Page 6 of The Last Five Yards

Pausing for a moment, she walks up to the pool entrance. Only the emergency lights are on t the way she likes it. This is how she knows she is on time. If the full hall lights are on when she walks through the door, she is late. Well, she is late for ‘Maren Time.’

Walking into the locker room, she does notice that those lights are all on. The coach must have reached through and flipped them on already. She gets to her locker and unpacks her bag on the bench. Three suits, swim cap, and goggles. There is no time for dawdling this morning, so she slides on her suits and gets ready for practice. She is ready to start her routine. She locks up her clothes, checking twice to make sure it is locked. Grabbing her cap and goggles from the bench, she walks out to the deck. She pauses a moment before pushing on the door, takes a deep breath, and thinks, Okay, Maren. This is a fresh day; it will be a good day.

Opening the door is like opening into a new world. The sound of the water softly cresting into the gutter is its own siren song early in the morning. On instinct, she walks over to the gutter, drops her stuff, and dips her feet in the water. Reaching down to grab the wrench to do the lane lines. She glances over to see if Coach has written today’s sets on the board yet. In an instant, her energy drains. She is face-to-back with Reese, who is taking her time to write her name on the board in a very large, bubbly script with… Is that a heart next to her name? Of course there is a heart next to her name. Why wouldn’t there be? The shape feels like mockery and invocation all at once.

Reese turns around, hearing Maren on the deck behind her. “Oh, hey there, Co-Captain. I thought since I am a captain now, I should probably be on time. Why do we practice this early in the morning anyway?”

Maren’s routine is once again ruined. It was ruined before it could even start this time. And once again, it is Reese at the root of this. She had totally forgotten that they were to put their names on the board this morning. God, Coach Hensley also put them in charge of warm-ups. At least she could make a warm-up in her sleep if she needed to. Maren walks over to the board and stands next to Reese. Reaching to grab the dry-erase marker, she realizes it isn’t resting on the top of the board like it normally does. Looking over, she asks Reese, “Could I use the marker for a minute?”

Reese spins, bright eyed, picking something up from the deck. “Of course you can, but what color would you like?”

“Um…black would be fine,” Maren replies, slightly stunned at the question. Of course, this girl brought a whole rainbow of colors. Why wouldn’t she?

Maren wraps her fingers around the marker, pressing the tip lightly against the board before she lets herself write. Very carefully. Very plainly.

Maren Clarke

Nothing fancy, no flourish, just print. At least the rest of the team will be able to easily read it. She starts to jot down a warm-up routine on the board.

Reese’s hand brushes against Maren’s softly. It sends electricity radiating with a soft warmth all the way up Maren’s arm. Maren steps back and just stares at Reese. What is she doing touching her? What does she want? Why would she ever do that?

“So, what do you want to do for warm-up this morning?” Reese’s tone is light and casual as she turns to grab something else off the pool deck. “I jotted down a couple of ideas in my notebook last night.”

Maren blinks, trying to comprehend the absolute sensory assault she is currently experiencing. “What do you mean? You, Reese, are a diver; you will handle the divers’ warm-ups. I will handle the swimming warm-up.” She turns back to the board, shoulders tight and rigid.

Reese deflates, the bounce leaving her posture. “Well,” she says softly, “I was just trying to help.”

She is no longer able to hold her feelings inside. She needs to push them out. Maren turns back to the board. She has held this long enough. She begins to write.

Just as she is finished writing, the PA system clicks overhead, with a loud clatter. A beat of silence, then Katy Perry’s I Kissed a Girl blares through the speakers.

Maren spins around as the chorus starts, just in time to see Reese launch herself into the diving well.

The song echoes across the rafters, the bass vibrating through the metal bleachers. Reese hits the water in a clean arc, the splash scattering light across the surface. Maren blinks at the ripple. Her jaw tightens. The pop chorus keeps looping—I kissed a girl, and I liked it—and the irony is not lost on her. Great. This is going to be stuck in her head all day. A far cry from her normal morning soundtrack.

She turns away, bends down, and grabs her goggles, jumping into her lane. The water bites cold against her skin, and for a moment, she thinks maybe the shock will clear her head. Maybe this will reset her.

Maren pushes off the wall, starting her warm-up. Her body falls into the familiar motion of her stroke, muscle memory taking over. She swims up and down the lane as the other team members start to enter the water with her. Maren doesn’t really notice; in her head, it is just her and the pool, the way it is meant to be. As the warm-up winds down, she starts to find her rhythm again. Her world steadies. Things feel right.

Touching the wall, she pops her head up to see the rest of the morning sets. One hundred-yard sprints? That is just rude. Her body is ready for a long-distance day, not to push itself to the edge and then do it five more times. The thought flickers through her head: When I’m the coach…

The whistle slices through the heavy air, shivering across the surface of the water. Maren takes a deep breath, slides under, and explodes off the wall. Legs firing, arms pulling. Four lengths. Five breaths, six tops. Keep the tempo. Do not stop. She finds the track in her mind and lets it play, the rhythm, the count, the quiet hum of control.

The end of the first length comes fast. She tucks her head and rolls into the turn, pushing off hard. Streamlines for 10 yards, kicking clean. Then disorientation. Her shoulder slams into the lane line on her right. Her stroke stutters. She tries to correct, but her sense of distance is gone. Too close to the wall. Too soon.

She ducks into the turn—SLAM. Her ankle cracks against the gutter. Pain spikes up, sharp and pulsing, radiating up her leg. She bursts from the surface with a ragged, “FUCK!”

“CLARKE, MOUTH!” Coach Hensley’s voice cuts through the deck.

Maren works her way towards the edge, half-hopping on her good foot, the water feels heavy against her body. Tears press at the corners of her eyes, sweat and chlorine blur together. She grabs the gutter and hauls herself up, sliding onto the edge. Her ankle throbs, swelling already visible beneath the light sheen of water.

When she looks up, Reese is already jogging over, urgent in every step.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, there, Mini-Coach.” Reese crouches beside her, voice quivering as she tries to stay calm. “I don’t think your ankle is supposed to be that big. We heard that crack all the way over in the diving well. You okay, buddy?”

Maren glances down at her ankle, then back up at Reese. “Do I look okay?”

“Fair point.” Reese’s laugh is shaky. “Hold on, I’ll grab some ice.”