Wells never rushes the board.
He steps up slow. Bare feet gripping. Shoulders loose. Eyes locked on the water like it owes him something.
Everyone else fidgets at the edge, bouncing too soon, burning energy before it counts. Wells waits. Lets the board flex under his weight. Knows exactly when to press down and when to let it snap back.
That launch? Clean. Controlled. All power, no panic.
He cuts through the air like he owns it, body tight, lines sharp, confidence obvious from the second he leaves the board. No wasted movement. No hesitation. Just commitment.
The splash is loud enough to turn heads.
When he surfaces, water sliding off him, he grins like he meant to make that kind of impact.
“Timing’s everything,” he says, shaking it off. “Anyone can jump. Not everyone knows how to land it.”
Later, he’s stretched out poolside, sun catching the water still clinging to him. Alton walks past, towel slung low, trying not to stare.
Wells smirks.
“Careful,” he says, leaning back. “Things get real slippery when they’re wet.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, he just pushes up, dripping, already heading for diving board. Some guys dive once.
Wells just likes staying slick.
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