Hold My Breath(37)

Her eyes flash at my suggestion, and her lip twitches upward on the right.

“Do we have a bet?” I extend my hand, daring to step forward a few paces. My pulse kicks up with a mix of adrenaline and desire. This was very clearly another bad idea—but the moment Maddy lifts her hand at her side and meets me halfway, I forget about my moral compass and readjust my definition of what’s good and what’s right.

“Two body lengths,” she says when our eyes meet.

I squeeze her palm, loving the fact that she squeezes back with equal force.

“Fine, two,” I say, and she nods.

“I’ll set the sensors,” she says, leaving me to shake the nerves from my limbs behind her back while she moves to the control box and flips on the timers.

She comes back to stand next to me; we both put on our best game faces. My lips hurt trying not to laugh, but I hold my eyes on hers and do my best to sneer while we both swing our arms then slide our goggles into place. I wait while Maddy readies herself up on her blocks, and I step up next to her on mine, bending down, and holding the front, relaxing my back and testing the sway of my legs as they move back and forth.

“You call it,” Maddy says, her head turning to me while she reaches up with one hand and points her finger at my face. “And you better not cheat. If I find out, I’ll do something really shitty to your shampoo bottles when you’re not home. And you know Duncan would help me.”

I pull in my brow and laugh out a breath.

“This sounds like something you and my uncle may have worked out in advance,” I say.

“That’s for me to know, and you to worry about. Now call the damn race, Will,” she says, turning forward again, her hands both steady on the block. “And don’t swim like a *.”

“No, ma’am,” I chuckle.

I crouch again, swallowing down my nerves. I’m not worried about winning or losing. I’m worried about making shit messy.

“On your marks,” I say, my eyes falling closed, my heartbeat ratcheting up quickly.

“Get set,” I say, holding my breath for a full second. My last chance to turn back is right now.

“Go!” I shout, giving over to fate. Whatever will be will be, and whether this is a good idea or bad is something I have to see through to find out. But at the very least, Maddy is going to swim fast, and she’s going to find her spark. I’m going to give it to her, right…now. My fingers hit the water, and I dig in hard, making up ground. I feel the wake of her kick, the trail of her best.

Maddy is swimming fast, and she’s never going to lose to Amber again. I’m making sure of it, because, good idea or bad, in about six more seconds, she’s going to lose to me.





Chapter Eight





Maddy





My purse is loaded down with ones—stacks and stacks of them. Tonight will be the best sixty bucks I’ve ever spent, and Will doesn’t see it coming.

He beat me when we raced. I have to admit there was a small piece of me—the tiger living within—that thought for most of the distance I had a shot. But Will’s just too big. His arms dwarf mine; his body length is dominating even to other men, and the power he brings with every stroke sounds like thunder in the water. I lost by a little more than two seconds, and two seconds in the water, in a fifty-meter sprint for your life, is a really long time.

I thought about those two seconds all night, and I brought them with me to workouts on Monday. I held onto them when we took the blocks again for more sprints. I obsessed on them every single time we raced this week. And today…today I clocked in just under twenty-four seconds in my fifty. More than a personal best, if I can swim that time in competition, better it by one less stroke, I’ll take the world record.

When I saw the time, the first person I turned to wasn’t my dad—it was Will. It’s been Will all week. It’s been Will since the moment I first saw him again. Wrong or not, he makes me faster. He makes me happy. And this rekindled friendship that has grown by leaps and bounds this week, just because of some stupid bet, has made me happier than anything has in years.

The routine isn’t very old, which I guess doesn’t make it much of a routine, but for the last four days, Will has invited me out for lunch or coffee after our morning training, and he’s always waiting for me to show up before he puts in his laps at night. Not once have I told him I was coming, and not once has he asked if I was. It’s this weird understood agreement we never discussed that I’d be here when the sun sets, and he’d be here. I’m not sure how long he waited the first time, but the smile that stretched across his face when I showed up to join him took me back to the old us, and I think that’s why I keep coming. I like making the trip back in time.

I like making Will Hollister smile.

I find my favorite old chair in the club lobby—the one with the chenille arms that I can draw doodles on with my fingers—and pull my legs in, my hands wringing the dripping water from my hair while Will changes upstairs. My father walks in from the pool with two men wearing dress shirts and pants, with sunglasses on their heads, but ties left out of the wardrobe. It’s clear they’re here on business, probably sponsorships, so I sit up tall and prepare myself to help my dad close the deal.

“Here she is,” he says, walking the two men who look more Wall Street than Indiana swimming hole over to me. I stand, wiping the excess water from my palms along my dry shorts before I reach out to shake their hands.