“Uggh.” Akara makes a disgusted face up at the TV, mounted in the corner of the clinic’s exam room. “You can’t tell me that’s not a punchable face?” He’s asking Banks.
“I’d punch him,” Banks says like he’s stating the fucking weather.
“No one’s punching the greatest swimmer of our generation,” I retort, not for the first time either. Our debate of his “punchable face” has been ongoing for months now. I am the lone Kingly defender.
Banks nods. “You’re right, ‘cause neither one of us is punching you.”
It swells up in me for a second. He’s calling me the greatest of our generation.
Akara smiles, noticing how Banks’ compliment blows me backwards. “You’re the current GOAT, Sul.”
I shake my head. “I’m your GOAT.” The greatest of all time. “To everyone else, Kingly is the greatest.” Before Akara or Banks argues, I say, “Shhh, he’s talking again.”
They exchange a look like they’re five-seconds from teasing me. So I’m un-fucking-surprised when Banks tells Akara, “It’s a good fuckin’ thing we’re in a clinic. I think she has a disease.”
“Kingly-itis,” Akara quips. “The more she drools, the more fatal it’s going to be.”
I flip them off and then raise the volume on the remote.
They laugh, but the TV drowns the sound.
“…Frankie Hansen should easily do well in the 200m breaststroke semifinals tonight. She has an efficient technique that’ll make her the one to look out for in the finals,” Kingly explains. “And I could see her reaching first in her semifinal heats. She’s competitive in breaststroke and freestyle.”
“What about her teammate and competitor Sullivan Meadows?”
The remote is sweaty in my palm. Last Olympics, Kingly was never asked about me. I’d fucking know because I would’ve replayed the footage to death.
“Meadows is a powerhouse.”
I touch my starstruck smile. My swim idol just called me a powerhouse. Put that on my tombstone. Bury me with the words.
“Get the paddles, we’ve lost her,” Akara jokes to Banks.
“Shhh!” I swat the air, not tearing my eyes off the TV.
Kingly adds, “She’s in six semifinal events, and she’ll be swimming back-to-back tonight, so endurance will play a big factor in how well she does.”
“What are her chances against Frankie?”
“Frankie is the underdog in their freestyle events,” Kingly says. “But Meadows’ greatest competitor isn’t Frankie. It’s herself.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Yeah,” I say to the TV, sitting on the edge of my seat. Which happens to be an exam table with that super thin medical paper under my butt.
“She has to get her head in the game. I can’t say whether she will or not when it comes time to compete.”
“What?” I nearly yell, my jaw on the floor.
“What a prick,” Banks says while gritting down on a toothpick.
Akara is glaring at the TV. No longer joking.
“Is there a reason why you think her head wouldn’t be in the game?” Roger asks.
Kingly opens his hands like, take your guess. “Meadows’ name is known to millions, and not just because she’s a swimmer. If she’s not careful, she’ll let those distractions tank her chances here in Los Angeles.”
“Who the fuck are you? To say that about me on global fucking TV? YOU ASSHOLE!” I resist the urge to chuck the remote at his 2D television face.
I suddenly hate Kingly.
I don’t care if he’s right. Do I have a lot of distractions here? Fuck yes. Am I known for being more than just a swimmer? Fucking duh. My parents are famous, and I was famous at birth. And now I’m on the cover of tabloid after tabloid with my boyfriends.
But Kingly—the swimmer I’ve revered for practically a decade—did not have to expose me like that on a global stage. He didn’t have to cast doubt to the nation.
Akara comes over to take the remote. He pauses as Roger asks, “Could one of those distractions be her boyfriends?” He flips his notebook.
We all go eerily still.
Kingly clears his throat a little, waiting for Roger to continue.
“We’ve heard something happened recently at the Olympic Village. Athletes said they saw Sullivan Meadows and her boyfriends coming out of an aerobics room in the gym, and they looked visibly upset.” He flips another page. “That, and I quote, ‘Akara Kitsuwon had red, swollen eyes like he’d been crying.’”
My stomach plummets.
Akara looks murderous.
Banks slings his neck back and glares at the ceiling. “You gotta be fucking kidding me.”
Kingly frowns. “I don’t know anything about that. I wasn’t there. I’m not going to speak on it.”
I soften a little on Kingly. “Maybe you’re not the biggest asshole.”
“He’s still an asshole,” Akara says tensely, then eyes me and Banks. “We need to be more careful.”
We rarely are. But this isn’t about hiding our relationship anymore. To keep our baby safe, we have to keep my pregnancy secret. I already feel it putting a fire under my butt.
Banks nods strongly, and I nod too, only to hear Roger tell Kingly, “Thanks for your time this morning. We’re rooting for you out there.”
“Appreciate that, Roger.” They shake hands, and the footage cuts to a 15-second ad.
Ziff Power
Official Protein Drink
of the
Summer Games
A bottle of Fizzle’s chocolate shake with the Ziff Power label spins 360-degrees on a blue graphic. And then the ad cuts to a much longer commercial for the drink.
With me and my dad.
I instantly power off the TV. The CEO of Fizzle is my Uncle Stokes, and my other uncles joked how he hit nirvana when they landed the drink deal with the Olympics this year.
Fizzle products are everywhere.
I glance around the exam room. Akara and Banks have been standing, their arms crossed, mostly, and with the TV off, I have no distractions from our reality left.
Funny, isn’t it?
That swimming is distracting me from the baby. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
“Athletes are gossiping,” Banks tells Akara.
“They were always going to gossip,” Akara says, staring at the blank TV. “We just didn’t think they’d bring it to the press.”
My lips downturn. “You don’t think anyone in the clinic will start rumors?”
“No,” Akara says more certainly, but I’m not sure how much is to appease me. “Everyone we ran into signed an NDA.”
Most athletes have to sign them too, but that didn’t stop them.
I try to stay positive. “Nothing has leaked yet.”
Banks nods a few times, “Good signs.”
I rest my eyes against his comforting, gentle gaze for a moment, and I breathe in three deep breaths.
We’re okay.
We’re fucking fine.
The world just knows Akara was crying. Not strange at all. He could’ve been upset about anything. No one is going to think I’m pregnant.