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Who am I to demand anything from someone who has had so much taken from him?

At a collective gasp from the crowd, I look back at the water. There is a moment of confusion, where the undines tangle in the wake of a lift. It is a silly, clumsy error, one I would never expect from elite athletes who have been competing together for years. I inhale sharply, cataloguing the point deduction in my head. It is one of the highest scoring elements of their routine, and screwing up the dismount could knock off a significant amount of points.

They finish their routine, but it feels like the entire arena is holding their breath. The mistake will undoubtedly cost the undines—the question is how much?

I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants as the judges deliberate, and I press the heel of my hand against my sternum. I glance over at Aleks, who is sitting ramrod-straight, watching the leaderboard projected above the pool.

Please, Gods, give him this. After taking so much from him, give him—

When the scores update, I let out a breath. The undine’s score puts them just below us.

“Dios.” I rub my face, disbelief fading to relief—not for myself. No, my own pride has no place here. But Aleks, my Aleks, my boy, has a chance now. His performance today may not have been pretty, and it certainly was not a true representation of his or Cora’s skill.

None of it matters, though. Their path to the medal round is secured.

I duck through the crowd to reach the two sirens. Like he can sense my attention on him, Aleks turns around in his seat, eyes wide. Cora whispers something to him, and Aleks’ lips tilt up in a smile.

My heart rate picks up in my chest.

“How did we pull that off?” Aleks asks as I approach them.

“Sometimes the Fates are badass bitches who throw in on the right people.” Cora leans back in her chair, shrugging. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in the wake of a shitty performance. No offense,” she adds, poking Aleks in the thigh.

“None taken.” Aleks lets out a disbelieving laugh, before looking up at me. There, in his pale eyes, I see the beginnings of joy taking hold. “Coach?” He asks.

I shrug, even as a smile spreads over my face. “Sometimes, in sports, you need to take the win and not ask too many questions.”

“What he said,” Cora says, pointing up at me.

The noise of the crowd draws my attention, and I look up, surveying the audience before my gaze is drawn to the judges.

My heart skips a beat. Alina Parthenope is watching me, expression hard and unreadable. The smile on my face fades as I return her stare.

In two days, Aleks and Cora will have the chance to perform again. Second chances do not come along every day. I have to figure out how to help them, to bridge the gaps between them, so the next time they perform it is something they can both be proud of.

After spending the afternoon reviewing the video of Aleks and Cora’s performance, I walk back to the bungalow with to-go food from the dining hall. It is early evening, the glow of the golden sky still bright enough that the little lights lining the paths have not turned on yet.

The bungalow is dark, and Aleks is not inside. The back porch is empty, too. I stash our dinners in the mini fridge, and find a note on the counter.

Javi,

Went to grab something in the village. Be back in an hour.

-Aleks

I frown, disappointed in his absence. It has been less than an hour since I saw him, and yet I am already itching to have my boy back in my sight.

I should go for a jog. Exercising always clears my head. Changing into shorts and a t-shirt and lacing up my running shoes, I grab my headphones and old iPod, and head out on the gravel path that curves behind our bungalow and into the thick forest.

I ignore the signs warning potential trespassers about the dangers of the siren song. It is standard, at these events, for there to be strict and extensive demarcations between areas set aside for different species. It would not do anyone any good if a werewolf ran loose through the village on the full moon.

Each siren team has been given access to a springfed pool with enough distance between them to allow them to swim without their vocal filters. I remember, when I coached the team of young sirens, hearing them complain about the hardware they were required to wear, even if it was for their own safety. According to every siren I have known, doing artistic swimming with a filter feels like the pressure and discomfort of holding one’s breath—survivable, but still uncomfortable.

Aleks was assigned his own pool, and, by extension, the walking trail looping from our bungalow out to the pool and back. With him in the village, there is no chance of stumbling upon him singing as he swims.

My body moves slowly these days. My right knee acts up if I push myself, so I settle into an easy jog. The gravel crunches under my shoes, and I cue up A Night at the Opera on my iPod.

Freddie Mercury croons in my ears, and my lungs adjust to the strain of exertion. It does not matter how little I think of my age these days; running serves as a constant reminder that my body is moving past its prime.