The five am alarm is a leftover habit from my swimming days. I'd wake up extra early, make myself some breakfast, and fold the edges of my duvet before practicing some dryland drills. Maybe it's stupid – especially considering the square-sized box that is our shared college dorm – but it's the one part of my high school routine I refuse to give up.

I stand with my feet hip-width apart and begin by shifting my weight to my left leg. With a slow, steady breath, I start with a few low dragon hip circles, lifting my leg as I draw tight circles with my hip. I do a few reps, stretching the muscles before moving to a new stretch.

Beside me, Addy's snoring breaks through any peace. I glance at her bed, taking in her star-shaped position and discarded duvet cover. As an only child who, until this year, has never had to share so much as a bathroom, let alone a bedroom, it's hard to get used to these living arrangements. I'm used to operating on my own schedule, having my room exactly how I want it, not how someone else wants it, but that's what college is for, exposing yourself to new experiences. Or at least, that's what I tell myself.

By the time Addy hits the snooze on her alarm, my pillows are fluffed, my stretches complete, and I'm already heading to the showers. Some would call it crazy to keep up with drills for a sport I no longer participate in, but half of a sport is better than none, even if it's the half without water.

I push open the door to the showers, the only part of my college experience that I am used to. We were required to shower after every swim practice, which means standing in a cubicle amid a row of other cubicles is the most familiar thing about college so far. Turning the faucet, I stand beneath the water and try not to think about the party last Friday, which I've been obsessing about for the entire long weekend. 

Guess that means you owe me, Blue.

Obviously, Noah isn't the empathetic type, which means he'll likely tell the others my secret, and while I doubt they'll make fun of me, I'd rather nobody know. Part of the allure of an out-of-state college is that nobody knows what happened. They weren't subjected to the local headlines, nor were they forced to hone their pitiful looks. College was supposed to be my clean slate, my one chance at figuring out who I am without swimming.

Until Noah Atterwood.

Sighing, I turn off the faucet and wrap my towel around me. Back in my room, I can't help but look at his jacket as I change, which hangs on our shared ottoman. He'd thrown it at me as if it were nothing despite the price tag, and he'd done it to cover me up. Surely a guy who would do something selfless, albeit arrogantly, would not go around blabbing everybody's secrets. In fact, with any luck, he'll have forgotten all about me.

When I'm dressed, I head to the local campus coffee shop and grab our usuals – a black coffee for me, the only thing that would get me through practice – and a mocha for Addy.

I scroll through my phone as I wait, sending a good morning message to my parents before checking my feed. There's a picture of Maisy Leggins, a girl from my old swim team, and she's smiling as she holds up a medal for winning another championship. My heart drops, and I fight back the envy as I hit the like button. Then, even though it's just torture at this point, I search for my name on Google and scan through the countless headlines.

High-School Athlete Swims Her Way to Greatness.

Small-Town Swimmer Beats National Records.

The Future is Bright for Maybury's Star Athlete.

I scroll past the others, freezing when I find what I'm looking for: Rising Star Swimmer Cheats Death: Straight-A Student Every Green Resuscitated After Drunken High-School Party Ends in Disaster.

"Hello?" The barista waves his hand in my face as he grows impatient. "I said your order was ready."

I feel my cheeks burn as I quickly grab our orders. After mumbling a thank you, I hurry to my dorm and try – and fail – to forget about the headlines. Addy is barely awake when I get there but murmurs something unintelligible as I pass over the mocha. She takes a long sip, sighing a little as she attempts to flatten her curls.

"I swear to god," she says, "if I see Jesse today, he will face the full force of my wrath."

Apparently, when I'd gone to get water after my near-drowning incident, she'd gotten into an argument with Jesse, who – despite their no-strings-attached agreement – had grown jealous at seeing her with Pax and said some mean things. The pair are ignoring each other, so avoiding Noah and the rest of the Calbears has been relatively easy, until now.

"Oh," she says and turns to me with a mocha mustache, "and we are so going to Cabo in the break."

