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I had to.
If we don’t reach the pool, then I can’t be upset with anyone. Not even myself. This is what had to happen, and I wouldn’t do anything differently.
But a part of me will feel the sting knowing I hurt someone’s Olympic dreams. I’m not even sure I would forgive myself if our positions were reversed. I’ve never been much of a forgiving person, but God, I’m trying to be better at forgiveness. Every day, I’m trying.
Kingly has full right to hate me or spit in my face. (Okay, maybe not spit in my face—I wouldn’t even do that.) But if he wants to yell, I’ll let him fucking yell.
My boyfriends might not let him.
Fuck.
This is going to end badly, isn’t it? I cringe all the way to the stadium, imagining a train wreck as the minutes deplete faster and faster.
* * *
“Sorry, sorry! Fuck!” I shout, racing into the ready room. “I’m here!” Swim cap on, bodyskin swimsuit on, I’m prepared to compete.
My pulse jackhammers as every athlete and official turn and stare at my loud entrance. Did I make it? Am I too late?
“Sulli!” Frankie races to me, flinging her arms around my broad shoulders. “Ahhh! I’m so freaking happy to see you. You made it.” She rattles my shoulders.
All my nerves jostle with the movement. “I made it?” Shock globes my eyes. “You’re fucking sure?”
“Yep.” She grins. “It starts in five.”
“Oh thank fuck.” I touch my speeding heart.
“The torpedo is here!” Dean announces, hoisting his phone up so I fill the frame with him. Is he on Instagram Live?
I can’t tell which social media Dean is using, but I see my relieved smile staring back at me. Glad to even be present for Dean’s viral videos. “I’m fucking here.” I give a thumbs-up. “And Dean is the torpedo.”
“Now she’s being kind. I’m the otter.” He mimes doing a backstroke with one hand.
I laugh, my pulse beginning to slow.
Some people are silent in the ready room as they try to maintain total focus. That’s definitely not Dean. He tends to psyche out his competition with his carefree energy.
“See you soon,” Dean winks at his phone. “Peace out.” He shuts off the video, then flings an arm around my shoulders. “We’ve got this, Meadows. Don’t worry about today.”
He means the stabbing.
My boyfriend was attacked literally hours ago.
Dean is careful to dodge those words. Probably knowing not to psyche me out. I’m his teammate in the relay. Not his competition.
I try to exhale. “Thanks, Dean.” I swing my arms and shake them out while Dean gives me a second alone. Where’s Kingly? I didn’t want to search for him or act like I care, but fuck, it’s impossible not to wonder what he thinks or if he’s angry.
Finally, I spot Kingly on the bench. Headphones on his ears, he swings his arms like me. Keeping to himself like my usual routine.
We’re not the same.
Or are we?
I’d be just as fucking pissed at someone showing up late.
Maybe he thinks I don’t care enough about the sport. Like I’m not dedicated. Not sacrificing everything, including my boyfriend.
To deserve any good in my life, I have to bleed every drop of love and light—I don’t believe it. I don’t believe that I’m only great because I am solely swimming.
I think I’m great because I am more.
They’ve been saying that all along. Akara and Banks.
My boyfriends.
I glance over at them. They’re taking their post at the wall. Akara leans a little into Banks. He looks casual, not like he’s propping himself up from the pain in his abdomen.
I try not to wince.
But I’m fucking wincing. The mental image of Akara—bloody on the stairwell—floods my brain. I’ve made a lot of sacrifices to be here, and I realize those around me have made sacrifices too. Akara and Banks are constantly putting themselves at more risk in order for me to achieve a dream.
“Meadows.”
I jump, “Fuck.”
“Didn’t mean to scare you, kid.” Kingly is standing a foot from me, headphones around his neck. “You prepared to go out there?”
I swing my arms more. “Yeah. Are you?”
He cocks his head a little. “Look, no one will blame you if your head’s not fully here right now.” Is he consoling me? Is this how Kingly consoles?
Because he fucking sucks at it.
“Your boyfriend was stabbed,” he says point-blank.
I stew. “Thanks for the fucking reminder.”
He lets out a breath, then lowers his voice so no one else can hear. “I’m not going to lie to you. I am worried. You’ve been underperforming these past few days, and we all want first place. I need this gold to set records.”
Records.
Most Olympic golds for men’s swimming. Kingly is sitting close to Phelps’ number one title, which barely anyone has ever encroached on until now.
My childhood self is practically screaming at me not to ruin this for him.
