Page 33 of The Last Five Yards

Maren feels the catch in her chest. Around her, the applause rises again, slow and warm. Reese’s hands stay still for a moment longer, then she claps too, the sound sharp in her ears.

Coach Hensley smiles, steps back from the mic, and gives a little wave. “Alright,” he says, “let’s eat dessert before it melts.”

Applause swells and then softens. People stand and stretch. Chairs scrape against the floor in an uneven rhythm. Someone taps the microphone off with a small thunk. The projector fan winds down, and the room quiets.

Dessert appears in pieces. A cart with ice cream cakes. A bowl of strawberries that are already half gone. A stack of paper plates that keeps sliding sideways. Parents start a loose line that curves around the tables. The blue streamers sway in the open doorway and settle again.

Maren tucks the slideshow remote into a Tupperware of spare batteries and labels it with a sticky note that says do not lose. She moves through the small chaos with easy precision, lifting a cake knife from the box, finding the pile of napkins she hid earlier, setting two forks by the coffee urn. It is work that steadies her pulse.

Reese helps where there is a gap. She catches a plate before it skids to the floor. She directs a group of freshmen to the end of the line. She waits for a lull and then cuts herself a narrow slice of cake, the frosting too sweet and exactly right. When she turns, Maren is behind her, reaching past for the coffee stirrers.

Their hands skim. Not quite a touch. Close enough to feel the heat.

“Nice line about the last five yards,” Reese says, voice low, eyes on a stack of cups.

Maren gives a small nod. “He has been saying some version of it since my freshman year.” She sets two creamers on the table and aligns them out of habit.

Reese watches Hensley across the room, surrounded by parents and alumni, arms in motion. “I think he saved the best version for tonight.”

They carry their plates back to the table. Jules has moved one chair down to make space and is telling a story about a relay start that went wrong, and they still won. The laughter is bright, then brighter. Maren smiles and listens and counts her breaths in the quiet parts. One, two, three, four.

The crowd thins. People linger to hug Coach Hensley. A few younger swimmers make a game of popping the balloons as they peel them off the walls, until a parent gives a warning look, and the game dies. The gym returns to normal volumes.

Cleanup begins in pockets. Someone folds tablecloths. Someone else starts stacking chairs. The AV student crouches by the projector cart and wraps the cord. The smell of barbecue is fading now, tucked into the trash bags and the memory of the room.

Maren stands and collects the empty chip bowls. Reese rises too, unasked, and starts gathering cups that still hold a little coffee. They move in parallel lines, a pattern so familiar it catches.

“Thanks,” Maren says when they reach the buffet table at the same moment. “I thought I would be here all night.”

“You would have been,” Reese says, light but true. “You always finish the job.”

Maren huffs a small laugh. “Someone has to.” She lifts a crock pot lid and checks the level, then clicks the dial to warm. “I promised Coach I would send leftovers home with him.”

“He will pretend to protest,” Reese says, “and then he will eat sloppy joes for breakfast.”

They both smile at the same mental picture. It lands in the space between them and stays there.

A few alumni start to say goodnight. Jules squeezes Maren’s hand and promises to text tomorrow. The janitor rolls in a large garbage can and gives Maren a nod that reads you know what you are doing. She nods back. Reese collects a stray strawberry from under a chair and tosses it into the trash. It lands with a soft thud.

The room is growing quieter. The decorations look tired now. The cardboard trident leans a little farther against the podium, its shine caught in a thin line of pale gold.

Reese ties off a trash bag and sets it by the door. When she turns, Maren is stacking plates, careful and quick, eyes on her hands. They fall into step again without speaking. Chairs scrape. Tape peels. Paper bubbles come down in uneven stacks.

“Guess you really did stay,” Reese says finally. Her voice is even. She keeps her hands busy with the tape roll.

Maren places another stack of plates into the box. “Guess you really did leave.”

Reese looks at her for that. The words are soft. They do not accuse. They still land.

“Didn’t plan to,” Reese says.

“Didn’t plan to wait,” Maren answers.

Air moves through the open doors and touches the back of Maren’s neck. She sets the box down and wipes her palms on her dress. The smell of chlorine comes in faint from the pool, the kind that only people who know it can catch. For a moment, it feels like morning again. Like a door is about to open on the far side of the deck, and everything is possible.

Reese steps closer, not quite into Maren’s space, close enough to see the tiny scar by her left eyebrow. “I didn’t plan most of it,” she says. “It does not mean it didn’t matter.”

Maren keeps her gaze on the trident, so she does not have to meet Reese’s eyes. “I know.” She picks up two centerpieces and carries them to the box marked to ‘Return to theater.’ “Knowing and living with it are not the same thing.”