11 Pending Hugs

Sara tapped her notepad mindlessly, her gaze locked on the swimming pool. The air smelled of chlorine, and the rhythmic splashes of water filled the indoor facility as athletes trained relentlessly for the upcoming national competition.

"Sara!"

The manager's sharp voice cut through her daze, but she didn't react until he stepped directly in front of her, blocking her view.

She blinked up at him. "Huh?"

"Mark's been in the pool for too long. He's exhausted. If you don't pull him out now, he might collapse—and that'll be on you."

His tone was serious, and it took a second for Sara to register the weight of his words. Her eyes darted to the pool. Mark—the swimmer she'd been coaching for the past week—was still powering through his laps. He was one of the newest prodigies under her wing, an athlete with raw, undeniable talent. His parents were adamant about him pursuing a professional swimming career, and with several national titles already under his belt, he was now pushing toward international competitions, aiming for Olympic trials.

Realization hit, and guilt crept up her spine.

"Oh, crap," she muttered before shooting to her feet. She grabbed the whistle around her neck and blew into it sharply.

A moment later, Mark reached the pool's edge and hauled himself out of the water. Droplets cascaded down his lean, toned frame as he pulled off his goggles and swim cap, revealing damp, dirty blond hair and piercing green eyes. His breathing was heavy, chest rising and falling as he turned toward her.

Then, the exhaustion hit.

The moment he stepped onto the deck, his legs buckled slightly, and he caught himself at the last second. He tried to play it off, rolling his shoulders, but Sara wasn't fooled. She grabbed a towel and a bottle of ORS before walking over.

"Here." She draped the towel around his shoulders and held out the bottle.

Mark didn't take it right away. His jaw tensed as he stared at her, then snatched the bottle with a quiet scoff.

"I'm not tired," he muttered. "I only have fifteen laps left. I would've finished if you hadn't stopped me."

Sara exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together. His stubbornness wasn't new.

"You've overworked yourself," she said, crossing her arms.

Mark ignored her, walking toward the chairs. He dropped into one, unscrewed the ORS bottle, and took a long gulp, replenishing his lost electrolytes.

"Why don't you just sit back and zone out like you did earlier?" His tone was sharp, his green eyes flashing with irritation. "I don't need your help. My father just pushed you onto me."

Sara clenched her jaw but refused to react emotionally. Instead, she took a slow breath before stepping in front of him.

"You don't need my help?" she echoed, tilting her head. "Alright, let's test that."

Mark shot her an unimpressed look, but she didn't back down. She leaned slightly forward, voice cool and measured.

"I know I got distracted, but that doesn't mean I wasn't paying attention. Your butterfly stroke is sloppy."

That got his attention. His expression stiffened, clearly not expecting criticism.

"Excuse me?" He scoffed, placing a hand on her notepad—the same one she had been tapping earlier. Scrawled across the top were scribbled notes: '12 pending hugs for proper growth.'

Sara ignored it. "Your arm recovery is too wide. You're throwing your arms out instead of keeping them closer to the water's surface. That's costing you time and energy. The wider your arms, the harder you have to work to pull them back in—hence why you're burning out so fast."

Mark's fingers twitched slightly, but he said nothing.

"And your kick," she continued. "You're relying too much on your upper body to propel you forward. Your dolphin kick is weak because you're bending your knees too much instead of generating power from your hips. That's why your speed dips after every three strokes."

She watched as his grip on the bottle tightened.

"And let's not even talk about your breathing technique." She raised an eyebrow. "You're lifting your head too high when you inhale. That's throwing off your rhythm, breaking your stroke, and killing your momentum."

Mark's jaw flexed. He hated being called out, but he hated being wrong even more.

"Are you done?" he asked, voice clipped.

"That depends," Sara said, arching a brow. "Are you ready to listen?"

Silence.

Mark exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his damp hair. He didn't like admitting it, but she was right. He had been feeling the strain in his strokes lately but hadn't been able to pinpoint the problem—until now.

Sara smirked slightly. "You want to train? Fine. Get back in the pool and fix those mistakes. Or keep ignoring me and keep losing seconds off your time. Your choice, Mark."

Mark scowled and grabbed his swim cap. "Tch. Fine—"

"Not now," Sara interrupted, reaching out and touching his arm, trying to push him back onto the chair.

The reaction was instant.

Mark flinched, his Adam's apple bobbing as his eyes flickered to where her hand touched his skin. His muscles tensed beneath her fingertips.

Sara quickly withdrew her hand and crossed her arms. "Sit down and let your muscles recover. You abruptly stopped training, so you're going to feel sore soon."

Mark stared at her for a beat before exhaling harshly and dropping back into the chair. He leaned his head against it, still visibly tense.

"Close your eyes," she instructed. "Take slow, deep breaths."

Mark shot her a sidelong glance, his jaw still tight. But after a long pause, he leaned back and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Silence settled between them.

Sara turned her gaze back toward the pool, watching as other swimmers sliced through the water. This time, she wasn't zoning out—she was thinking. Watching.

And she was making sure Mark wouldn't push himself past his limits again.

"Have you had lunch yet?"

Sara finally asked, her stomach twisting in hunger.

Mark's eyes snapped open. He turned his head slightly, looking at her through the corner of his eye but saying nothing.

"I'm just asking because I was headed to grab something, and since you're done for the day, I figured you might want lunch too," she added casually.

Still no response.

"If you don't want to, just say it directly," she scoffed. "You don't have to drill holes into my skull with your stare."

She turned away, but just as she did, Mark's eyes widened, and he quickly averted his gaze, covering the lower half of his face with his hand.

"I didn't say no," he muttered.

Sara paused, her lips curling slightly.

"Oh." She tilted her head. "Alright, then. Get up—I'll take you to a great spot. They sell some damn good sushi. You like sushi, right? Or do you want something else?"

Mark still didn't look up. He kept his head down, fingers pressing against his lips as if he were physically holding something back.

"Sushi is fine," he finally said.

"Good. Now hurry up and get dressed—"

Her words cut off with a sharp gasp.

Her foot slid.

Too late, she realized the water Mark had trailed from the pool was still fresh on the tile. And she—wearing slippery flip-flops—had stepped right into it.

Her leg shot forward, the sandal flying straight into the pool with a splash. Her arms flailed wildly as she lost balance, her body tilting backward at a dangerous speed.

"Shit—!"

Before she could hit the ground, strong hands caught her.

Mark had shot up in an instant, his grip firm as he steadied her against his chest.

Sara's breath hitched.

Blue eyes locked onto deep green.

The heat between them was sudden, suffocating. His body was still damp, his skin flushed from the workout—but as the seconds stretched, the color in his face deepened into something else entirely.

Realizing just how close they were, Sara's face burned. Too close. Too warm. Too much.

"I—I'm so sorry!" she stammered, voice slightly higher than normal.

Mark's hands twitched before he abruptly set her upright, letting go as if she were scorching hot.

Then, without a word, he turned his back to her.

Sara swallowed hard, her pulse a chaotic mess.

What the hell was that?

She clenched her fists, trying to shake off the odd, lingering warmth in her chest.

One thing was for sure.

Lunch was going to be very awkward.