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Once I tap the wall at 100 meters, I turn into the backstroke.
I can feel myself capture the lead. Pulling out in front of the seven other swimmers, but Gabriela Moreno from Spain is closing in on my left. She hugs my lane. Her hands plunge into the pool, and I sense the splash of water around my torso.
She’s way too fucking close.
Focus.
Remembering my breathing and technique. All the hours I pumped into training matter now. Not yesterday.
Now.
My feet hit the wall in a flawless turn.
Swim to the finish.
Swim to them.
After backstroke and breaststroke, I change to a front crawl for freestyle. My fastest stroke. The one I’m most comfortable in. The final two lengths are here. Muscles and lungs shrieking, I swim. 100 meters of pure adrenaline. Of pure power. Of pure heart.
Gogogogo. No time to think. No time for hesitation. Stop for nothing.
The final two lengths are here.
I just plow ahead.
Gold.
I want gold.
For him or her.
My baby.
Our baby.
I slice through the water, giving everything I have. Every ounce of oxygen and grit and fucking fortitude. I don’t stop. I hit the wall again and kick off once more. Final length.
50 meters left.
My pulse beats hard in my ears. My goggles feel tight, and I take a hearty breath before continuing my stroke. I’m loose and relaxed with no drag, and I’m cutting into the water with ultimate speed. My legs burn from kicking, and instinctively, I know I’m closing in on the wall.
This is it.
Under the water, I press the wall for a final time. Once I pop up, air feels thin as I struggle for breath, but I immediately spin in the pool to check the scoreboard.
The results are unmistakable. What the fuck?
I tear off my goggles to see better.
My name lands underneath Sienna Jones from Australia. Where…where did she even come from? She wasn’t even near me in qualifiers.
I reread the times.
The 2nd next to my name.
It’s like a punch to the gut.
I lost gold by two-tenths of a second.
Two fucking tenths. I blink a few times. Water droplets drip off my eyelashes and blur my vision. I can’t hide my disappointment, and I struggle to care that the world is seeing every muscle twitch on my face right now. Press is probably zoomed up hyper-close.
It’s hard to breathe. Inhaling is labored from everything I gave that race. I wince at that time.
I did everything right. It felt like a great swim. The time is one of my best, but not the best I’ve ever had. And that makes all the difference.
I rack my brain for someplace that I fucked up, but I thought I had it. And that realization is worse than anything. I could blame not qualifying for the 200m IM on a goggle malfunction, but I have no excuses for this 400m IM.
Silver might seem like a great placement, but the world believes I should be sweeping golds. I thought I had it in me too.
Fuck.
Pulling myself out of the pool, I avoid the gazes and just keep checking the scoreboard. Trying to recover breath, I inhale a lungful of oxygen.
I only want to see two people. Akara and Banks are somewhere poolside, and I force back tears. Later, I might cry against their chests and snot up their shirts.
Fuck, I’d really like a hug right now.
As I yank off my swim cap and grab a towel, my lungs expand and contract painfully. Emotion hurts my recovery for breath, and I pad along the pool tiles towards the exit when, suddenly, a reporter in a black pantsuit shoves a microphone in my face.
I barrel to a stop.
Oh fuck.
I rest my hands on my hips, too winded to find an out. I’m trapped in front of a camera lens.
Her badge says GBA News. “Sullivan, how does it feel winning silver?”
“Fuck…” My breath is heavy. My head is spinning. “Fucking…awful.” I look around for my boyfriends. I see them approaching. My pulse skips like its attempting to calm. I imagine racing into their arms. Where I’d much rather be.
Her eyes are widened orbs.
“…What?” I pant, confused. Was I too honest?
“We’re live,” she whispers to me.
Oh…
I dropped two f-bombs on live television. I heat from head-to-toe. I fucked up the 400m IM finals. Now I’m fucking this up. Is there anything else? God, I don’t want to be here. I wipe my face with my towel, my hair sticking up in a million directions.
Sickness rises to my mouth. My chest tightens the longer I stand here.
“What do you think caused you to fall behind Australia?” the reporter asks me.
I open my mouth and then close it. I don’t have an answer. I don’t really know what went wrong.
Her brows rise. “Do you think it’s because you have new distractions in your life?”
“No,” I say sharply, still out of breath. “I don’t…fucking think…that.”
