Chapter 7

Easton
Thursday, February 8th, 2024

By third period, the school has decided we’re a fucking soap opera.

I don’t even hear the rumors start. I feel them. Whispers snapping shut when I walk past. People glancing between me and Santiago like we’re exhibits. Someone actually says “Rivers” under their breath like it’s a headline.

Vivian texts me from across the building.

Vivian: you’re trending
Me: kill me
Vivian: too late. track + swim drama. everyone knows.

Fantastic.

I slam my locker shut harder than necessary. The guy next to me flinches.

“Rough morning?” he asks.

“Mind your business.”

He nods immediately. Smart.

By lunch, it’s worse.

“They’re saying you’re washed,” someone laughs from a table behind me.

I freeze.

Cecilia looks up from her fries. “Who said that.”

“Relax,” I mutter, though my jaw tightens. “They can say whatever.”

But here’s the thing: rumors only work when there’s something to chew on.

And Santiago Acres just handed them a fucking buffet.

Swimming practice is last period.

I’ve been waiting for it all day.

The pool smells like chlorine and echoing arrogance. Banners line the walls. Records carved into plaques. Half of them have my name. The other half—

“Top times today,” Coach announces, clapping once. “Let’s go.”

I stretch at the edge of the pool, shoulders loose, eyes scanning lanes.

Santiago’s already in the water.

Of course he is.

Dark hair slicked back, goggles on, moving like the pool was built for him. I tell myself not to watch.

I watch.

Warm-ups end. Coach checks his stopwatch.

“Hundred free first.”

My stomach settles into that familiar coil. This is mine. It has been mine.

We line up.

Whistle.

We dive.

The water explodes around me, cold and sharp, my body snapping into rhythm. Stroke after stroke, pull, breathe, kick. I’m fast. I know I am. I hit the wall hard, flip clean, push off—

And still—

He’s ahead.

Not by much.

Enough.

We finish.

Coach calls it.

“Acres first. Rivers second.”

The pool goes quiet.

Someone actually whistles.

I don’t react. I don’t say a word. I grip the edge, chest burning, teeth clenched.

“Two hundred free,” Coach calls.

I tell myself it was a fluke.

We line up again.

This time I push harder. Everything hurts. My arms feel like lead. My lungs scream. I don’t look at him. I don’t think.

It doesn’t matter.

Santiago touches the wall first.

Again.

Coach doesn’t even hesitate this time. “Fastest swimmer today—Santiago Acres. Both the hundred and the two.”

There it is.

The thing everyone’s gonna talk about.

I pull my goggles off slowly, water dripping down my face, mixing with something hot and humiliating in my chest. I don’t look at him.

I don’t need to.

I can hear it already.

“He beat Rivers.”
“In both.”
“Track and swim? That’s crazy.”
“Did Rivers fall off?”

I hate that part of me that wants to look. That needs to confirm he’s real.

When I finally glance over, Santiago’s leaning against the lane rope, breathing hard, eyes bright, like winning in the water lit something up in him that track didn’t.

He meets my gaze.

No smirk.

No comment.

That somehow makes it worse.

The hallway afterward is brutal.

People don’t whisper anymore.

“Did you hear—”
“He lost again.”
“Santiago’s insane.”

Someone bumps my shoulder. “You good, Rivers?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Liar.

By the time I get home, Dad’s already heard.

“Tough day?” he asks carefully.

I drop my bag by the door. “I’ll get it back.”

He nods like he believes me.

Upstairs, I sit on my bed, staring at my hands like they betrayed me. Track win. Swim loss. Again and again. Back to back. Like the universe is laughing.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown number.

Unknown: pool was yours last season
Unknown: don’t let it get in your head

I stare at the screen.

I don’t need to ask.

Me: don’t text me
Me: this isn’t a truce

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

I toss my phone onto the bed and lean back, staring at the ceiling.

The rumors can talk. The medals can sit. The records can change.

But one thing is painfully clear now:

Santiago Acres didn’t just beat me.

He made it personal.

And I’m not done.