I’d beaten Amira by a full second. I’d gotten my first ever world record. I’d won my first individual gold.
If I’d had the energy to cry, I would have. Some swimmers flipped out in their lane when they won gold or broke a record, and I always thought that was tacky. We were professional athletes and had to be good winners just as much as we had to be good losers. But even if I’d wanted to freak out, I couldn’t. I literally couldn’t move or breathe. I was so shell-shocked and exhausted that I just floated, gasping for breath and looking at the board, wondering if I’d dreamt the whole race because I—some average girl from an average upstate New York town—couldn’t possibly have won Olympic gold along with a new world record. It couldn’t be.
Amira slid over to the lane line and woke me out of my daze. I floated over, and half her body fell on top of me. Although she’d wanted the gold like we all did, she wasn’t a poor loser. She flashed me a smile mixed with genuine happiness and disappointment.
“You did it, Yankee,” she barely said, as out of breath as I was. “You deserve it. Good job.”
“I think you killed me.”
“That’s what it feels like to win a gold medal, my friend. Welcome to the club.”
She patted me on the back and lifted herself out of the pool.
Twenty minutes later, at the medal ceremony, I was still collecting my breath when the presenter draped gold around my neck. The fifteen thousand people, including my parents and brother, stood in the stands, whistling and cheering. Like I was taught in media training, I gave the crowd a smile and a wave. The cameraman moved right in front of me, about to capture the moment the national anthem echoed in the natatorium. It hadn’t even begun, and the stinging hit my eyes and flared my nostrils, and emotions collected in my throat. I wanted to know if Kennedy saw it, if she was watching, if she was proud of me.
“Please stand for the national anthem of the United States of America,” the announcer said, his deep voice ringing throughout the natatorium.
Just hearing my country’s name gave me goose bumps and started the tears.
Put your hand over your heart. You’ll get criticized if you don’t, Lucy’s voice reminded me in my head.
I placed my right hand over my heart, and “The Star-Spangled Banner” started playing to all fifteen thousand spectators and everyone watching all over the world. The Hungarian, American, and Chinese flags slowly rose, and at the sight of the American flag in the middle broke the tears. I’d heard the anthem hundreds of times before, but it never sounded as sweet as it did when echoing at the Olympics. It was the greatest honor of my life having that song played and the flag displayed because of my race. I tried holding in as much emotion as I could while singing along—you need to sing along or at least mouth the words so everyone knows that you know your country’s national anthem, Lucy’s voice reminded me—but I completely failed. When the rockets started glaring red and the bombs started bursting in air, tears fell freely. That was when I realized that this wasn’t some dream. It was a childhood dream turned into reality because I could feel the moisture on my cheeks, the ball in my throat, and the stinging in my eyes from the chlorine mixing with my emotions. All the feelings indicated this was very much real and not just a daydream anymore.
I’d missed the London Olympics. I’d missed the podium in Rio. But four years later, my country’s flag rose high in the natatorium, and my country’s national anthem played on every TV in the world on the largest sports stage. The biggest accomplishment of my life dangled around my neck. My family witnessed all their time, energy, and support paying off right in front of them. Hopefully, the girl who’d been my number one fan since the Beijing Games watched it all back home.
This very moment was worth all the wait and the heartbreak.
I had never been prouder of myself.
Tokyo was my Olympics.
Chapter Six
On Tuesday, after qualifying for the final of the 200-meter free, on my way back to the Olympic Village, I spotted Amira. Her red, white, and green duffel bag hung across her tall, skinny body, and soundproof headphones hid her ears. It was the perfect opportunity to psych out my competition. She had swum her 200-free race a second faster than me, and if she could use her sexuality to distract me, I thought it was fair that I could use fear to distract her. No one was safe in the Olympic Village.
Unless you stayed inside or used condoms.
I ran up behind her and grabbed her shoulders, and she sprang forward, yelling something in Hungarian that I assumed were swear words. When she saw me cackling, she calmed down, lowered her headphones around her neck, and forced a smile.
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“Good. I need to fuck with you until about nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“I didn’t know you were such a dirty player.”
“You started this on Sunday.”
She gave me a smirk. “What did I do on Sunday?”
“You…” I paused and thought about it as her sneer widened. It was a trap, and I fell right into it.
“I what?”
I scoffed. “You know what you did.”
“I don’t. I think you should remind me.”
I continued on the sidewalk that led back to the village without letting myself get tangled in the trap. Amira snickered and scurried up to continue heckling. “Are you frustrated, Yankee? You seem frustrated for just having won a medal.”
“You make me frustrated.”
She feigned shock. “I wouldn’t ever do such a thing.”
Various country flags hung over the balconies of the apartment buildings. Tourists stood on the sidewalks, snapping pictures of the buildings and the Olympics statues and paraphernalia scattered around the premises, and I even caught a few tourists snapping pictures of Amira.
“I have to admit that beating you for a second time will be the highlight of my swimming career,” I said to divert the conversation, trying to probe her inner trash talker, a way to get in her head and flirt with her at the same time. “The gold medals are kind of the consolation prize.”
“I think it’s cute that an Olympic rookie is trash talking a third-time Olympian. American arrogance is alive and well.”
“I might be an ‘Olympic rookie,’ but I’m also a six-time world champ. I’ve earned my stripes to trash talk.”
“I guess we’ll see tomorrow morning. Just know, I have a record for upsetting Americans. It was the most wonderful sight I’d seen in all my twenty-five years on Earth.”
“That was when you were twenty-five. Do you still have what it takes to beat the young’uns at twenty-nine? I mean, you’re basically ancient now.”
Her full lips dropped in shock but still curved into a grin. “And yet I’m still seeded first in the two hundred.”
Okay, she had me there. I tightened my jaw and looked away. She laughed victoriously. She might have won the trash talk, but she wasn’t going to win the 200-free.
She insisted we take a picture in front of a sculpture of the Olympic rings outside the village gates. I went along with it, suspecting she was posting it on her Instagram to hype up the 200-free. Whatever I could do to help draw ratings for swimming, I would do. If that meant taking a picture with my frenemy, sure, sign me up. Plus, that meant that when she took the selfie, she wrapped an arm around me, and I was surprised by how her touch sparked that sharp lust brewing inside me.