“That’s not what I meant,” he says plainly, then sighs. “Sort of.” He thinks again. “I just think you should be happy with the small gains because like you said, it could happen again. She’s quickly becoming the most famous one in all the families. You and Akara are too. That’s not something you can escape, so you can either embrace it or let it rule you. Because you can’t fight it.”
Breath heavy, I don’t have long to think on his words.
The door opens.
Akara squeezes out in the hall, nailing a serious look on me. “She can hear you.”
“Fuck,” I curse, then glance at the other apartment doors. Hopefully they didn’t hear shit.
“They signed NDAs,” Akara reminds me.
I nod stiffly.
“Akara,” my dad greets.
“Hey, Michael.”
With one nod, I say a silent goodbye to my dad, and I slip into the apartment. Donnelly is disinfecting Sulli’s skin for the tattoo.
Her green, green eyes land on me. She chews the corner of her lip.
“I’m sorry,” I breathe, stomach knotted. “You’re safe. We’re not letting anything happen to you.”
She nods. “Yeah, I fucking believe that. I do.” Her eyes redden. “Can you sit beside me?”
Without pause, I’m at Sulli’s side. I wrap my arm around her broad shoulders, and she leans into my chest. I kiss the spot beside her ear and whisper, “We’ll get through this.”
She exhales.
Soon Akara is back. He’s seated at her feet. He teases his fingers under her anklet, distracting her from the buzz of the needle along her skin. “Next stop,” Akara tells her, “to the Olympics.”
Very strongly, Sullivan says, “Forward and onward.”
6
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
NOW
I’m pregnant. I’m pregnant.
I’m fucking pregnant.
“It’s happening. We’re finally here!” Frankie Hansen squeals next to me and shakes my arm as we both wait with Team USA in the wings of the stadium. Her fair white skin contrasts the dark navy of her Ralph Lauren blazer, and she’s totally put together. Ready for a network, worldwide closeup.
Frankie transformed from the Olympic hopeful that I briefly coached at Warwick University to my Olympic rival at Team Trials and now to my teammate in Los Angeles.
But fuck, really, we’re still competing. She was only a couple seconds behind my 200m & 400m freestyle times, and yet, I can’t deny how much I’ve grown to like Frankie.
Overzealous, upbeat, and untiring—she’s my closest swim buddy here. Her platinum blonde hair and thick blonde eyebrows are the face of Nubell Cookie’s Oaty Nut Bar. And as far as swimmers go, she’s quickly become a face of the Summer Games alongside Olympic returnees Tobias Kingly, Christian Dean, and me.
Little does Frankie know at the moment, I’ve been in a daze since Akara and Banks left my side. They flank the wall and do their bodyguard business. Concentrated on security. Eyeing the perimeter. Eyeing me. My safety.
Out of instinct, I almost turn to them. I’m so used to my boyfriends being a place of solace. To calm my speeding pulse. To comfort me when the world feels like it’s creeping in too snug. Too tight.
But I’m keeping a big chunky fucking secret from them. And the guilt is enough to plant my lying liar eyes elsewhere.
“It’s so surreal,” Frankie breathes in awe.
I’m pregnant. “Yeah, it really fucking is.”
She grins at me, squeals again with the rattle of my arm, and I try to leech her excitement. You made it here, Sulli. My lungs swell, and I smile back at Frankie. Whether or not she can tell it’s weak, I don’t fucking care. I think she’s too hypnotized by the majestic Olympic atmosphere. And to be frank, I want to be fucking hypnotized too.
I worked so hard to be here this year. Fucking determined, I practically ate, breathed, and slept swimming. The water could’ve been my bed. My roommates barely saw me in the penthouse. I was in and out like a wet ghost. Luna literally called me Sulli the Swim Specter for the past six months.
“We’re all back here waiting for the United States to be called up,” Christian Dean says to his internet fans, hoisting his cellphone and filming Team USA in the wings. “Say hi, guys!”
More than 600 athletes—from gymnasts to track stars, rowers, and javelin fucking throwers—cheer together as he pans the camera overhead.
I let out a little “woot woot” that feels honest. Last Olympics, I stayed true to myself, not engaging when I didn’t want to engage—and I promised myself I’d do the same this time.
Christian Dean pushes through the throngs, hair cut short with a cool fade. I just call him Dean. He’s black with dark-brown skin, a magnetic smile, killer backstroke, and A++ social media skills that seriously rival my cousin Jane’s.
As the self-dubbed “hype man” on the team, he has over 5 million TikTok followers alone. The public has been eating up his behind-the-scenes videos leading to the Games.