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“GO, SULLI!” my dad cheers.
I’m eight.
Readying to dive off the dock at the lake house. In a race against Moffy. Glancing to the upper porch deck.
“Go, Sulli!!” my dad cheers.
I’m fourteen.
Fitting on my goggles at World Championships.
“Go, Sulli!”
I’m eighteen.
Gripping the starting block at Olympic qualifiers.
“GO, SULLI!”
I am twenty-two.
And I am here. Now.
I don’t need to glance to the stands or sidelines to see him. I don’t need his voice to be loud to hear him. I know he’s there.
My dad has always been there.
Go, Sulli!!
“Take your mark.”
I grab the platform.
Beep.
Diving into the cool water, I glide and kick. Head breaching the surface, I fucking swim like I’m six, eight, twelve, fifteen—every year of my life sings inside my body, and I don’t stop. Instinctual.
Muscle memory overpowers my movements, and I push myself to the brink. The very last edge I can go. Body searing, I do a flip-turn at the wall—kicking off, I’m on lap two.
Eight laps total.
Seven to go.
400 meters.
Lungs on fire, I roll my head and intake a breath, then return my face to the water. I’m gliding. I’m soaring. No one can touch me.
I’m fast and free.
I love how happy this sport makes me.
Exhilaration sings through me, and I pump and kick and sink my arms into the water. Like always, I give everything I have. And I leave the gnawing thought—what if it’s not enough—in my wake.
Frankie is at my heels.
She’s at my bicep.
She’s closing in.
Four laps to go.
I swim.
I swim.
I swim.
Go, Sulli.
Final turn.
Last lap.
Last fifty-meters, I remember Akara. I remember Banks. I remember our baby. And in the last stretch, I swim to them.
My hand slams into the wall.
I’m gassed, and as I pop up, I heave for air, not wanting to look at the scoreboard. Barely able to breathe. Screams and cheers and hollers erupt around me and in the stands. But I don’t know who for.
Pulling off my goggles, I take labored breaths as other swimmers touch the wall. Frankie has been in the lane beside me.
Her goggles already off.
Has she been here the whole time? Before me? My stomach muscles tighten, and she squints up at our final times.
Finally, I spin around and look.
What?
My mouth slowly falls open in shock.
Utter fucking shock.
Tears pinprick my eyes.
Screams and cheers seem louder.
“Sulli!” I hear from behind me.
“SUL!”
My heart leaps, and I quickly pull myself out of the pool.
Overcome.
Over-fucking-whelmed with new feelings. My hands to my mouth, I’m sobbing, and I don’t need to run to the voices. They’ve already run to me.
Banks and Akara pull me into a tight hug.
I won gold.
And I set a new world record.
36
BANKS MORETTI
Stands grow hushed as three swimmers take the podiums one by one. The pool scoreboard above them reads: Victory Ceremony. Women’s 400m freestyle.
Cameras fix on the swimmers—Sulli and Frankie in white Team USA track suits—and a big blue wall with Olympic rings are the photo-worthy backdrop behind them. On television, the ceremonies look like a change in venue. But the Olympic pool looms behind the reporters and lenses.
Akara and I stand somewhat off to the side. Bodyguard perks. We have a close angle of our girlfriend.
My mouth curves up, watching as Sullivan waits behind the tallest platform at the medal ceremony. Watching as she soaks in the triumphant atmosphere.
At twenty-two, my enlistment ended and I wasn’t exactly sure where my boots would land. Eight years later, and I thank God I landed here.
The pride I have for Sulli could swell beneath ten-thousand grounded ships and cast fleets upon fleets out to sea. Not many will ever understand how much she overcame to win, but Akara and I do—and the people around us get it too.
Her parents, Ryke and Daisy, and her sister Winona—they’ve joined us poolside for the medal ceremony. I was almost pitched ass-backwards when the call came over comms.
“Akara and Banks, the Meadows are coming down to you,” Price informed us.
They could’ve stayed in the audience with the families. Could’ve cheered and snapped photos from that vantage and waited for Sulli to climb up to them.
Akara said they’re not here for a close-up picture. Four years ago, they didn’t come down and stand with him while he was on-duty.
They’re here now because they know what we mean to Sulli, and I imagine, in this single fuckin’ second, that I’m not a bodyguard. I’m not attuned to the static in my eardrum.
I’m not strung out on vigilance. Not letting my gaze flit to sudden movements and misplaced noises. Not thinkin’ about how to safely guide Sulli out of the stadium after her big win.
I imagine I’m just her boyfriend.
Just a South Philly guy who lucked out and found the kind of love that rarely comes around once in a fucking lifetime.
Standing proudly with Akara, her only other boyfriend, and her wild, adventurous family.
Bronze and silver are awarded, and Frankie stands on the second tallest podium, having won silver. One podium remains vacant. Waiting for the beautiful, radiant smokeshow.
