main entrance is faster, but it takes me past the trophy case, the pool doors, and the stretch of deck near lane three, so I take the long way. The admin assistant gives me two boxes of replacement caps, three mesh bags, a stack of new kickboards, and a packing slip with backordered stamped across half the items. She frowns at the paper, then looks up and recognizes me before she can hide it.
“Coach Marsh said there were supposed to be six timing plungers.”
“There were supposed to be a lot of things.”
Her gaze drops back to the packing slip, but the recognition stays in her face now. “I can call purchasing.”
“Purchasing will say they sent what they had, Marsh will say that’s useless, purchasing will say they’ll note the account, and then everyone gets to feel employed.”
Her hand pauses over the phone. “So should I call?”
“Definitely. Some traditions matter.”
She laughs despite herself, and I leave before recognition turns into pity. I head to the equipment room and unpack the caps, count the bags, log the missing plungers, and submit the equipment request Marsh will never get funded.
REQUEST: six timing plungers, replacement lane rope section, two pace clocks.
Under justification, I type,Current equipment held together by hope and electrical tape, stare at it for a second, then delete it before submitting the request properly. Marsh would appreciate it and then make me rewrite the form.
The natatorium is empty when I finish. Practice isn’t until later, and the quiet makes the pool look cleaner than it is. No bodies in the lanes. No coaches calling splits. No hands slapping the wall. Just blue water under bright lights, still enough to pass for harmless.
The record board hangs above the deep end, but I keep my eyes off it. I avoid the straight route across the deck because that would put me near lane three. The long way takes me behind the bleachers, past the storage cage, and around the side where the deck dips slightly from old water damage. My shoes squeak against the floor, the sound bouncing once before it turns into hands on tile, someone shouting, water slapping the gutter too hard. The pool lights had been bright that night. I remember that clearly, along with the first wrong note under my skin and the open pocket on my bag where the spare blockers should’ve been.
After that, I can’t remember much, so I keep walking.
