For The Plot// F1

Chapter 14: The Current Between Them

Anna cackled. "God, I love when you do that."

Catalina smirked and adjusted her gloves. "Let's just say I've learned when to pick my battles."

"Yeah," Anna said. "And how to end them."

By the time evening rolled around, Catalina was exhausted but buzzing. The Sirens had dominated their practice heats. Their timing was sharper than ever, their form nearly flawless. The team was in sync—heart, muscle, rhythm—and Catalina could feel it.

Still, as she sat by the dock, letting her feet skim the water, she could sense the looks again from a few rows of spectators who'd stayed behind. Phones half-raised, whispers carried by the wind.

Anna flopped down beside her and sighed. "You know, if you're going to be famous, at least get paid for it."

Catalina laughed, shaking her head. "I don't want to be famous. I just want to win."

"You will," Anna said without hesitation. "And when you do, those same people will be posting edits with your face and calling you 'queen energy.' Happens every time."

Catalina smiled faintly, staring out at the sunset reflecting off the water. "I just want to make my mom proud. My family. Coach. The team."

Anna nudged her shoulder. "You already have."

Catalina glanced at her friend and smiled, soft and small. "You think?"

"I know." Anna grinned, leaning back on her elbows. "You're Catalina Villalobo—the Siren captain, the Bath legend, the girl who rows like Poseidon owes her money. You're not some gossip thread."

Catalina laughed again, the sound more genuine this time. "Poseidon owes me money, huh?"

"Big time," Anna said. "And tomorrow? You're collecting."

Catalina tilted her head back, breathing in the salt air. She could still feel the stares from the crowd, but they didn't sting as much now.

Tomorrow, she'd be back on the water—where everything made sense. Where it was just her, her team, the oars slicing through the river, and the fire in her chest that no rumor could touch.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to drown out everything else.

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The championship grounds in Bristol were alive in a way that made the air almost hum. Flags from twenty-five universities rippled in the morning breeze, the docks lined with sleek boats that gleamed under the pale sunlight. Coaches barked orders, rowers stretched and warmed up, and somewhere, the announcer's voice crackled through the speakers, testing the mic for the opening ceremony.

Catalina stood a little apart from the chaos, her hands on her hips, her eyes fixed on the water.
The river looked deceptively calm—silver and glassy under the early light—but she could already see the subtle tremors near the bends, the tricky currents Bristol was famous for. The kind that punished anyone who underestimated them.

Her team was behind her, bustling with nerves and chatter. Anna was double-knotting her shoes, Maya was checking their oars for the third time, and Coach Margaret—stern, unflappable Margaret—was pacing with her clipboard, eyes flicking between the girls and the water.

"Alright," Margaret finally said, her voice steady but edged with energy. "This is it. We've done the drills, we've learned the water. You all know what to do. Eyes on the finish line, not on the crowd. Let them scream; let them watch. You just row. You row like your lungs are fire, like you were born in that damn river."