Submerge

G L I D E

M A S O N

I only agreed because three people ganged up on me.

First came Dr. Serrano. He slapped a fresh X-ray on the light board, traced the faint ghost of a fracture with the back of his pen, and said, "The bone's solid, but your ankle's still garbage. Water therapy or another eight weeks on crutches—pick."

Second was Nathan, who took pick as a legally binding contract. That same night he texted Pool's open 7-9 p.m. tomorrow. I booked lane 3. Bring trunks. There was no question mark, just the iron-willed big-brother period that means resistance is futile.

Finally, Ethan—traitor, boyfriend, accomplice—bribed me with a latte, rubbed his thumb across the back of my hand, and whispered, "You don't have to race. Just float. I'll be there." It was the I'll be there that did me in.

Ethan's waiting in the Civic outside Serrano's clinic, passenger-side door already open, paper cup steaming in the console. The window's down; he's drumming on the steering wheel to something that doesn't match the radio. When he spots the VACOped boot squeaking across the asphalt, he kills the music and pops the trunk.

"Got your suitcase," he says, eyeing the boot. "Or is that your foot? Hard to tell."

I roll my eyes but can't stop the twitch of a smile. "Funny."

"I practice in the mirror." He hops out, grabs my crutches from the back seat, and sets them like runway lights. "Permission to escort the talent?"

"Only if the talent can lean on you without crushing your fragile ego."

"My ego can deadlift your whole family. Get in."

He waits while I swing myself inside, then rounds the car, sliding back behind the wheel. When the door shuts, the cabin fills with that safe, hush-pieced silence older cars have, and it smells like espresso and the citrus gum he chews when he's nervous.

After the first intersection he says, "So Jada texted me. Wanted to make sure you're not ghosting therapy."

"I'm not," I mumble. "Just... postponing haunting privileges until I can walk without sounding like a squeaky toy."

Ethan taps the brake, easing us into a turn. "I asked her if she could meet us at the community center instead. She's good with tonight."

Of course he asked. Of course everyone's conspiring to keep me afloat—literally and otherwise—before I can decide if I want to be.

"You okay with that?" he adds, softer.

I keep my gaze glued to the windshield. No, a voice whispers. I want to crawl home and let the cast fossilize. But another voice, smaller and stubborn, says yes. The water's the only place that ever made sense.

I swallow once. "I'll try."

"That's all she wants."

The community-center pool smells like every victory I ever earned and every loss I still taste at three a.m. 

Chlorine claws the back of my throat as I follow Jada—short, no-nonsense, power bun that means business—across the slick blue deck. 

My boot squeaks each time it kisses wet tile. I hate the sound; I hate needing the sound. But I keep moving.

Nathan's already in the bleachers, legs bouncing, stopwatch hanging from his neck even though we're miles from competition season. He sees me and fist-pumps like I've broken a world record just by surviving Tuesday.