Before, I might’ve glared and thought, I’m giving you nothing to work with. Go find another camera whore.
Now—now, I don’t care. Make me a fudging camera whore. Make me whatever you want—because all that really matters is the girl in the pool, the guy on his way to me, and my men.
Everyone else can suck a sour pickle.
Anna Laurent, the eighteen-year-old French swimmer who dove into the water before the beep, starts bawling. Hands to her face, she treads water, shaking and crying like her life has ended. I wince more.
That could’ve been Sulli.
Thank fudge it wasn’t.
We’re all seriously pushing our luck today. Winona was a single second from slamming face-first into concrete stairs. I’m still on edge from seeing her go down into Banks, and I bet Sulli isn’t one-hundred percent ready to compete after watching her sister fall.
Banks caught her. The three of us—we’ve experienced unexplainable moments, like currents in time placing us in perfect symmetry with each other, and something put Banks there today. Sulli’s love for her sister. His love for Sulli. Maybe even his love for me—because I know he left to give me alone-time with our girlfriend.
The fact that he was there—that’s what saved Winona. He wasn’t supposed to be on those stairs. He wasn’t supposed to go retrieve a missing bracelet. And he wasn’t supposed to be on his way back to me. Ready to turn and catch her fall.
I can drum it all up to luck or coincidence, but I won’t.
I can’t.
The spiritual pieces of me know it’s more.
But yeah, I’m sure there’s a morsel of luck wedged in there too. Let’s hope that hasn’t all run out.
“Horrifying false start for France,” a sports commentator speaks quietly into his headset. He’s the closest to me from the press bleachers. “Swimmers are waiting for a reset as the referee and officials decide over Laurent’s chances to return. To remind viewers at home, officials enforce all rules and decisions of FINA, and there is a no false-start rule. This is likely the end of the road for Laurent.”
Laurent climbs out of the pool, hand encased over her mouth. Eyes squeezed shut, she drops into a squat and sobs into her arm. Olympic dreams crushed.
Don’t let that be Sulli.
I should have empathy for the French swimmer, but instead, I’m just afraid for my girlfriend. Four years ago, I remember the same nerves racing through me—because this powerful thing I feel for Sulli—it’s always existed.
It lived and breathed back then.
But I wouldn’t show the fear or how I could’ve crouched down and bit my nails to the bed. Now I feel the worry flood my face, and I let it.
“Officials are telling swimmers to remain on the block. They’re going to resume the heat, as Laurent has just been disqualified.”
Sulli turns her head, her goggled eyes pointed in my direction. I smile and mouth, six. She only has six girls left to beat in her heat. It’s a good thing.
Better Anna Laurent goes down than Sullivan Meadows.
My girlfriend shares the same kill or be killed mentality when it comes to competing. She looks more readied, determination in her stance and as she swings her arms and bends, waiting to grip the starting platform. One more glance to me.
I tug on my ear.
Her lips rise.
Four years ago, I wasn’t dating Sulli. I hadn’t kissed her yet. I hadn’t slept with her. I hadn’t seen her bare and wanting and craving. I hadn’t seen her cry over more than swimming. I hadn’t learned how to quell her deepest fears. I hadn’t held her with another man. I hadn’t heard her say she’s in love with me and she’s pregnant. I hadn’t told her just how much she means to me.
Four years ago was light-years different than today, but then, some things really are the same.
These feelings.
They overpower me. My chest rises, and I can’t take my eyes off Sulli. Not as she’s seconds from diving into the water.
“Take your mark,” the starter commands.
Beep.
All seven swimmers are in the pool. Their arms propel over their heads in the butterfly stroke. I cage oxygen like I’m under the water with her.
Come on, Sul.
Come on, Sul.
“Come on, Sul,” I mutter under my breath.
“Meadows is in the lead,” the commentator narrates. “She’s the only swimmer for the United States to qualify for women’s 200m IM. After butterfly, they’ll be changing to backstroke, but breaststroke is crucial here. It is all legs, and Meadows doesn’t want to gas out.”
Sulli reaches the end of the pool first.
I inhale slightly.
“Great turn for Meadows—and Meadows at the first fifty. In front of Australia and Japan, close behind. Backstroke is strong as Meadows leads the pack.”
I smile at his words, and I hear the sounds of the stadium. Cheers echoing off the dome and the splash of water and the stadium announcer speaking through a booming mic as swimmers reach one end of the fifty-meter pool and turn. This is the music Sulli has missed and loved and loves.
“Meadows quickly comes into the breaststroke leg—she makes the turn and kicks. Oh no.”
My face plummets.
Sulli’s goggles are slipping off her face.
“Meadows is losing her goggles. Her goggles are now beneath her nose and completely off her eyes. She is maintaining pace, but not for long—Australia and Japan are gaining speed.”
No, no, no.
I bite my tongue so I don’t shout. I’m not in the stands. I can’t yell from poolside, but shit, I want to shout at Sulli to keep going. She has this. She’s okay.
She’s okay.
“Meadows is clearly trying her hardest, but the goggles are wrapped around her mouth and she’s struggling to spit them out or free them. This is painful to watch.”
I’m cringing.
I’m wincing.
I have a hand to my forehead. Where’s Banks? I want to look around for him, but I can’t shift my attention off Sulli. She needs me rooting for her, and I wish I could clap her on. But the best I have is muttering quietly, “You have this, Sul. You can do this, Sul. Come on. Come on.”
“Meadows is falling far behind—oh, bad turn from Meadows. The goggles are clearly affecting her technique and pace as she goes into freestyle, her best stroke.”
I smear my hand down to my mouth. Still as a statute, I just wait for the last fifty meters.
“Australia in one. Japan in two…and can Meadows do it, can she advance to the finals? Meadows comes in fifth, but will that be enough?”
Sulli yanks off her goggles and whips her head to the aquatic scoreboard. There are only two heats for the 200m IM. The first has already gone. She’s a part of the second heat, and among those two groups, the fastest eight will see the finals.
So she’s fifth in her heat, but she’s definitely not fifth overall.
I quickly look for Sulli’s name and where she’s fallen in the ranking. Come on. Please, let her make the finals. Please.
Nine.
The number nine.
My number.
Me.
Next to her name.
I blink hard, my heart shattering.
Sulli.
If I could, I’d do anything to erase that number and type in eight. Preferably number one, but right now, I just want her to have a chance at the finals. Last Olympics, she easily breezed into them.