Gabe is Gabe. Still new-ish. Green. Kind of an airhead. Hearing him makes me miss Quinn Oliveira’s interjections through the radio. He’s not even in Los Angeles. He’s stuck back at Philly. Stuck rehabilitating his leg, which is taking longer than the expected six months. Stuck managing Studio 9—which I actually do appreciate.
Thank you, Quinn.
I lift my mic to my lips. “Thatcher?” He’ll give us the cue to leave, so we won’t miss out on rejoining Team USA. But maybe I also just want more. Like a firework that spells out, we’re still friends, man.
“Germany.”
Awesome.
Banks catches my disgruntled face. “Thatcher just feels like you’ve moved on.” He lifts a shoulder. “I love my brother, but he’s not that good at fixing what’s broken. He stares at it for way too long.”
I sigh. “Yeah, well, I feel like he’s moved on to Farrow.” Is this what’s supposed to happen? We’re just supposed to forget we were even friends? We’re older now. The Moretti brothers turned thirty in June, and I’m twenty-eight.
I was twenty when I first met them. An eight-year friendship down the drain? Over what? My relationship with Sulli or my relationship with his brother?
Both?
I shift my weight and the sole of these ugly platform sneakers slip underneath me. Pain shoots in my ankle as I wobble. About to come down until Banks catches my fall.
“Crap.” I suck in a wince between my teeth. “Fudge…nugget.” Still can’t curse unless I want a slug to the arm, but no f-bombs even explode in my brain. That’s how long I’ve been tuned into a PG station.
Banks grips my shoulder while I try to put weight on my foot.
I grimace.
“That bad?” Banks asks, squatting down.
“Screw these fudging outfits.” I want to kick off the platforms and light them on fire. But I can’t. In order to walk in front of Sulli during the Parade of Nations, we had to agree to wear the same costumes as performers for the artistic portion of the ceremony. White nylon joggers, white tanks—we look like we could be members of The Backstreet Boys from the early 2000s.
These sneakers have a four-inch platform heel.
Banks is a second from laughing.
“It’s not funny,” I retort, trying not to smile.
His grin grows, toothpick still in his mouth. “I thought you’d have to catch me first.”
“Yeah, me too.”
He laughs, and the thing I love about Banks is how in bleak situations, I find myself laughing with him. My ankle might be screwed, but I’m not missing this moment with Sulli and Banks. I wouldn’t. Not for a phone call. Not for a bum ankle.
Not for anything.
“Am I radioing Farrow to check it out?” Banks asks.
“No. It doesn’t feel broken. Just take it off.”
He nods. “Copy, Nine.”
Banks has been calling me Nine more often these past months. Somewhere between the whole world assailing us with their unwanted opinions and the media hounding us, we’ve grown tighter. Not sure how that’s possible. To become closer to someone who I already gave my heart to. But it happened.
I wince as he tugs my shoe off. While he’s squatting, I grip his shoulder and put another hand on the back of his skull to keep balance.
And then footsteps sound.
Switzerland’s bright red blazers and white pleated shorts enter the hallway. Two guys. Familiar faces. Swiss swimmers Vogel and Ackermann. They’re quiet.
Not even chatting.
Unmistakably, they’re zeroed in on me holding Banks while he’s eyelevel with my dick. I don’t remove my hands.
I’m glaring.
Banks is glaring.
They have to pass us, and as they do, they give us the look. The one that I’ve nicknamed Are You Two Fucking?
The only noise comes from the pop pop of fireworks. Like an emphasis on the awkward note this silent interaction has taken.
Cold frost from Banks and heat from me are enough to superglue their lips. Less than a minute later, they reach the end of the hall, round a corner, and disappear.
Tension winds between me and Banks.
“Doesn’t look broken,” Banks says. “But you know I only have an MG.”
“Same here.” We’re both making guesses. With another sigh, I rotate my ankle, pain zipping up my leg. Dang it.
“Can you put any weight on it?”
I set my foot down and try to bear half my weight. I walk away from Banks. Sorry, I mean, hobble. I hobble from him and then turn back. “How does that look?”
He wipes his mouth, trying not to laugh. “Pretty ugly.”
“Great.”
As I return to him, he smacks my chest with the back of his hand. “Just hang onto me, Nine. I’ll catch you.”
“Trust falls with Banks Moretti were not on the Olympic itinerary.” I gently put my foot back into the platform sneaker.
“Pencil it in under let’s check on our girlfriend,” he says, our attention shifting to the bathroom.
“One more sec! I’m just washing my hands!” Sulli shouts through the door. She must’ve heard us.