"I thought you said–"

"That was to make Jesse sad," she says. "Now it'll be to make him jealous."

I'd laugh if not for the panic. It was hard enough avoiding the water at the party – how will I fare in Mexico? "I'm not sure yet. I'll have to see if I can get a job first." While money is an issue, it's not the real reason I'm stalling. Half of me hopes that somewhere between now and the break, a miracle will happen and I'll learn to swim again. 

"Well, I can always pay, and you can pay me back." She downs the rest of her mocha and sighs before grabbing her things to shower. "I'll be ten minutes, tops."

I sit on my bed, spending the next fifteen minutes in planning mode. Mom bought me an Ipad before college started to help me stay organized, and now I use it religiously. After checking my schedule, I log into the Berkeley student app and scroll through the list of clubs until I find what I'm looking for. Then I pause and hold my breath. Swim tryouts start next month for one of the local swim teams, and while it's not the same thing as college swimming, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

Not that I'd be ready in time. I can't even think about the water without getting all clammy, so on what planet would I be able to smash tryouts? But sometimes it's nice to dream. 

Sighing, I put down my phone and bite my lip at the thought of heading to class in a few minutes; it's the one Noah is in. When Addy finally returns – she's not exactly what you'd call a timekeeper – she takes my arm, and we walk through campus together. 

Something about walking through campus excites me. The place looks exactly as it had in the pictures, from the sprawling gardens to the old clock tower that chimes on the hour. I take it all in, my inner nerd rejoicing at the sight of people studying on the grass. In high school, it always felt like learning was tolerated. Here, it's celebrated.

The clang of the clock towers indicates it's time for class. Addy drops me outside of my lecture hall, tells me she'll meet me after, and flounces down the path. My heart rate amps up at the thought of seeing Noah, but deep down, I'm being ridiculous. Noah is a notorious womanizer, focused on a different girl every night; there's no way he'll remember me.

As soon as I walk into the lecture hall, I scan for an empty seat. The place is packed thanks to Addy's late wake-up, so there are only a few seats to choose from. I spot one in the row closest, about to head over when I do a double-take; it's the seat right next to Noah. I'm about to slink past him when he turns his head, catches my eye, and points to the vacant seat. Keep going, I think. He thinks I'm someone else. But I barely move two steps when he calls, "Blue."

A few students stare as I half-turn around. There Noah sits in all his god-like glory, looking like he just rolled off a shoot, which is ridiculous considering he'd have been up even earlier than I was for practice. His eyebrow is arched, and he studies my face with that same playful glint from the party.

"Are you pretending like you didn't see me?" His blue eyes twinkle as if he enjoys my discomfort. "'Cause that's the type of thing that hurts my feelings."

Based on the rumors, I'm pretty sure he doesn't have feelings. Or if he does, he buries them low – hell's surface-level low. "I prefer to sit at the front," I say, but as I scan the lecture hall, I see very few seats available at the front, and the ones that are free require pushing past several people to get to them, something I hate doing.

"You're running out of options here, Blue."

I clutch my Ipad, cursing Addy's name for making me so late, and drop into the seat beside him. He grins like he's just won a prize in the Claw Machine, making me want to kick him. I settle my things down, intent on ignoring his dominating presence, but he's making it impossible. With a drop of his shoulder, his thick, tanned arm ends up pressed against mine.

As the last few stragglers settle in, Noah looks over. If I liked him, which I categorically don't, this small, charming look might be enough to make my heart trip. "What do you want?" I ask.

A grin stretches across his face as he watches me. "What makes you think I want something?"

I scoff. "Everyone wants something."

He leans back a little, lacing his hands behind his head. Everything about him is so effortless and casual that, for a second, I can't help but imagine what it must feel like to breeze through life getting anything and everything you want. "Pretty cynical of you," he says. "What if I find you interesting?"

"You find anything with a heartbeat and a pair of breasts interesting," I say.

For better or worse, the seminar starts before Noah answers. Mr. Walter takes his position at the podium to start the session, so I grab my Ipad pen, determined to ignore the solid presence next to me.

