She makes a noise and crinkles her nose. “Did you just call our baby a bean sprout?” She launches a pillow at me. I catch it easily.
Banks laughs. “I like it.”
“Thank you,” I say to him, just as Sulli kicks his ankle.
I grab hold of her foot and yank. Her back thumps against the bed. “Wait—Kits.” She props herself on her elbows. “I just want to know…you’re both okay, right?”
I love Sulli so dang much. “We’re not the ones crying.”
“I’m not crying.”
“And so what if she was?” Banks tells me, and I’m happy about the interjection. I don’t want Sulli to think she can’t cry.
“Switching allegiances so quickly, Banksy,” I banter to him.
He wears a crooked grin.
Sulli sits up fully, questions in her eyes. “So you two aren’t attracted to each other then?”
Banks looks to me. “We’re both limp, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Is that how you determine sexual attraction?” Sulli wonders.
“Don’t know.” Banks shrugs.
“I don’t either, but it’s as good as we have,” I say.
“Yeah, and if the goal is to get my blood pumping, I’m not dying to kiss you again.”
“Same.” Kissing Banks is like being in a hurricane. It’s not something that turns me on, but it rotates my world.
I climb off the bed, but as I grab my clothes, we all share a look that says, stay close. The cot feels a thousand miles away, and without speaking, we just move. Throwing pillows and blankets on the floor. In minutes, we all cuddle up together.
Sulli curls against my chest while I hold her back against me, and she buries her face into Banks’ warm body. We should go to sleep. The lights are off, and the commotion in the hallway dies down as athletes gear up for tomorrow.
But Sulli glances from me to Banks, back to me. She has to crane her neck to meet my gaze, and her eyes say, I don’t want this to end. This moment.
Us.
Together.
I don’t either. I could spend eternity in the solace of this room with Banks and Sulli. It’s always felt safer. Just us three.
It’s going to be four.
That thought nearly tosses me into another dimension. My expression falters.
“What is it, Kits?” Sulli breathes.
I shake my head. I don’t want her to think I have doubts about having a kid with her. I have none. It’s just…a change. A big change. As soon as we find our footing with a new change, we’re being pushed harder into another.
We don’t live on land. The three of us.
We’re made for the unsteady waters. Balancing upon the waves as they crash underfoot.
22
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
400m Individual Medley is underway.
My first of five finals.
Arms propel over my head with strength and purpose in the butterfly. The first stroke in IM. Breath is locked in my lungs as I push stronger, faster, harder. Don’t overdo the first 50 meters. I can’t gas out, but every fucking second counts.
The splash of water, the thump of blood pumping through my heart, and my narrowed focus drowns out the noisy crowds. I am a windmill powering the Earth.
I am a fucking torpedo blasting through the ocean.
Nothing can stop me…but me.
Don’t lose focus.
Don’t fuck up.
I’m in the zone as I touch the wall and make the turn. Gliding through the water like this is my permanent residence.
Once I tap the wall at 100 meters, I turn into the backstroke.
I can feel myself capture the lead. Pulling out in front of the seven other swimmers, but Gabriela Moreno from Spain is closing in on my left. She hugs my lane. Her hands plunge into the pool, and I sense the splash of water around my torso.
She’s way too fucking close.
Focus.
Remembering my breathing and technique. All the hours I pumped into training matter now. Not yesterday.
Now.
My feet hit the wall in a flawless turn.
Swim to the finish.
Swim to them.
After backstroke and breaststroke, I change to a front crawl for freestyle. My fastest stroke. The one I’m most comfortable in. The final two lengths are here. Muscles and lungs shrieking, I swim. 100 meters of pure adrenaline. Of pure power. Of pure heart.
Gogogogo. No time to think. No time for hesitation. Stop for nothing.
The final two lengths are here.
I just plow ahead.
Gold.
I want gold.
For him or her.
My baby.
Our baby.
I slice through the water, giving everything I have. Every ounce of oxygen and grit and fucking fortitude. I don’t stop. I hit the wall again and kick off once more. Final length.
50 meters left.
My pulse beats hard in my ears. My goggles feel tight, and I take a hearty breath before continuing my stroke. I’m loose and relaxed with no drag, and I’m cutting into the water with ultimate speed. My legs burn from kicking, and instinctively, I know I’m closing in on the wall.
This is it.
Under the water, I press the wall for a final time. Once I pop up, air feels thin as I struggle for breath, but I immediately spin in the pool to check the scoreboard.
The results are unmistakable. What the fuck?
I tear off my goggles to see better.
My name lands underneath Sienna Jones from Australia. Where…where did she even come from? She wasn’t even near me in qualifiers.
I reread the times.
The 2nd next to my name.
It’s like a punch to the gut.
I lost gold by two-tenths of a second.
Two fucking tenths. I blink a few times. Water droplets drip off my eyelashes and blur my vision. I can’t hide my disappointment, and I struggle to care that the world is seeing every muscle twitch on my face right now. Press is probably zoomed up hyper-close.
It’s hard to breathe. Inhaling is labored from everything I gave that race. I wince at that time.
I did everything right. It felt like a great swim. The time is one of my best, but not the best I’ve ever had. And that makes all the difference.
I rack my brain for someplace that I fucked up, but I thought I had it. And that realization is worse than anything. I could blame not qualifying for the 200m IM on a goggle malfunction, but I have no excuses for this 400m IM.
Silver might seem like a great placement, but the world believes I should be sweeping golds. I thought I had it in me too.
Fuck.
Pulling myself out of the pool, I avoid the gazes and just keep checking the scoreboard. Trying to recover breath, I inhale a lungful of oxygen.
I only want to see two people. Akara and Banks are somewhere poolside, and I force back tears. Later, I might cry against their chests and snot up their shirts.
Fuck, I’d really like a hug right now.
As I yank off my swim cap and grab a towel, my lungs expand and contract painfully. Emotion hurts my recovery for breath, and I pad along the pool tiles towards the exit when, suddenly, a reporter in a black pantsuit shoves a microphone in my face.
I barrel to a stop.
Oh fuck.
I rest my hands on my hips, too winded to find an out. I’m trapped in front of a camera lens.
Her badge says GBA News. “Sullivan, how does it feel winning silver?”