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.
And then, the announcer calls, “Winner of the gold medal…Sullivan Meadows!”
She steps onto the podium and waves to the crowds and to us.
I’m a six-seven, muscled man—but I have trouble keeping my shit together. We all applaud with emotion barreling through. Akara’s hands clapping over his head.
Tears stream down Daisy’s cheeks and proud smile. She videotapes her daughter on an old camcorder and whistles, two fingers between her lips. Winona howls and hugs onto her mom, jumping up and down with happy tears.
No one claps harder or more vigorously than Ryke Meadows.
I rub my wet eyes with my fist.
Akara blinks a ton before he has to use his shirt to wipe his face. “That’s our Sulli!”
I cup my hands over my mouth and shout, “Hot damn!”
Sulli laughs into a bigger, happier, more overwhelmed smile. God, knock me over. That smile is an arrow piercing through my heart.
I’m fucking done for.
My phone buzzes in my pocket a few times.
I ignore.
Not wanting to miss a beat.
The Jumbotron above the champions shows flashes of the audience. Maximoff, Jane, Luna, Beckett, and more—SFO, her aunts and uncles—all clapping. Barely a dry eye in the house.
I sniff hard when Sulli bends her head, and an official slips a gold medal around her neck. A woman passes Sulli a small bouquet of orange California poppies.
We clap harder. Daisy lets out another whistle.
Sulli yanks her sleeve, and then lifts the medal to her lips. She bites the gold, a signature pose for all her golds. But clear as fucking day is the tattoo on her wrist, facing every camera.
Forward & Onward.
My chest rises in a deeper breath.
Akara reaches up and holds onto my shoulder. We exchange a determined, strong look, and I lightly smack his upperchest. Careful of his stitches.
The three of us aren’t just surviving.
We’re thriving.
How long that’ll last—I can’t say, but I take these moments as they come, and God, is this is a beautiful fucking one.
When Sulli splays the medal flat to her chest, cheering dies down as the competitors lift their gazes to the flags. The national anthem starts playing. Hands to our hearts, time seems to stop for a second.
Tears crest her reddened eyes.
She pinches them away, trying to see through the emotion. Cameras zoom in on her overcome face, and my heart is beating stronger for her.
You did it, Sulli.
Three flags are hoisted up. Two American flags and then the Japanese flag on the far right.
I see Sulli break through the tears into another big smile. Seeing her radiate the sorta joy I wish I could bottle and shelve and save for later. When the world won’t be as kind to the girl I love.