Vitamins for Bull

Marcus's palms were sweating. Again. He wiped them on his jeans, leaving dark streaks on the denim. The swimming tryouts were in twenty minutes, and his stomach was doing backflips.

"You good, bro?" Carlos asked, fiddling with his phone.

"Yeah. Just nervous."

"Bruh, you've been swimming since you were five. You got this."

Marcus wished he had Carlos's confidence. They'd been friends since freshman year, back when Marcus's dog, Buster, had escaped and Carlos had helped chase him down for three blocks. Now they were juniors, and somehow Carlos had morphed into the kind of guy who made everything look effortless.

The real problem wasn't the swimming. It was Tyler—aka "The Bull." Tyler had been terrorizing the school's social hierarchy since middle school, built like a tank with a personality to match. He'd already made it clear he thought Marcus was trying too hard.

"Marcus!" His mom's voice echoed through his backpack speaker—she'd somehow enabled his Bluetooth again. "Did you take your vitamins? The B-complex ones? You can't swim if you're deficient, honey!"

"Yes, Mom," he muttered, while Carlos snorted into his protein shake.

The locker room smelled like chlorine and cheap body spray. Tyler was already there, shirtless, stretching his arms like he owned the place. His back was covered in what looked like a massive bruise, but when Marcus looked closer, he realized it was a tattoo of a bull skull, freshly inked and angry-looking.

"You gonna stare all day, new guy?" Tyler cracked his knuckles.

Marcus's heart hammered. He'd rehearsed this moment a thousand times. Saying something cool. Walking away. Anything but standing there like a target.

"Nice ink," he heard himself say. "Did it hurt?"

Tyler blinked, surprised. "Yeah. Worst than getting my nose broken last year."

"That's why you missed the state meet?"

Tyler actually smiled. It was creepy. "You followed my stats?"

"You're fast. Everyone knows that."

The whistle blew. Coach Miller paced along the pool deck. "Alright, gentlemen. Two laps, freestyle. Your time determines your lane assignment for the season. Go."

Marcus dove in. The water was shocking and familiar all at once. His arms cut through the surface, his legs kicked in rhythm, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. No Tyler. No vitamins. No expectations. Just him and the water.

He touched the wall and looked up at the board. 58.3.

"Not bad," Tyler said, breathing hard beside him. His timer read 56.1.

"You're still faster."

"For now." Tyler stretched his shoulders, wincing at the fresh ink. "Hey, you want to grab food after? My treat."

Marcus's palms were sweating again, but this time it wasn't from nerves. "Yeah. Sure."

Maybe high school wasn't quite as simple as good guys versus bull after all.