A/N: Firstly, I hope everyone enjoyed the amazing swimming on display over the weekend-and are otherwise soaking up the daily awesomeness of these Games! Four days isn't quite back-to-back, but it's not terrible, right? Maybe? If you're enjoying things (or not), please let me know in that magic box down at the end of the chapter. Huge thank you to anyone who's fav'd/followed/reviewed so far! You're all amazing, truly. I mean that. Oh! And speaking of, to guest: I'm sorry about the teasing (well, actually, I'm not) but rest assured that at some point in the near-ish future Naomi will appear in our little tale. I mean reappear. Just because her name wasn't mentioned doesn't mean she hasn't shown up already! And in answer to Irma's question, I've known some shorter swimmers who were very successful, but generally having a longer reach can help greatly. More of a plus than a prerequisite I feel. Cheers!

Oh, yeah. I don't own 'Skins.' No way, no how.


For once, the smell of chlorine was not oppressive in the aquatic centre. Likewise, the rhythmic splashes of six-beat kicks and hands spearing into the water competed to fill the air of the fifty meter pool. The blue and white discs of lane lines bobbed up and down as swimmers surged past in single-file processions ten seconds apart of one another—give or take, as over the course of each lap the distance opened or closed partially as they sped up or faded. Assistant coaches prowled the length of the pool, fastidiously observing each swimmer's form from their kicks to the way their hands entered the water to the position of their head relative to the rest of their body's posture to their breathing to their catch underwater as they pulled their body through the pool. At one end, roaming behind the starting blocks, coach Mercer oversaw the festive practice, laughing and talking amicably with the head coach from the National Training Centre in Loughborough. Nevertheless, he never failed to notice something correctable in each swimmer's form, bearing down on someone in lane 4 (the fastest male practice lane) as he finished their one hundred after seeing them spend part of his first fifty taking one stroke on .his back, then rolling over for one on his stomach and so on until executing a flip-turn and returning back down the lane swimming breaststroke followed by freestyle.

"Cook! I don't mind if you decide to work in an IM hundred to mix it up so long as you don't miss your interval, but corkscrew is NOT one of the four strokes."

"Aww, come on, Darrick! It's Christmas Eve; let us have some fun! It's bad enough we have ta look at and smell that for three hours." He pointed over at the open door into the glassed-in conference room before pushing off the wall on time for the next one hundred meters.

"He's right; that's bloody torture," affirmed the next swimmer in the lane before leaving ten seconds after Cook.

The coach turned his attention to the women in lane 5 and crossed his arms. "Katie, if I have to tell you another time to not breath every two strokes, I'll start setting a maximum number of breaths per fifty so you can't do it at all."

"Christ, it was just one fifty," she grumbled as Emily touched the wall and caught the end of the conversation. Katie ducked her head underwater, leaving the wall for her next lap as Emily rolled her eyes behind blue polarized goggles.

"And the one before that, and the one before that, and before that..." She departed for her next one hundred as Darrick laughed at her commentary. He strode up and down the lanes, offering encouragement and constructive criticism to other swimmers as they arrived at the wall before their next one hundred. A shade over a minute later, he found himself standing over lane 4 once more as Cook coasted into the wall.

"I'm not fucking kidding, Coach. Close the door or let me feed the Cookie Monster!"

"Still more than a few hundreds left, Cook. Ready...go!"

The team was in the middle of their by invitation-only holiday training camp: the best young swimmers from clubs throughout Great Britain coalescing for two demanding weeks of two-a-day practices as well as daily dryland weight training or other cross-training practices while living in the accommodations of the Sports Training Village in cap the first week and a half of practices before giving them several days off for Christmas, Darrick unveiled to their chagrin his traditional holiday practice: a main set of 100 100's—a behemoth of a practice lasting nearly three hours. To offset the demands of the practice and incorporate a bit of holiday cheer, however, he arranged for parents of the younger swimmers invited (and spouses of the older) to join in the preparation of a massive breakfast buffet to be held immediately following the brutal training regimen. The music blasting through the speakers lining the ceiling braces and walls was a capitulation to certain outspoken swimmers insisting it would (in their words) 'motivate the fuck out of them' and 'make this miserable shit of a practice well exciting.'

