Disengage.

Let the Rochesters rot in the fucking stadium stands.

We’ve all been guessing why they’re here. To rub in the fact that they took personal aims at the Meadows, Hales, and Cobalts, tanked their stocks, and walked away without a single slap on the wrist? To show how invincible and untouchable they are?

Hell, maybe they just want to watch the Olympics.

Whatever the case, I don’t have eyes on them.

Neither does Akara. Not while we’re in a back room.

He whispers, “Same.”

We both know revenge at the cost of Sulli’s goal is a no-brainer. Revenge is taking a motherfucking backseat.

“Hey, I’ll be a sec.” Akara rests a hand on my shoulder. I just now realize someone is calling him. “Keep an eye on our girl, Banksy.” With haste, he exits the ready room, phone to his ear.

I’m hawk-eying every person. If a toe moves, I plan on seeing it. Two camera crews from GBA News are stationed in a corner. Thank God they’re not allowed to interview anyone and pester Sulli. They’re capturing B-Roll of the Olympians.

At least that’s what Jack Highland-Oliveira told me when I said it was horseshit those distracting lens probers were back here.

With Akara gone, I blink a few times and my mind races in bad directions and my breath heavies.

What kind of father will I be?

Never thought I’d have a question rage-fucking in my head as much as that one. But it’s been loud. Like a teenager blaring their metal music at 3 a.m., that question is gonna keep me up at night. It’s stayed with me all day.

Every time I try to shove it away, it creeps back in. There’s no real answer. I have no downright clue what being a dad looks like for me. Can’t conceptualize it, so now I’m tormented with thinking about it.

Focusing on my job—bodyguard to my beautiful girlfriend—is another welcome distraction to my own thoughts. And so I zero in on Sulli.

She’s moved to a bench. Sitting cross-legged, she still listens to music, her concentration face as cute as a pack of puppies. Her forehead wrinkles as she thinks harder.

Alright, definitely cuter than puppies.

My mouth curves upward.

Her 200m IM heat is first, and I’ve been giving Sulli a wide berth of space. Anything she needs. And so I almost keel over in fucking shock when she raises her head, locks eyes with me, and waves me closer. To her.

Kid you not, I glance over my shoulder like a royal dumbass, looking at the wall, like she called over some other bastard.

Sulli smiles, noticing what I just did.

I almost laugh at myself. She doesn’t have to call me twice. I move my ass and reach her bench. “How you holding up?”

“I can’t stop…thinking about everything except what I need to be thinking about,” Sulli admits in one stressed breath. She sees me towering. “Can you take a seat for a sec?”

I sit down, adjusting my radio and then resting my forearms on my thighs. “I’m not distracting you?”

“My thoughts are a bigger distraction.” She yanks the headphones to her neck. “I just need to be here. In the present moment. And not stuck up in my head.”

“Yeah,” I say deeply, “I understand that. I’ve been trying to get my mind right too.” Our eyes search one another with a vigor that digs to the depth of my core. And I hate needing to break that connection and scan her surroundings. But I do. And I say, “Let’s stay in the moment together, mermaid.”

Sulli exhales another anxious breath, then scoots closer to me. “Usually listening to All Saints is enough.” She completely removes her headphones. “But it’s just making me think of the…cinnamon roll.”

I take her headphones. “You need a different song?”

She shakes her head. “I like hearing you, Banks.”

That reaches a soft part of me. And I must wear some type of smile because her eyes drift along my lips like she’s tracing the movement.

After placing the headphones behind me, I collect her hands in mine. Something overcomes me—love, stupidity, brilliance, passion for her—whatever the affliction I’m drowning inside, I find myself singing.

I can’t really sing.

But here I am, belting softly, slowly, and off-key to Sulli. The lyrics to “Song to the Siren” by Tim Buckley come out scratchy, rough, but quietly enough that I know no one can really hear but her.

She clutches onto my knees. Her eyes nearly glassing, and I hold her cheek as the music pours out of me. We sway a little.

Cameras on us. Athletes watching.

I couldn’t care less.

Watch.

Sulli looks at me the way I’d think Juliet would look at Romeo. Like our stars crossed in some fabled tale, and here we are.

“Swim to me,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “Oh my heart.” I change up the lyrics now and sing, “You’re gonna smoke your competition. Yes you are.”

Tags: Krista Ritchie Like Us Romance
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