Chapter 3

He wiped water from his face with that annoyingly perfect smile that could probably make a statue blush. "Careful, Winter. Next week at the tournament, you'd better watch your back. I'm coming for you—never lost a race in my life."

He flexed like we were backstage at a bodybuilding contest, and even though I saw the silliness of it, I couldn't help but feel a wave of annoyance. For someone effortlessly stunning, he was surprisingly obsessed with my losing. Old-school high school vibe, right? 

I narrowed my gaze, holding back the sarcasm bubbling just beneath the surface. "Oh, come on, Paul. Do you think everyone actually believes the trophy is up for grabs? That'll be my name engraved on it in glorious gold, while you sit there, your biggest fan club gathered around you, crying for the glory of your perfectly sculpted abs."

The splashes clearly proved my point, and with a flick of my wrist, I sent another wave crashing over him, enjoying his surprised expression before he recoiled, laughing. The playful tension between us floated like warmth in the spring sun—appearing friendly but tinged with a hidden undertone of competitive anger.

"Nice try, Bloody Belly, but I'll win for sure."

He pushed off the edge of the pool and dove into the water, the lines of his muscular back vanishing as he glided below the surface. It didn't take long for him to reappear at the opposite end, moving with the speed and precision of a dolphin, as if this was a party he was born into. Flipping back over, he surfaced from the water, shimmering with droplets that caught the light like jeweled ornaments against his tanned skin.

Shrugging off the competitive irritation that swirled in my chest, I couldn't help but grumble, "You know, just because you've never lost doesn't mean it isn't possible, right? Bet you haven't even hit the bottom of a pool yet."

His eyes sparkled like the water's surface in the sun—each glance a challenge, each moment a contest. "I'll take that bet, Bloodybelly." He smirked, diving back in, kicking up a whirlwind of bubbles as he vanished into the depths once more. The guy had this relentless drive that could either inspire admiration or give a headache; I hadn't quite decided yet.

But there I was, faced with a choice: join the chatter of the swim team or retreat into my bubble, the warm world fading away around me. The familiarity of the pool, the repetition of strokes, and the way the water cradled me felt like an identity, no matter who was in the lanes around me.

As I completed a few more laps, my mind wandered. I didn't bother to confront Paul Johnston or let him become the focus of my world—despite how he tried to make himself seem that way with each comment. I wasn't here to defeat my enemies or to get along with random teammates seeking fame; this was my refuge.

If we were two snowflakes drifting in the icy abyss, I knew I'd melt into the water, while he danced above, hoping to draw attention. And if my existence remained an icy shadow in the overwhelming light of his winter, then at least being a comb jelly gave me some tangy edge—on a good day, anyway.