As more swimmers arrived at the wall and then abruptly turned around on their intervals and continued swimming, Coach Mercer made his way over to the offending conference room. He stepped through the doorway and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes and smiling.

"Now that is an absolutely delicious smell!"

"Why thank you, dear," a middle-aged woman with a kind smile nodded in appreciation as she carried a massive platter of bacon and sausages around the far side of the table situated in the center of the room. She placed the platter on a warming pad near the beginning of a massive buffet line along the far wall and turned, wiping her hands on her apron. "This is just a lovely tradition you're beginning and I think they're all going to enjoy it very much."

"That ungrateful pack of fuckers? They'd just as soon never see us again," groused a man making a hash on a skillet to Darrick's right, his back to the room, but his senses innately attuned to the voice of his partner.

The coach chuckled as he made his way around several volunteers setting out plasticware, condiments, and mugs along the length of the table. He leaned over the skillet as the gruff man tossed the potatoes and other ingredients lightly, plucking a cube of potato out and tasting it. "Not bad, Kieran. I expected far worse."

The National Performance Director snorted. "Arse. Should've made you be in here doin' the cookin', not me. You're lucky Gina thought this a good idea."

"Not just me, love. Every parent, 'cept you maybe." The woman came over and quickly pecked his cheek. "Who doesn't want the chance to support their child on a holiday when they're doing one of the longest practices of the year?"

"Me! Seeing as I have neither a child practicing or much of a mind to celebrate..."

Coach snapped his fingers as if remembering something out of the blue. "Ms. Campbell, I actually meant to ask you about your daughter's absence."

The NPD added some bacon into his hash and mixed it around in the skillet while interrupting, "Right you are separating her from me."

Gina Campbell swatted his arm and rolled her eyes magnificently. She motioned for Darrick to follow her as she picked up a bowl of fruit and carried to the main table. "I'm afraid that's not something I can help with. I asked her to come home for the holiday season and, in her own delicate way, told me to 'Tell those NTC fucks to shove their invitation up their own arse.' I tried to tell her about number agreement, but she hung up on me and international calls can be so expensive. She didn't take kindly to being overlooked for the team last summer."

Darrick shook his head in disappointment and slowly walked back out onto the pool deck, watching the practice continue. "I had nothing to do with that, and neither did Kieran; you know that. Buy-in: it's so vital to building a competitive program and we need everyone onboard now. That's why this training camp is crucial not only to Barcelona next summer, but all the championships between now and Rio."

Gina stood silently next to the coach, watching swimmers move back and forth along the lanes. "A few years ago, I opened my house to anyone needing refuge. My grand experiment in communal living. Naturally, my daughter absolutely loathed it and it was almost too late when I finally realized opening my home to strangers wasn't worth losing the only family I loved and cared for more than myself. She's never been one to open herself up to something larger than herself; she can't see the point and while I could go on all day about her being an angsty snob, I can't blame her for being jaded after pushing her away. The only person she could count on to support her ended up ostracizing her worse than anyone her own age and it's a shitty feeling being able to admit that, though not hard since she decided she'd rather take a gap year and train as far from me as possible all over Europe. All I've gotten are some emails confirming I'm her emergency contact from a club in Cyprus, then one in Spain, and last week one in Amsterdam.

"What you're doing, trying to mold these teens and young adults into a family, bringing together the best of all the clubs and having them train together and live together and bond...I wish she'd buy into it, but..."

"But she needs to find her own way," supplied Darrick, his drawl lightly dripping from each syllable. He put a hand on Gina's shoulder and furrowed his brow. "I want her on the team. I won't force it, though."

The blonde woman smiled gratefully and turned back to look at the pool. "Just there, in lane 5, those two have a nearly identical stroke."

Darrick chuckled. "The Fitch twins. Don't let them hear you say that, though. They insist otherwise. Katie will tell you hers is perfect; Emily lets her swimming speak for itself"

Gina hummed in thought. "I'd best get back to corralling this lot if we're to have everything prepared by the time practice is done."

"Good luck," the coach said and headed back to his post at the head of the lanes. Just as he was arriving, Cook cruised into the wall and promptly jumped out of the water with a whoop of excitement and accomplishment. "Cook! Get back in the water, son: you're nowhere near done!"

