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For the first time in forever, I don’t have to worry about Studio 9. I don’t have to mull over ways to sell my gym. But at what cost?
31
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
NOW
@CelebrityCrushOfficial: our sources say Sullivan Meadows is pulling out of the Mixed Relay.
@apprehensive-spoon321: So Sullivan Meadows isn’t gonna compete??? God that SUCKS for Kingly. She’s robbing him of another gold. Wut a selfish bitch
@queenrose_xoxo: @apprehensive-spoon321 omg her boyfriend just got stabbed! Stop blaming Sullivan for everything! #KitsullettiKicksass
@PuhLease22: Sullivan has choked the entire Olympics. Just quit cheering for her. She’s not that good of a swimmer
@ItssBetty: lol anyone who likes Sullivan Meadows is a clown
@TigerBangarang: does anyone ship Sullivan & Kingly? Just me???
I bang my cellphone to my forehead, hating most of these fucking tweets. And fuck Celebrity Crush for the misinformation. I haven’t pulled out of the Mixed Relay.
I’m just stuck in traffic.
Minutes tick by, and to be frank, I only went on Twitter in search of a certain username, who tweeted at random death threats and trolls.
@Love4Sullivan: @porkipine3 the negativity is too much. Would you say that to Sullivan’s face?
@Love4Sullivan: @KyleSoccerAce Sullivan Meadows deserves love. Why are you so hateful, Kyle?
I might be stalking my boyfriends’ fan account.
Seeing them defend me online makes me feel better about the possibility of letting down the world. I’m reminded that they matter. They’re in my corner.
They are real.
They are right here in the fucking car with me.
The trolls online—I won’t ever meet the majority of them. They’re not my life. They’re not what matters.
But I can’t lie—one of the tweets cuts into my thick-ish skin.
“What’s that face, Sul?” Akara asks from the passenger seat of our rental car. A fancy SUV with black leather seats and dark tinted windows. Banks mans the wheel, and he’s been grumbling Italian curses the past half hour while battling L.A. traffic.
In the backseat, I read from my phone. “Lol anyone who likes Sullivan Meadows is a clown.” I get that celebrities get called clowns all the time, but that fucking hurt for some reason.
“Give me a red nose,” Akara says. “Orange hair.”
I start to smile. “Stop.”
“Face paint. Those big clown shoes.”
My heart and lungs swell. Crushing on my dreamboat so fucking hard.
“And I’ll give them to Banks.”
My smile is punctured. “Kits.” I’d kick the back of his chair if he wasn’t injured.
He laughs, then cradles an arm around his abdomen and winces.
I wince. “Don’t fucking laugh.”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
Banks mumbles, “You fuckin’ stunad.” His voice rises. “Ah, come on! Get the fuck outta here.” He slams on the horn along with the rest of L.A.
Akara tries to draw my attention off the madness outside. Paparazzi vans are hugging close to us. I slouch further in my seat as he talks. “Banks, you a clown for Sulli?”
Banks cools down at that question. “If just liking Sulli makes me a clown, then pack me up and ship me to the circus. ‘Cause I’m the biggest fucking clown in town.”
My heart flutters. I bite the corner of my lip, smiling.
“See,” Akara says to me. “Banks needs the clown shoes.”
“And you don’t?”
“Don’t I look better in Vans?” he teases.
I humph. “You’re such a—”
“Asshole,” he finishes.
“I was going to say clown.”
He laughs, then groans. “Sulli.”
“Sorry,” I cringe.
Akara goes eerily quiet for a second.
“Does it hurt that bad?” I’m about to unbuckle and squeeze between the middle console.
He must predict my next move because he says, “Don’t unsnap your seatbelt. I’m fine—really.” He tries to smile at me. And I have a weird feeling his quietness wasn’t from his stab wound. He seems nervous. “You know, I am a clown for you too, right?”
“Yeah?” I frown. “I know you’re just joking about it.” He doesn’t need to be like Banks. Just like Banks doesn’t need to be like Akara. I need them to be themselves. Just as they fucking are, because they’ve always loved me just as I fucking am.
The strange tension breaks when Akara sticks his tongue out at me.
I stick mine out at him.
We’re both smiling.
Until I catch sight of the clock on the dashboard. Until Akara spins back and helps Banks navigate around an aggressive sedan.
Fuck, we’re cutting this close.
Banks is trying his hardest to get us there on time.
I close out of Twitter. Seeing my boyfriends defend me = good. Staring at all the hate = really fucking bad. I know not to be swept up into the mess, but I really wish more people asked how Akara is doing. If he’s okay.
He’s just as important as me. And he’s way more important than gold. Remembering the medal on the line today is a reminder of three names.
Kingly.
Frankie.
Dean.
My teammates. They’re not just usernames and profile pictures. They’re real too, and if I can’t make the relay, they’ll feel the brunt-force impact of my decision. I needed to ensure Kits was okay.
