Lightning in the Lane

Marcus hated **swimming** practice. Like, *hated* it with the passion of a thousand failed TikTok dances. But there he was, laps deep in the chlorinated abyss of Miller High's pool, because apparently his dad thought "building character" meant enduring daily drowning simulations.

"Bro, you're literally doing the same stroke as yesterday," called Tyrell from the adjacent lane, effortlessly slicing through water like he was part fish. Marcus's former **friend** turned teammate had been distancing himself since Marcus made varsity—something about favoritism and "you only got in because your uncle knows the coach."

Marcus adjusted his **hat** before practice, the brim hiding eyes that hadn't slept properly since his parents started having Those Conversations again. The capital kind. The kind that meant bedrooms might get rearranged and childhood homes might become weekend-visit situations.

"Focus, Lawson!" Coach bellowed from the deck. Marcus ducked his head, fighting the burn of chlorine in his nose, when suddenly—

—CRACK.

**Lightning** shattered the sky outside the pool's massive windows, illuminating everything in stark electric blue. The overhead lights flickered and died, plunging them into sudden darkness punctuated by the collective screaming of three dozen teenagers.

"Everyone out! NOW!" Coach's voice cut through the chaos.

In the locker room's dim emergency lighting, Marcus found himself beside Tyrell, who was—unbelievably—laughing. Not his usual practiced cool-guy chuckle, but one of those real, ugly laughs that escape when something's just too ridiculous.

"Did you see Miller's face when the lights went out?" Tyrell wiped water from his eyes. "He looked like he'd rather wrestle a shark than deal with this."

Marcus cracked up too. "He definitely keeps a hair gel stash in his office. Priorities."

They sat there, dripping and awkward, until Tyrell sighed. "Look, about the friend thing. I was being salty. My bad."

"Yeah, well." Marcus shrugged. "Your uncle doesn't know Coach either."

"Touché."

Later, suspended in the pool's deep end during free practice, Marcus had a moment that felt almost cosmic. Suspended weightless, watching his legs drift like lazy tails, he thought about the **goldfish** his sister won at the carnival last summer. It died two weeks later, but she'd named it Neptune and given it a viking funeral in the toilet, complete with paper boat and eulogy. Sometimes the most insignificant things end up mattering.

Maybe this whole year felt like that goldfish bowl—small and contained and terrifyingly fragile. But then lightning struck, literally and metaphorically, and suddenly you're laughing in the dark with someone you thought you'd lost.

Marcus pushed off the wall, slicing through the water with something that felt almost like grace. Not perfect. Not tomorrow's varsity final time. But real. And honestly? That felt like winning.