The young man wagged a finger. "That's where you're wrong, mate. I can't do a single one more—it'd ruin it!"

Darrick rolled his eyes. "How many?"

"That was lucky 69! Oi, Kieran! I'm ready for that hash now," he shouted towards the conference room.

The NPD stuck his head out of the open doorway and yelled across the pool, "Like fuck you are! Get your arse back in the pool 'fore I have to kick it in their meself."

"Cheers, Kieran!"

And with that, the coach roaring with laughter behind him, Cook dove back into the lane on time for one hundred number 70.

"Tosser," muttered Katie in the lane next to him as she quickly caught the eye of Effy on the opposite side of the boy's lane. The reserved girl flipped off Cook as he swam away, though she knew he couldn't see him, then pushed off the wall with Katie as they began their own hundred.


There was a light drizzle falling as the van cruised up the M1, Emily Fitch gripping the wheel with both hands as if the harder she squeezed the plastic, the faster they would arrive in Leeds. She knew this was infeasible, however. Rather, her death grip was owed in part to the recent attempts of one James Cook to assume driving responsibilities from his spot on the bench directly behind the driver. She was afraid that, despite not making any sudden movements for the last two minutes, he would suddenly lunge forward and attempt to guide their vehicle off the highway as he'd done twice already since they picked up Freddie and him in Loughborough on their way north.

In the passenger seat, Freddie was adamantly shaking his head. "No can do, mate."

"Aww come on!" Cook looked around the back of the van, an expression approaching incredulity on his face. "It's one song!"

"Cook! Just because we're driving to Leeds does NOT mean we are listening to Tubthumping." Katie rolled her eyes without looking up from her magazine on the bench next to him.

"But—"

"No Chumbawumba," agreed JJ from the very back row as he flipped a page in the first book of the fantasy series he was currently attempting to read over the course of the meet. "You'll just keep replaying it over and over until we reach Leeds, which means there's a 99% chance someone in this car kills you before we get there out of sheer annoyance."

"And the other one percent?" Cook turned in his seat and raised his eyebrows. He resumed scrolling through his music library towards the artists beginning with 'C.'

"Emily crashes to mercifully save us from having to listen to it one more time," Effy deadpanned from next to JJ.

The van erupted in laughter as he crossed his arms and turned back to the front.

"Cook, we're just leaving Sheffield as it is; why not compromise on Arctic Monkeys?" Emily tried to extend an olive branch—and ensure she wouldn't have to fend off future backseat hijacking attempts.

"It's not a compromise if it's nothing close to what I want!" he protested. Like a dog distracted by a new toy, his head snapped up and he stared at a sign as they flew past. Slowly, he turned back to the other swimmers with a massive grin. "I have a compromise."

"Absolutely fucking not," Emily insisted, checking her side mirror as she switched lanes to pass a particularly slow Citroën. "We're running late as it is!"

"You haven't even heard what my offer is."

Effy had also seen the sign along the side of the highway and smirked in the very back. "How old are you, Cook?"

"Is taking one detour so much to ask?"

Katie finally looked up from her magazine to unscrew the cap of a bottled water. "Christ, can you shut up for, like, a fucking second? Just take the detour, Emily."

The response was instantaneous. "Shut up, Kay."

"Where'd you want to go so badly all of a sudden?" Freddie asked, his voice trailing off as he caught sight of another sign for the exit in his peripherals as he turned around. "Oh. No."

"Ah, come on! It'd be fun!"

Freddie locked eyes with the girl in the very back of the van. "He's nineteen going on twelve, to answer your question." He turned his gaze to Cook. "And we are not making a detour to Penistone just because you're an immature ass."

Katie did a spit-take and turned a scathing glare at Cook. "You're having a fucking laugh? That's not a real place."

"Is too!" He strained to look out the window as another sign approached. "There! Look, just take a fuckin' peek, princess."

The van fell silent as they all watched the sign pass by. The exit came and went; Emily never slowed. Rain splattered across the windshield and eventually, Freddie snatched up the iPod resting in a cupholder, an auxiliary cable snaking from its headphone jack to the radio input, and queued up alt-J's debut album, the new Leeds-originating band's distinct sound rippling through the van. Thirty seconds later, it received competition from a completely different stereo system.

