Disclaimer: I do not own PoT or Speedo.

The world seemed to stop for a few measly moments as I floated in the air, parallel to the light blue mirror underneath me. Then, gravity took over and the light blue mirror broke with a splash turned into turbulent waves. I shivered from the water's temperature as I eased through the water for the first time since I left Portland. My dark green Nike swimsuit became drenched in water as the reflective goggles pulled over my navy swim cap allowed me to see the bottom of the six-feet-deep pool that was barely illuminated by the rising sun. I had the three-laned, twenty-five yard tank to me, myself, and I, during my first day of practice in Japan.

I felt like right now, all I represented the pool. My clear, calm surface hid the potential turbulence. All that everyone could see was the placid top, but once someone pierced the surface, he or she would see my raw emotions that I had been hiding for two months. Keigo saw that and pointed it out yesterday, claiming that I was in denial.

So what if I was in denial? That was a healthy process of grieving, right? The thoughts swirling in my head slowly start to dissolve into nothingness.

Being a swimmer was the closest a person could get to flying. You feel weightless. Liberated. Like you shed all of your negativity before breaking the surface of the water. It is the ultimate escape from the troubles that plague you. People think of blankness like a white, empty room. They are wrong; the best feeling in the world is the blankness that consumes your very being while you swim. You feel this overwhelming sense of calmness and emptiness.

I grasp the wall and look up, panting slightly after the five hundred yard warm-up. My arms and legs felt like dead weights from the lack of practice.

"Pull out your paddles and pull buoy," Coach Suzuki says. "Your hands' entry into the water seems off. Reach out more with your hand before sliding into the water."

I curse, knowing that the drill will strain my shoulders. I let the foam piece of the buoy sit between my squeezed thighs and jam my fingers into the straps of the paddles. He chuckles, noticing my angst.

"We'll take it relatively easy today. I need to check out your strokes in person and you need to get used to the conditioning that tennis is giving you. Practices will slowly get harder though, and you have a meet in two weeks," he announces.

I grin. "So, can we work on dives and flipturns?" I say hoping that he would let us work on the easiest, yet most crucial part of competitive swimming.

He rolls his eyes, probably remembering when he was a swimmer asking for the same thing. "At the end of practice. But I'm watching every hand entry, and they better be right or you're doing laps of lunges. There's no time limit, just go slow, and concentrate."

I groan, adjust my silver goggles, and push off the wall into a streamline. The gliding of the water against my skin takes over my mind once more. I let my hands gently slide into the water until the wall that is about to high-five my face interrupts me. Tucking my head to my chin, I do a half somersault and let my feet push off the wall. The process repeats repeatedly as my head remains clear and focused on my hands. I stop counting laps and just let the flowing liquid lull me into a sense of robotic tedium, instilling the movement of my hands and arms into muscle memory. My steady breathing every few strokes lets me see the sunrise.

I hear a sharp whistle and stop at the wall. Looking up, I see Coach Suzuki crouching down on the poolside. Unlike most sports, swimming requires a special relationship between the coach and swimmer. The coach becomes almost like an uncle or aunt as he or she trains athletes to their top shape. I was hoping Coach Suzuki would be the same way, even though in Japan's social structure, the closeness between a student and an instructor is almost unheard of.

"You're lucky," he smirks. "You only messed up twice, so only two laps of lunges."

I growl and rip off the equipment connected to my body and lift myself out of the pool. I let my knees bend into the horrid position that tormentors like to call lunges. Moving slowly around the pool, I can feel my legs slowly turning sore on the second lap. I shake my legs, letting the blood flow and jump back into the pool when I am finished.

"Ok, I want to see your other strokes in person, so just start out with a fifty yard butterfly. The second twenty-five yards should be fast," he said, rubbing his chin.

I nod and thrust my legs against the pool wall, letting the impact propel me through the water as I began the steady, yet quick movements that made me feel like a dolphin prancing in the ocean's waves. With my arms stretching in front of me, I let the undulations from my hips push me through the water. I loved butterfly, but I hated how it hurt my shoulders. I look up after the fifty yards.

"Same thing, backstroke," he responds.

I let my arms do a slow windmill and transition into a fast one as I looked at the sky above.

"Breaststroke," he declares after I finish.

I grimace and push off the wall. I loathed this stroke. My legs always felt awkward in the kick and my arms barely displace water. I could never get the timing right, even if I could do the stroke somewhat correctly.

I look up and Coach Suzuki is chuckling. "So that's why I couldn't find a video of you doing breaststroke."

I look back at him, exasperated and sullen. My previous coaches did not like entering me in breaststroke or IM events, which stood for individual medley, a mixture of all strokes. They used to claim that there was no need to swim in something I was not good at.

"Don't look at me like that," he grins. "Get out and we'll work on dives."

My edges of my mouth curl up slightly as I push myself out of the pool and get on the diving block. Water droplets run down my body as I adjust my goggles and bend over, getting into position. My fingers grip the edge of the slightly tilted platform along with the toes of my right foot, ready to let my body hurl into the air.

"No," he mutters, tapping my left foot that is extended behind me. "Move your left foot to the right a bit and no need to have it so far behind you." He pushes my left foot forward.

I suddenly lose balance and topple over the edge of the diving block and into the water.

Pushing back to the surface of the pool, I sputter and puff for air as Coach Suzuki bends over laughing.

I lift myself out of the water and mutter, "It wasn't that funny."

At that, he laughs even harder and gasps, "Yes it was."

My eyes narrow as I balance on top of the block again, in the proper position, with my left foot closer to my body.

"Take your mark," he yells and pauses.

I let my muscles contract as I pull myself closer to the diving block with my arms, ready to jump over the water.

"Go!"

My muscles uncoil and I spring forward with my arms extended in front of me, cutting through the waves. I let my body float to the surface.

