That’s the goal.
I take a breath and glance up at the bathroom stall. Imagining Akara and Banks so close. My heart skips, and I open my mouth to call out for them.
But words catch in my throat.
My eyes burn.
I remember what Banks once told me. Way back after the cougar attack almost a year ago. He said, “The things you aren’t ready to tell people, they’re not really secrets. They’re just vulnerable parts of you that need time to be shared.”
This feels like one of those moments that’s too vulnerable to share.
Too much to get out right now. I wipe at my scalding eyes, trying to subdue the bubbling emotion. I can already predict the headlines:
Sullivan Meadows Is Crying During Opening Ceremony!
Why is Sullivan Meadows Crying?
What’s Wrong With Her?
Nothing.
Fucking nothing and then everything. I pinch my eyes and chew on the corner of my lip again. Hey, hey, hey, stop, Sulli, Banks would say quickly and clutch my face.
Some days, I’ve chewed my lips raw.
Some days, I’ve clung to Akara’s arms like a petrified girl in a horror movie, and my biggest comfort is knowing and feeling that I have them.
Some days, I’ve cried into Banks’ chest until I’ve fallen asleep.
No days have I said, let’s give up. Their love is what keeps me upright on those terrible some days.
I just don’t want today to be one of them.
The stadium is full.
The entire world is watching the Opening Ceremony.
These past six months might’ve been like living under the hottest spotlight, but these weeks at the Olympics will be like living under a microscope. There’s no hiding.
Except, I guess, right now.
“Time,” I whisper, staring at my wristwatch. Then I slowly remove the cap from the stick.
Two lines.
Pregnant.
Holy fucking shit.
2
AKARA KITSUWON
Uneasiness mounts the longer Sulli spends in the bathroom. I refix my comms earpiece, then glance to Banks, then to the mostly barren hallway. Footsteps clap, and with urgency, a camera guy and sports reporter walk briskly in the opposite direction. They cast glances back at us.
Lovely.
So very lovely.
They stop in place. Seeing us alone. Like loitering prey. Like we’re more newsworthy than the Opening Ceremony of the actual Olympics.
Not exactly shocking.
Our faces have been all over entertainment news. Magazines paint Banks as the rugged Marine and me as the badass Muay Thai fighter—and yeah, people are still picking sides. It’s beyond frustrating.
In a perfect world, they’d get over the “newsworthiness” of our poly relationship. In a perfect world, they’d accept that Sulli isn’t going to choose one.
She’s already made her decision.
And we’ve already made ours.
Together—the three of us—until the very end.
Banks grinds down on a toothpick. “Should we wave?”
“Nope.” I stifle the urge to flip off the camera guy, who’s seconds from approaching. “We’re not playing nice with press.”
Banks wears a crooked smile. “I’m loving this give-no-fucks Akara.”
My lips almost rise. “We’re not letting anyone get to us.”
It’s what I’ve been saying for months.
Banks smiles more. “Except for two nights ago, when we were a heartbeat from creating a fake Twitter account just to fight a troll. And a week before that, when I came close to decking a reporter. Then you restrained me, only to almost sucker-punch him.”
I force myself not to roll my eyes. Honestly, last night, I still considered making fake accounts, which is supremely unprofessional and not a precedent I want to set for my men.
Still, I’m considering.
Just a little.
A lot, a little.
So yeah, Banks is right. I’ve been giving no fucks lately. And yet, still, some media and “fans” have crawled under my skin.
“We’re not letting anyone get to us is a mantra that we’re trying to follow,” I whisper to him. “Not one that we’re always following.” I add firmly, “And they’re not breaking us up.”
Banks nods strongly. “Amen.”
It’s us against the world now. It has been for six months, and I’ve never been more assured of keeping course, no matter how dangerous it’s been or how dangerous it’ll become. I’ve never felt closer to Banks and Sulli.
“Akara Kitsuwon, right?!” the reporter with red lipstick and a blue blouse shouts down at us. Testing the waters to see if I’ll engage.
I rotate my back to her. GTFO is practically written on my shoulder blades. The more the three of us reject the media, the more questions arise. But Banks and I have been bodyguards long enough to know that anything we give them can be twisted.
So we’ve left them with nothing.
The downside: Sulli is getting shit on for being a “bratty princess” after denying some Olympic press coverage.
For how hard she’s worked, all the hours she’s spent training, all the moments she’s given up with family to put in the work—I hate seeing Sulli be pegged as something she’s not. She didn’t get a free ride to this year’s Olympics.
She earned her spot.
“They’re leaving,” Banks says quietly to me, watching the reporter and camera guy exit. Fireworks boom in the distance, and our heads swivel to the bathroom.
I hope the noise isn’t rattling our girlfriend.
“She’s been in there a while, hasn’t she?” I ask him.
“Around fifteen minutes.” He eagle-eyes the bathroom door behind us. Shut to the public. Only because we’re guarding the thing.
We share a look.
I call this one Boyfriend-to-Boyfriend, and no, Banks Moretti is technically not my boyfriend—but we’re both hers, so this crap makes sense to me.
He slides a hand across his unshaven jaw. “Maybe the press is getting to her too.”
“Or she’s nervous about carrying the American flag with her idol.” I put mocking emphasis on her idol like I’m a jealous toddler and not a twenty-eight-year-old entrepreneur-bodyguard-boyfriend.
Hey, at least I didn’t gag.
Seriously, I’m never going to be a fan of Tobias Kingly. He has enough of those, one of which is Sulli.
“They should’ve just let her carry it,” Banks retorts. “Fuckin’ sports politics.”
The national committee initially picked Sullivan as the flagbearer for Opening Ceremony, but the public outcry about Sulli being in an “indecent” relationship caused them to change their decision. So they also selected Tobias Kingly to appease everyone except me and Banks.
Sulli said she didn’t care. Less eyes on her.
Banks cares.
I care.
We check the time again. Concern growing. I rock onto my heels, and with my back to the door, I rap my knuckles against the wood.
Banks calls out, “You doing alright, mermaid?” He raises his voice so she can hear.
“Fuck, sorry! I’ll be out in a sec!”
Banks frowns to me. “She didn’t say she’s doing okay.”