The moment he reaches us, his parents pull him into a hug.
“I’m so proud of you,” Angie keeps whispering over and over as his dad wraps his arms around them both.
When he finally emerges, he turns to me and Josh, beaming. I squeal and throw my arms around him.
“I think you just burst my eardrum,” helaughs.
“You were incredible! This is incredible!” I squeak, hugging him again. “I knew you could do it.” Words don’t feel big enough. I hope he can see it in my face.
“Well done, mate,” Josh says, doing that weird half-hug, half-back-slap boys do.
Angie pulls him in again, and I think his dad might actually be crying. I grab my phone. “Let me take a picture. I want to remember this forever.”
I snap one of the three of them, then Angie takes a few of Sam with me and Josh.
“I’ve gotta go,” he says eventually. “Cool-down, media, medal ceremony—it’s a bit full on.”
“Of course.” Angie wipes her eyes.
I just watch him leave, still trying to process the fact that it just happened.
***
A week later, I’m back in London, volunteering at the nursing home (because nothing screams ‘please accept me into medical school’ like helping Doris wrestle on compression socks). The TV’s on in the corner, and Sam’s relay final is playing.
I absentmindedly open a packet of biscuits for Mabel as the race starts. All of our eyes are glued to the screen. After last week the commentators have been talking about Sam nonstop. His picture was in the paper and he was interviewed on morning radio. I grip the arm of Mabel’s floral armchair as the second swimmer starts his leg.
The US team are favourites, but when it gets to the final length, Sam somehow finds a burst of speed.
“Go on, young man!” Brian from room 4A shouts, slapping his thigh.
Argus—who usually reserves speech for complaining about draughts—lets out a full-bodied whoop, and I nearly fall off my chair in surprise.
My jaw practically hits the floor when Sam touches the wall first. Gold.Gold.
I’m still in shock when the team makes their way over for the post-race interview. So are most of the residents. We don’t usually do well in swimming.
“How are you feeling, Sam?” the reporter Mel Braithwaite asks, mic in hand. “Two medals—that’s incredible for your first Games.”
“I actually don’t quite know how I feel.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I think I’m in shock. I’ve loved training with these guys at camp, and getting to race together… it still doesn’t feel like it’s actually happening to me.”
“It must be a lot to process at sixteen.”
He gives a sheepish smile. “Yeah, it really is. I’m just trying to compartmentalise. After the Olympics, I get my GCSE results, and honestly? I’m not sure which is scarier—maths GCSE or a qualifying heat.”
The rest of the team laugh, and I just sit there watching in silence.Twomedals. I pull out my phone and text him without even thinking. My goodluck text from earlier is the last message in our thread.
“I know that guy,” I say to Mabel, who’s still munching her biscuits whilst staring at the screen. “That’s my best friend.”
The transformation is instant. One minute I’m the girl who helps with cardigans and TV remotes; the next, I’m apparently the nursing home’s official liaison to Olympic royalty.
“Ohhh,your friend, is he?” Mabel raises a grey eyebrow. “Very handsome boy. Tall, too. Good shoulders.”
I nearly choke. “We’re just friends, Mabel. We’re only sixteen.”
“Never hurt anyone to have options.” She reaches for another biscuit andwinks at me.
Within minutes I’m being plied with treats. Someone pushes a chocolate digestive into my hand like it’s hush money.
