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.
But I’m not a kid anymore with some silly idol crush.
I have goals too and records I want to set. If I do my best in the pool, it won’t be for Kingly. I assure myself that.
“My head is here. If we lose, it won’t be because of me.”
He looks unconvinced, and I don’t care to try to convince him. He’ll see soon enough, anyway. Dean bounces over with outstretched arms. “The King.” He weaves his arm over Kingly’s shoulder.
Kingly’s uptight, focused demeanor melts into something softer. He slips Dean a grin. “I hate when you call me that, Deano.”
“And I love when you call me Deano.” He whispers something in Kingly’s ear, and they laugh together. Bromance in full force, I guess.
Before I feel on the outs of a clique, we’re given a two-minute countdown. I peel away from them, surprised when Frankie approaches my side.
“How you holding up?” Frankie wonders.
I shrug, words caught in my throat. I’ve been asked that question by my parents, my aunts and uncles and cousins, by texts from my coach and other teammates. I’m just tired of answering I’m fine when the person everyone should be asking is standing ten feet behind me.
She sips a Ziff Power. “I think I’m way more nervous for the relay than for any individual event. It’s…a lot, you know?” Her worry meets my eyes.
And I get it.
Boy, do I fucking get it. “Yeah. Just know that I’d never blame you or Dean or Kingly if something went wrong.” Four years ago, I might’ve. But four years ago, I didn’t even try to do relays.
I didn’t want to rely on anyone but me.
I didn’t trust anyone enough.
“I wouldn’t blame you either,” Frankie assures. “We’re all in this together.”
She hugs me, and I hug back just as strongly, telling her, “You’re a fucking pro in the water, Frankie. Just keep doing what you’ve been doing.”
She lights up when we break apart. “Thanks, Sulli.”
“Swimmers for the Mixed Relay!” a coordinator calls out.
It’s time.
Before I leave for the pool deck, I cast a quick glance at my boyfriends.