A close race

The whistle blew, and Simon splashed into the pool with all the **** and coordination of a falling lawn chair. Glenn winced.

One lap in, Simon was already winded. His strokes were wide, inefficient, and by the time he reached the other end, he was gasping.

He dragged himself up, slapped Glenn’s arm, and wheezed, “Go.”

Glenn dove in.

The cold water hit like a slap, but once submerged, something shifted. The bikini bottom, as ridiculous as it felt, hugged his legs tighter than any swim trunks he’d ever worn. No drag, no ballooning fabric. For once, his slight frame worked in his favor. He cut through the water like a fish—light, fast, and smooth.

Lap two. Three. Four. Five.

He tagged out, panting but still moving strong.

When he emerged from the water, Glenn noticed something surprising—people weren’t laughing. They were watching. Some were even impressed. From dead last, they’d climbed to fourth.