@puglover91:
That’s not a stash. That’s her room.
@goatlover24:
I think I’ve been robbed by an animal with hooves.
@goldenboymom:
Leave the pile alone. You don’t want to escalate.
@goatlover24:
I am afraid you’re right.
EPILOGUE
TALON
Two months later
The whistle blew sharp and final, echoing through the Wilson Center. One by one, the swimmers pulled themselves out of the water, dripping and panting, hands braced on their knees as they tried to catch their breath.
“Good set,” I called, raising my voice just enough to carry. “Hit the showers and then stretch after.”
There was a chorus of groans and laughter—half exhausted, half relieved—and then they scattered, towels slung around shoulders, chatter bouncing off the walls. I jotted a quick note on the clipboard and tucked the stopwatch into the pocket of my bag.
Being an assistant to Coach Saunders felt good. Different than winning, but good.
A year ago, I never would’ve believed this would be my life. Back then, everything had funneled toward onegoal: make it onto the Olympic team. Win. Prove myself. And I had. I’d stood on the blocks with the best in the world, swum the races I’d been dreaming of since I was a kid, come home with memories and hardware I’d thought would define me.
But the truth? It wasn’t the medals that stuck. It was this—the look on a swimmer’s face when they hit a personal best, when they realized all the early mornings and sore muscles had actually meant something.
I’d thought being done with competition would feel like an ending. Turns out, it was just the start of something else, something new.
I turned toward the stands. “Ready?”
Livvi was curled up in one of the faded blue seats halfway up, her legs tucked under her, my finished manuscript balanced in her hands. She had a way of disappearing into a book, but when her eyes lifted and found mine, it was like she’d been waiting for me all along. Her smile warmed everything inside me in a way medals never had.
She’d graduated a few months ago, but instead of rushing headlong into some career just for the paycheck or success, she was giving herself the space to look into things that lit her up. Opportunities that mattered to her. Not for money, not for prestige—just for fulfillment. Watching her chase joy on her own terms was somehow even more inspiring than watching her study late nights at the library.
“Yeah.” She closed the manuscript I’d be sending out soon, once it had her stamp of approval.
I shouldered my bag. “Let’s get out of here.”
We walked the familiar route back to my apartment, the late September air still warm, carrying the smell of cut grass. Our strides matched easily, and I reached for her hand because it was instinct now. Because not touching her felt wrong.
She tipped her face toward me. “You looked like you were in your element back there.”
I huffed a laugh. “Maybe I was.”
“And how does that feel? After all the”—she gestured vaguely—“Olympics chaos?”
“Quieter,” I admitted. “Better, in a way.”
She squeezed my hand but didn’t press, just walked with me until we reached the apartment.
The second we stepped inside, Sapphire’s tank light clicked on with a soft hum, and the little blue tang darted forward like she’d been waiting to greet us.