"You're too tense," he observed. "Try taking deeper breaths on the block and let your muscles stay loose."

I nod. And I let the process of getting on top of the block and jumping into the water repeat and repeat and repeat. Swimming is a repetitive sport, which is why many people get bored with it easily. It requires a lot of practice and can be tedious or dull sometimes.

"That's enough," Coach Suzuki claps once. "You're done for today. Since you're the only person who swims for Rikkaidai, you're automatically captain and a regular."

He hands me papers that were stapled together.

"Here are the forms for Rikkaidai's team suit, warmup jacket and pants and bag, and the information about the team. Normal swim bags do not have room for you to put your racket in, but I found a design that could accommodate it so you can use the bag daily. Because we do not have that much funding, we don't have them in multiple colors like other sports teams. As you know, swimming is both an individual and team sport, so even though you are the only person on the team, you can advance to regionals and nationals by qualifying swims."

I nod and slide them into my sports bag that lay on the poolside, so not to get them wet. "Thank you very much, Coach."

"Go get showered up and ready for class. The girl's showers are on the west side of the building and have a separate entrance."

I fold a towel around me, shove my equipment into my bag, and rip off my goggles and cap. "Thank you again!" and I dash off, desperately wanting to wash off the chlorine.

I pick a route to the showers that will let the minimal amount of people see me, knowing that I would probably be reported for indecency if students saw a glimpse of me running around with wet hair, clad in just a swim suit and a towel. My bags bounce on my back as I race across campus behind a wall of trees, blocking me from the crowd of students filing in early for school. I whip open the door to the locker room that was labeled as being the girl's and grab my shampoo, conditioner, and soap.

Since there were no girls in the room, I throw my sports bag and my backpack to the side and enclose myself in a shower. I let the water rain down upon me as I got ready for school. There was no point in taking off my suit, because I knew that I could either wash it while I was wearing it, therefore letting me not stand naked in the locker room, or I could let the chlorine radiate off of it all day in my bag. I hummed quietly, letting the vanilla scent of the soap surround me as I scrubbed my scalp.

I shook my head, letting beads of water fly as I moved my wet strands of hair out of my face. I wrapped myself in my towel again, and pulled on my school clothes at the same time as I pulled off my swim suit. It was a skill that most swimmers had, allowing us to change in public without indecent exposure. I was too lazy to put on makeup, and twisted my hair into a bun, getting everything but my bangs out of my face and showing off my fake diamond studs.

My plastic deck passes from previous meets clicked together on my sports bag as I ran out of the locker room. The cards let swimmers on to the deck of the pool and served as identification for swim officials. was awfully fond of the plastic cards because they served as a souvenir from most major meets.

I pull out the forms and look at the designs for the bag, swimsuit, and warm-up sweats. The simple black Speedo swimsuit had the Japanese spelling for Rikkaidai across the chest in red and I sighed in relief. I was glad that the suit was not super flashy, because they brought unnecessary attention. The matching black swim cap also had the label of Rikkaidai. I flipped the page over and saw the warm-up sweats. The pants were red with a black stripe down the side and the jacket was half-red with a black band around the chest, and white shoulders and sleeves. The name of the school was to be on the back of the thick black stripe and my name stitched on the front of it. I smiled at the simple, elegant designs, glad that the coach and I had the same mindset. The bag was a normal black swim bag with an extra pocket in the back, allowing for the handle of my racket to stick out.

Looking down at the designs, I bumped into the back of a blue-haired guy and froze, hoping it wasn't who I thought it was.

Him and a few other guys in the crowd of students shuffling into the main school building turn around and look at me. I could hear a few girls in the crowd whisper about how I dared to dirty Yukimura-sama's uniform.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I wasn't paying attention."

His small smile remained the same on his face as he nodded and replied, "It is fine." He turned around and kept walking and I marched behind the group of tennis players.

"Your hair is wet," Kirihara observed with his fingers outstretched, touching strands of my bangs. "You'll catch a cold, Klysen-senpai."

"I'm a swimmer. Our hair is always wet," I shrug and stuff the designs into my backpack. "We don't catch colds from wet hair."

I pull out Marui's jacket, neatly folded around a box with salted caramel cream puffs. Handing it to him, I mutter, "Thank you for yesterday."

He nods, looking away. "You're welcome."

"Bye Kirihara. I have to go get my school shoes," I ruffle his hair as he sticks out his tongue at me. I grin and walk off towards the shoe lockers.

"So," Niou smirks. "Is there a reason why she had your jersey? Does she have any of your other clothes?"

I glare back at him, not knowing how to answer as I stuff the jacket into my bag. I look at Jackal, trying to prompt him to answer but he just smiled and shook his head, refusing to enter into the conversation.

"He was being nice because she was wet and cold," Kirihara piped up. "She got drenched in water by a waitress and she was embarrassed and Marui gave her his jacket."

I internally sigh in relief at his answer.

"Oh?" Niou teases, waggling his eyebrows at me. "Marui is such a gentleman."

I wanted to facepalm. "Her shirt was white, Niou. Her shirt was wet and white."

He puts his hands behind his head. "Isn't that just a better reason for you not give her your jacket?"

I roll his eyes at his perverted comment as Kirihara chimes in, "I don't get it."

Niou shakes his head. "Yagyuu is rubbing off on you Marui. Giving a girl your jacket is totally his move."

"Enough," Sanada thunders. "Get to class."

We hurried away from the shoe lockers, not wanting to be on Sanada's bad side.

Please read and review!

I'm sorry if you didn't understand some of the swimming jargon. Feel free to PM me and ask about it!

I hope no one is too averse to the swimming part of the chapter. I thought it was necessary to describe in detail at least once, because it added more depth to the character.

Sorry for the short chapter!