"I've been thinking about your predicament," Noah says and hits me with that look. "I want to help you to swim."

I splutter out, "What?" so loud that Mr. Walter looks over and glares. I fold in my seat, then risk another look at Noah, who's fighting to suppress his smirk. I don't know what's worse, that Noah has spent the weekend thinking about me or that he thinks I'm in a predicament. "Why?"

He shrugs as if this idea occurred right out of the blue, but I know better. Guys like Noah don't just offer to help out of the goodness of their hearts: they always want something in return. "I saw your face before Pax pulled you into the water. You miss it, don't you?"

It doesn't take a genius to realize he's talking about swimming. I'm about to ignore him – this is the last thing I want to be talking about – but then he looks over, and for the first time, I swear he looks sincere. As a fellow swimmer, he understands better than anyone.

I force myself to look away, afraid he'll see that I'm drowning. "I can't get in the water without having a panic attack, which means there's no way I'm swimming in public ever again."

He doesn't say anything, for which I am grateful. I turn to the front, determined to focus on Mr. Walter's class, but in my head, I'm somewhere else entirely. I picture my body as it cuts through the water, each movement as fluid as breathing. I loved everything about it, from the cool water on my skin to the adrenaline rush from holding my breath for too long. My coach loved to say that swimmers aren't born, they are made, but he's wrong. Some things in life are decided at birth, and me being a swimmer was one of them.

Throat tight, I continue to make notes before risking a glance at Noah. He looks deep in thought as he types up his notes, but he's struggling to keep up. When I peer over his shoulder, half of his writing is a red-underlined jumble of nonsensical sentences. He glances over, taking in my perfectly color-coded notes, and frowns. I return to my notes and continue to ignore him successfully.

At the end of the seminar, I dart from my seat like the thing is on fire and amble down the path. Noah catches up with me easily, his long strides falling into step with mine. "To some people, this is considered stalking," I say.

He has the audacity to look insulted. "You think I need to stalk women? 'Cause I've got news for you."

I make a sharp turn, hoping it might throw him off my trail, but no such luck. "Look," he says, "I feel bad about what happened at the party, and I'm trying to make it up to you. That's it."

Sighing, I say, "Even if I wanted your help, which I can't stress enough that I do not, I already told you – I'm never swimming in public."

He doesn't miss a beat as we round another corner. "My apartment has access to a rooftop pool."

"Of course it does."

He grins at my obvious disdain. "No one uses it except me."

I stop in my tracks to look at him. For the briefest of seconds, I search his face, starting with those piercing eyes, following the straight, narrow bridge of his nose before falling on his lips, which are perfectly even and forever on the verge of a grin.

He's reeled me in, and he knows it. Part of the reason I hadn't gotten back in the pool after the accident was the thought of having a panic attack in front of someone, and now Noah Atterwood, of all people, is serving up exactly what I need on a plate.

"You can use it," he says before holding his hands up, "no strings."

"There are always strings," I say, "even when you can't see them." The question is, are Noah's strings worth the chance at swimming again?

My brain wracks itself with a thousand what ifs. What if I no longer had to be afraid anymore? What if I could join the swim team? Turning to Noah, I raise my gaze until it's firmly on his, wishing I could know what his plans are.

"I don't believe for a second that you don't expect anything in return," I say, "so–" I take a deep breath, remembering what Jesse had said about Noah needing a tutor, "–I'll give you my class notes in exchange for your pool."

The corner of his lip lifts. "Your class notes?"

"Yes," I say, ignoring the amusement in his eyes, "there's no way you're getting through this class alone, so I'll help with your notes. That way, we're even. I won't owe you sexual favors or whatever you're after."

"I don't expect sexual favors," he says, dropping his gaze, "but if you're offering–"

I shove his chest, but it's solid like concrete and doesn't move an inch. "I mean it," I say. "My notes are the only thing you're getting from me."

He steps forward, his grin so wide that all I can see are dimples and perfect white teeth. "You've got yourself a deal, Blue."

A/N

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