Page 29 of The Last Five Yards

She thinks about everything that led to this morning. The late practices. The morning alarms before the sky even turned grey. The hum of the locker room lights and the echo of voices bouncing off the tiles. Every small thing has led her here, to this stretch of sand, to this moment that feels like both an ending and a beginning.

Her chest tightens when she realizes she is not sad. Not exactly. The ache behind her ribs feels lighter than it should. Maybe because it is real. Because she finally let herself want something she could not control.

A gull swoops low, cutting across the reflection of the sun. Maren watches until it disappears over the dunes. She digs her fingers into the sand, letting the grains slip through her hands, warm now from the sunlight.

She imagines what Reese is doing right now. Maybe she’s in the car, tapping her fingers against the cup holder. Maybe she’s already on the highway, the wind in her hair, the same song playing that they used to sing in the locker room after practice. Maybe she’s watching the sky too, thinking of the lake.

Maren closes her eyes and pictures her face, that small, tired smile, before she turns away. The one that felt like a promise she couldn’t put into words.

Maren slowly brushes sand from her palms. Her coffee cup sits half-buried beside her, the heart next to her name now smudged by her thumb. She reaches down and pulls the paper cup from the cup, sliding it into her hoodie pocket, already knowing it will end up in her desk drawer next to the first sleeve Reese gave her.

As she reaches her car, the wind catches her hair and fills her hoodie like a sail. The parking lot is still empty. Her car waits alone in the front half of the lot. She pauses before getting in, looking back at the water. The sun is high now, and the lake looks bright and alive, endless and new.

She takes it all in. Climbs in the car. It is not heartbreak. It is something quieter, like hope before it knows its name.

II

Open Water

12

Return to Deck

Maren walks into the school, her backpack slung over one shoulder, wearing shorts, her favorite Adidas slides, and a well-worn Everton Otters Age Group T-shirt. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her key ring. One day, she really needs to figure out what half of these keys open. When she took the job as assistant coach for the age-group program two years ago, Coach Hensley tossed her the ring and said, “You’ll figure it out, kid.”

He wasn’t wrong. There was a lot of trial and error that first year, but now she has marked the ones she uses with Sharpies: black for main doors, green for the locker rooms, and pink for the equipment room beside the white board.

Summer swim season is her favorite. The team is smaller and more focused. These kids don’t just try swimming on for a season; they live for it. Best of all, they don’t have to share the pool with the high school team. From three to seven every afternoon, this place belongs to her. Technically, Coach Hensley still holds the title, but he has been phoning it in since announcing his retirement at the end of last season. Maren doesn’t mind. The work feels natural now, even comforting.

She walks out of the office and flips on the overhead lights. The pool does not glow the way it used to when she swam here. The sunlight that once turned the water gold now filters weakly through the UV covers the school installed a few years back. The air is cooler, but she misses the old light. The way it caught the spray midair like glitter hanging in motion.

Crossing the deck, she pulls out the pace clocks so both ends of the pool can see them. Friday practices always follow the same plan: warm-ups, then tight interval drills first, then free time once everyone is worn out. Coach Hensley taught her early that if you tire them out before giving them freedom, the chaos is easier to manage.

The locker room doors start to slam, and laughter bounces around the walls. Maren leans against the railing in front of the bleachers, clipboard in hand, reviewing her notes one last time.

Then she hears the door open, the heavy squeak of the hinges, and a soft rush of air from the hallway. She doesn’t look up. Parents wander in and out all the time. Some stay and watch. Her mom always did it when she was young.

The bleachers creak—slow, steady steps climbing upward.

The door opens again, and a burst of cool air rolls through, carrying something faint but unmistakable. The scent of cucumber melon.

Maren’s memory stutters. It couldn’t be.

Her watch buzzes, saving her from the thought. She blows three short bursts on her whistle and turns toward the locker room doors just as the kids burst out, dripping with laughter and energy. She calls out the warm-up sets, hands out kickboards, and a familiar routine fills the air.

The door opens again. The scent returns sharper now. Maren glances toward the bleachers.

Of course it’s her.

Reese Callahan sits near the top row, elbows on her knees, watching the pool. Watching her.

Maren looks down at her clipboard. If she doesn’t make eye contact, then she won’t have to think about it, at least not right now. The paper feels soft from use under her fingers, edges curling slightly from humidity.

When she looks up, one of her new swimmers is struggling with backstroke turns. The girl clips the wall and winces. Maren walks to the edge, the wet tile squeaks beneath her slides, and crouches beside the lane.

“Hey, Sam, did I just see you bump your head when you came in?”

Sam looks up, drops of water running down her goggles, and rubs the top of her cap. She nods slowly.