6:45 AM at Lakefield University's Ryland Outdoor Pool

The sun hadn't bothered to show up yet; just a dull gray sky hanging over the steam-covered water. Late August in Chicago was already flirting with fall, and the early chill hit harder than it should. Most students were still asleep, but not the men's swim team. Not today. And not under Jason Reed.

They'd keep using the outdoor pool until the university forced them to close it for the season. Coach Hartley was out of town at a conference in Cincinnati, leaving Jason in charge - unofficially, but everyone knew who was calling the shots. He stood near the edge of the pool in his navy-blue jammers, wet from testing the water earlier. His arms crossed tight against his chest, muscles tensed in the cold. A black whistle dangled from a silver flyte lanyard around his neck, bouncing slightly with each step. No cap or goggles yet, just bedhead curls still slightly damp from the pre-practice rinse.

Jason had already lined out the sets in Coach's notebook: dryland warm-ups, two 400s, stroke drills by lane group, sprints to finish. Standard, nothing soft. He wasn't here to hold hands.

"Start getting in," he called out, voice low but sharp. "One lap loose, then straight into 400s."

The team spread out, block numbers lit up. There was laughter, trash talk, a few cannonball splashes. They were looser with him than with Coach, and he let it slide. They needed to loosen up. Not everything had to be yelling.

Lane 7 remained empty. No one touched it. Not even when Coach was gone.

Then wet footsteps slapping tile. Fast.

He didn't need to look. He already knew.

You, the only girl on the men's team, racing toward the blocks with a bag slung half open and your cap in your hand. You wore regulation tech suit bottoms and a tight-cut navy racerback - functional, meant for performance, not attention - but it didn't matter. Guys still looked, especially those unused to seeing girls train like this.

You were rushing, nearly slipping on the wet tile as you tried to yank your cap over your damp hair, half-wrestling it with your fingers. Your breathing was uneven, from running and maybe panic.

Jason finally turned, jaw tight. His eyes locked with yours, then flicked toward the big red pool deck clock.

6:45.

He didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.

"You're late. We started 30 minutes ago." His tone cut through the morning air like a blade. Cold. Flat. The whistle bounced against his chest as he shifted his stance. You were out of breath, still struggling with your cap like a freshman who didn't know better. He'd waited. Ten minutes, maybe more. Not that he'd tell you that.

But girls were always like this; emotional, disorganized, thinking showing up was enough. This wasn't high school or summer league. It was Lakefield.