"I get knocked down, but I get up again/You're never going to—FUCK! JESUS!" Cook howled mid-verse and doubled over, cradling his crotch. Freddie whirled around to find him whimpering, JJ gaping like a fish out of water, and Effy staring out the window as if nothing happened out of the ordinary. The lanky young adult turned his gaze to Katie, who was nonchalantly flipping a page of her gossip mag.

"You're welcome," she supplied without looking up. Freddie turned around smiling ruefully and began drumming the beat on the dash.


The competition pool at the John Charles Centre for Sport was churning as over a hundred swimmers from clubs across Great Britain and even a smattering of clubs from the Continent warmed up the next morning in anticipation for that day's events. The eight lanes of the pool looked like compartmentalized salmon runs as members of each team jumped in and sprinted back and forth in bursts, practicing their flip turns, their finishes, or counted strokes to ensure they were familiar with the pool before their races. With each club only being allowed a single lane, each lane was nearly overflowing with swimmers.

Emily touched the wall and squirmed into the corner near the lane line, allowing a bit of room for other swimmers to execute their flip turns and continue swimming. She rested her elbow in the gap between the deck and the top of the timing board to remove her goggles. She blinked several times and watched the rest of the Bath group complete their warm ups. She had no events the first day of the meet, but Darrick insisted they all get in and warm up to get acclimated to the pool, advice with which she couldn't argue. She hopped out and stood behind the block, adjusting the angled rear foot rest for her height before hopping up and letting her arms dangle as her sister and others climbed out to form a line behind the lane. Emily pressed her goggles back on her eyes and waggled her fingers in anticipation.

Moments later, Cook touched the wall in the lane next to hers. He looked up, seeing Emily about to go, and broke into song as Darrick told her to take her mark.

"He sings a song that reminds him of the good times/He sings a song—"

Darrick whistled in place of a starting buzzer and Emily left the block far slower than usual as she struggled to hold in laughter. She splashed into the water, did several dolphin kicks, and broke out with a furious flurry of freestyle strokes. She shut down and floated midway down the pool, rolling over to flick him off before casually swimming to the far wall and climbing out. She watched Zelda and then Katie do their starts amidst cries for lager drinks and whiskey drinks before Darrick issued some sort of threat that forced Cook underwater and down the length of the pool towards Emily in a sprint.

He leveraged himself out and stood next to the smaller girl as she looked at him expectantly. "What? He threatened to unleash your sister on me again and I ain't takin' that chance again, not after yesterday...fuck me."

"What?" Emily frowned and followed his gaze as he stared past her shoulder down the wall towards the stands lining one side of the aquatic centre. Her frown of confusion quickly gave way to an expression of near-outright objectification. On the deck at the last lane of the pool, a swimmer from one of the European clubs was standing talking to her coach and wringing the excess water out of her swim cap. She nodded at advice neither Emily nor Cook could hear before craning her neck back and running her fingers through shoulder length blonde hair. Emily felt her heart rate accelerate furiously and her eyes raked down the woman's body, following the lines of her midnight blue practice suit until something else caught her attention and she couldn't help but stare: along her hip, just beneath the curve of her suit, a strip of skin was pure white in stark contrast to the near golden tanned hue of the rest of her leg. Emily's eyes drank in the tan line, her mind racing with possibilities.

"Sis, for fuck's sake! Stop perving during warm ups, yeah?" Katie hissed as she climbed out of the water and caught her twin and Cook staring across the deck.

Blinking, the spell broken, Emily's eyes snapped back up the girl's form to find a pair of ice blue eyes looking back at her with a mixture of aggravation and...was that self-satisfaction? Clearly, Katie wasn't the only one who'd sussed her out—and now her twin was turning her wrath on Cook, who scurried off along the deck in fear. Emily's cheeks bloomed an ashamed red and Emily quickly turned, tugged her goggles on, and dove back into their lane. She nearly landed on Zelda in the process who popped up with a caustic, "The fuck, Em?!"

Emily didn't hear it, though, as she swam furiously towards the other end of the pool away from the beautiful girl with the blue eyes. And with each stroke, her resolve to discover the other swimmer's identity only increased until she reach the far wall and hopped out far more determined to ascertain who she was than to win her own events.

No gold medal could match the fire in those blue eyes.