“Yes,” I say, wanting to stomp my feet at his obnoxiousness. “That rotten sneak.”

“Yeah….” Shannen’s voice sounds kind of dreamy. “Rotten.”

“Come on.” I grab my backpack and set off toward Shannen’s car. “Let’s get to the meet.”

“This is certainly going to be an interesting week,” she says, unlocking her car with the remote.

We both fling our bags into the backseat and then climb into the front. Too bad she can never know just how interesting.

Watching Brody swim the butterfly is like watching music in motion. One strong pull through the water. Head lifting for a deep breath. Arms flying forward in tandem. Diving ahead with a powerful kick.

I could watch him swim forever.

I laugh at the thought that, once I get this thing with Quince taken care of and I make things work with Brody, hopefully I will be watching him swim forever.

“What’s so funny, princess?”

My moment of bliss vanishes. My spine stiffens and my jaw clenches.

Not only did Quince show up at the meet, but he’s sitting right behind me on the bleachers. The hair on the back of my neck keeps standing up every time I sense his movement. Like I expect him to grab me or kiss my neck or something.

“Nothing,” I grind out. I glance at the scoreboard to get Brody’s fifty-yard split. Quickly jotting the time into the record book, I return my attention to the pool.

Brody has the lead by at least a body length. Of course, Brody always has the lead. In my three years as team manager, I’ve never seen him lose a race. Even at the state meet.

Shannen leans in close from my left and whispers, “Courtney at three o’clock.”

Setting my feet on the bleacher in front of me, I twist my head to the right and see Brody’s ex settle in with her groupies a few feet down from us. Why is she here? She and Brody broke up. She shouldn’t be anywhere near the swim team.

As Brody makes his final turn in the race, Courtney jumps to her feet and cheers. “Go, Brody!”

She’s not the only one, of course. Everyone in the stands is now yelling every time he takes a breath. Shouting, “Go! Go! Go!” whenever there’s a chance he might hear them.

Still, I’m surprised that Courtney is cheering him on.

“Looks like she isn’t ready to let her man go,” Quince says, not bothering to whisper.

I throw him a scowl. Then I remember that I’m pretending he’s not here, and I focus on the race. Brody touches the wall first. When his time flashes on the scoreboard, I pencil it into the record book. Flipping to the page with his best times, I compare his latest result. It’s his fastest 100 fly by two-tenths of a second. At this rate he’s liable to shatter the state record.

I don’t have time to thrill at his success, because the 500 free race is about to start. I check the roster against the lanes to confirm that our racers are in lanes two and seven. They climb onto the blocks, our coach lifts the starting buzzer, and then the blaring horn echoes through the natatorium—why do humans need such a long word for an indoor pool?—and the racers take off.

I’m making notes about Jeff Fetzer’s slow start when I sense someone standing in front of me.

I look up to see Brody, chlorinated water dripping from his dark curls and a towel wrapped around his waist, smiling expectantly at me. The smell of chlorine makes me nauseous—it’s toxic but not fatal to merfolk, so I try to keep my distance from pool water—but I can handle a little tummy ache for Brody.

“So?”

I beam. “Your best time. By two-tenths.”

“Awesome,” Brody replies with a bigger grin, still panting from the race. Butterfly is the most exhausting of all the strokes. I tried swimming it in my terraped form once and nearly drowned. Well, figuratively. Anyway, his chest is still rising and falling with each labored breath, and his cheeks are red with the increased blood flow. It will take Brody several minutes for his vitals to return to normal. And I will enjoy watching every second of his recovery.

His attention shifts over my shoulder, and my blood chills. He sees Quince at my back. This is a major moment. Since I came up with the jealousy cover story for Shannen, the idea has been growing on me. If I’m stuck with Quince, I might as well try to get something out of it. I’m about to find out if it’s going to work. What will Brody’s reaction be to seeing Quince with me? Will he be happy for me? (Bad.) Or ambivalent? (Also not good.) If I’m lucky, he’ll be angry or arrogant or possessive. (All signs of potential jealousy—aka very, very good.)

He doesn’t get a chance to react before the blowfish says, “Nice swim, Bennett.”

Brody smiles, apparently not as confused as I am by Quince’s compliment. “Thanks.”

Then, before I can consider what’s going on, I feel Quince’s leather-jacket-less arms, bare up to the muscle-hugging sleeves of his tee, wrap around my chest and shoulders. On instinct, my hands grab at his forearm, ready to pull him off, when he says, “You’re lucky I’m not the jealous type, for all the attention Lily spends on you and the team.”

I can feel the smile in Quince’s voice, but also the knife’s-edge undertone. He’s warning Brody off.

“Quince—” I start to argue, but Brody cuts me off.

“Lil’s a great manager,” he says with an overly friendly grin. Then his eyes flick to me, and there is something…appraising in his look. Like he’s seeing me in a new way. “We’re lucky to have her.”