Changing Tides

Disclaimer: I don't own Percy Jackson. All recognisable characters, content or locations belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter Two:

Percy's POV

The swim meet is part of the season's usual qualifiers. It allows coaches to determine their swimmers' strengths and weaknesses, and moreover, it allows the teams to determine what they're up against during regionals. As captain, I spend most of my time after my first race with Coach Hedge, observing the opposing swimmers and proposing changes in our own roster.

I also spend time with my team, encouraging them, reassuring them, sometimes consoling them, but before long, it's the 400m medley, and I'm up against the same old sods I was up against the year prior.

"You alright?" Coach Hedge queries.

I nod, stretch my arms over my head, and contemplate the lane ahead of me. I'm in the 4th this time, and though I have no particular superstition regarding the matter, I kind of wish I'm in one of the end lanes. I can't dwell on it though, because our sporting coordinator, Mr Bruner, blows the first warning whistle, and I approach the diving board, secure my goggles over my eyes, and wait.

Behind me, Coach Hedge gives me a few words of encouragement, though he and I both know I don't need them. I'm an old hand at competitive swimming, and I learned to block out the nerves years ago, and this will just be another race in a long line of them.

Bruner blows the second warning whistle, I bend and brace my wait accordingly, and my focus narrows until it's me, the water, and the lane below.

The blow horn is sounded, I dive, and the world disappears. I'm unaware of the fact that I push ahead of my opponents with each breath I take, and I instead focus on each butterfly stroke I make, of the backstrokes that follow; of the breaststrokes afterwards, and finally, of the freestyle lap that ends the medley.

"How did I go?"

"You broke your own record, kid," Coach Hedge answers, "A new PB, too. Well done."

I don't really know what to say to that. I don't actively set out to break records, and it surprises me every time I do, and apparently, Coach has come to expect my vaguely awkward silences.

"Go, warm down," Hedge insists, "I'll see you in a few."

I nod, approach the 25 meter pool, and do a slow few laps of one of the lanes there. Afterwards, when I'm relatively dry, with a pair of sweats over my speedos, my cap and goggles secure in the pocket of my Rochester pullover, I return to Coach Hedge's side. The meet continues, we make more prospective changes to the team roster, and I make my 3rd and final appearance in the pool during the 400m medley relay..

Eventually, the meet comes to an end, and I help Coach Hedge roll up the lane ropes. This week's meet was hosted by Rochester, and the only thing I have to look forward to back in the boarding house is the Chemistry, Business and Legal Studies homework I haven't yet completed.

"There were scouts here today," Hedge informs me. I'm bemused by that fact, because normally they don't make an appearance until the state qualifiers - if then - but Hedge is still speaking, and I don't have anything to say, anyway. "They're quite interested in you, Jackson."

I don't bother to hide my surprise. Hedge continues with the explanation that they'll be at a few more of my meets, and at states as well, before he sends me off with the instruction to relax for the rest of the day.

"How did it go?" Jason asks.

I shrug, gather up things for a shower, and retreat to one of the bathrooms at the end of the hall.

There are two at either end of the floor, and they're consistently crowded in the mornings and evenings, but it's midday, and they're relatively empty. Thus, I take my time, and by the time I return, Jason's given up on his Pre-Calculus homework, and is instead absorbed in a round of Halo.

"Dude, took you long enough."

I flash him an unapologetic grin, gather up my homework and assignments, and offer him a mock-salute on my way out the door. I want to join him, to kill time on video games and to put off my homework, but Rochester Prep demands a lot from it's students, and I don't want to risk a drop in my grades for a good time.

Thus, I find my way to the library, and I'm mildly surprised to see Annabeth Chase there, dressed in blue jeans and a Rochester Prep pullover of her own. More interesting is the fact that she wears a pair of square framed glasses on her face, and despite myself, I can't help but think they make her look absurdly attractive.

"Hey," I greet her as I pass. She's seated by one of the building's floor to ceiling windows, notebooks and textbooks spread out across her table, and I don't bother asking if I can join her. I'm not even sure I want to.

"Hey," she answers, and self-consciously reaches a hand to the hair piled in a haphazard knot at the top of her head. "How are you?"

"Not bad," I reply, drop into a seat at the desk at her back, and reluctantly produce the Chemistry homework that's due on Monday. "Yourself?"

She laughs, mildly self-deprecating. "I've been better. The essay I have to write for American History is going to be the death of me."

"That bites," I acknowledge, but conversation after that falls flat, and we return to our respective tasks, and the silence is surprisingly not awkward. There's a certain awareness of her presence though, one that makes the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and not in a bad way.

I'm not really sure what to make of it.