I’m cringing.
I’m wincing.
I have a hand to my forehead. Where’s Banks? I want to look around for him, but I can’t shift my attention off Sulli. She needs me rooting for her, and I wish I could clap her on. But the best I have is muttering quietly, “You have this, Sul. You can do this, Sul. Come on. Come on.”
“Meadows is falling far behind—oh, bad turn from Meadows. The goggles are clearly affecting her technique and pace as she goes into freestyle, her best stroke.”
I smear my hand down to my mouth. Still as a statute, I just wait for the last fifty meters.
“Australia in one. Japan in two…and can Meadows do it, can she advance to the finals? Meadows comes in fifth, but will that be enough?”
Sulli yanks off her goggles and whips her head to the aquatic scoreboard. There are only two heats for the 200m IM. The first has already gone. She’s a part of the second heat, and among those two groups, the fastest eight will see the finals.
So she’s fifth in her heat, but she’s definitely not fifth overall.
I quickly look for Sulli’s name and where she’s fallen in the ranking. Come on. Please, let her make the finals. Please.
Nine.
The number nine.
My number.
Me.
Next to her name.
I blink hard, my heart shattering.
Sulli.
If I could, I’d do anything to erase that number and type in eight. Preferably number one, but right now, I just want her to have a chance at the finals. Last Olympics, she easily breezed into them.
She never got out this early.
“By less than three-tenths of a second, Meadows has finished in 9th place. Disappointment from the stands. Remember, Meadows is the only U.S. swimmer in this event, and she’s representing the host country this year.”
Okay, he’s grating on me now. I shoot the commentator a glare.
He’s unaware, fixed on his tiny TV monitor, and he couldn’t hear me if I said a thing. Not with his microphone headset on.
“If you’ve seen those clips today, her family is here watching. Meadows hangs her head for a second. She’s yet to leave the water. At poolside, her boyfriend Akara Kitsuwon watches in horror.”
Awesome.
Just awesome.
I don’t change my face. And I’m not horrified. I’m concerned. There’s a difference.
“Her second boyfriend is approaching Kitsuwon.” He’s not second to me or to her.
I see Banks before the sports commentator announces his arrival. He chews on a toothpick, his brows bunched in worry, and he keeps glancing back at Sulli.
“Not good,” I whisper.
“I saw.” He speaks really deeply, huskily, almost inaudibly. “Shot to the heart.”
“Right through.” My nose flares. “She has five more heats. It’s not over. She just needs more confidence.”
“And a new pair of fucking goggles.”
“She’ll probably double-cap to secure them better.” I massage my knuckles, then pause. Is Banks limping? “Are you limping?”
He tenses. “Busted my knees pretty bad.”
“Go ice it.”
“Nine—”
“That’s an order.”
“Go talk to her. She needs one of us.”
“She needs both of us,” I correct.
Banks cracks a waning smile. “One is all she’s getting right now.” He puts a hand on my shoulder, and I can feel him bracing his weight on me. He must’ve really tweaked his knees.
“I don’t like this feeling,” I tell him before we separate.
He nods. “Yeah, I know.”
It’s the feeling of choosing one over the other in a given moment. Sulli over Banks. Banks over Sulli. We all need each other, we all want each other, but there are times where we have to choose whose needs come first.
And right now, I head for Sulli.
18
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
“The fucking goggles,” is all I keep saying, is all I keep feeling. Those fucking goggles. What a stupid mistake that cost me a medal.
It is tearing and clawing at my insides.
“Hey, screw the goggles, strong bean.” Akara is squatting at my lane.
“You mean string bean?”
“Strong bean. The mightiest of beans. The one that’s built from giant beanstalks that not even guys named Jack can climb.”
I laugh.
Kits has the ability to make me laugh when sadness mounts to un-fucking-bearable heights. Tears gather in my eyes, more easily than normal.
“Hey,” Akara whispers, seeing my eyes glass.
“They’re not sad tears, Kits. I’m just…” Fucking emotional. Hormonal, I guess.
He looks like he wants to hug me.
I’d love a hug from my boyfriend.
But I’m submerged in the water. The next event is in thirty-minutes. Women’s 400m freestyle, and my heat is first, so I’m gripping onto the pool’s edge with one hand and chugging a Ziff Power chocolate protein shake with the other.
I’ve already double-capped and secured my goggles. I won’t be making the same mistake twice. No fucking way.
And at least Banks is okay. He’s icing his knees, Akara said. My sister is okay.
“You’re going to advance to the finals for the other five heats,” Akara assures. “Easily. Like last Olympics.”
Like last Olympics.
Where I didn’t have boyfriends.