The next morning, the pool is empty when Rory arrives. Yes! His are the only footsteps that echo softly off the tiles. His is the only towel on the starting block. Maybe he managed to get his point through Chase’s thick skull after all.
But halfway through his warm-up lap, he hears the familiar splash of another person entering the pool and pulls up short in mid-stroke. “What the f**k?” he mutters, pushing his goggles up on top of his cap.
Amid a wash of white-capped waves, Chase surfaces in the lane beside Rory. “Race ya,” he says, grinning.
“Not interested.” Rory starts to swim away.
Chase calls after him. “Afraid I’ll win?”
A foreboding chill trickles down Rory’s spine. “What did you say?”
“I finally figured out why you don’t like me,” Chase says, a hint of challenge in his voice.
