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.
“Meadows!” Dean points me out, coming over and wrapping an arm around my shoulder. The phone is still recording.
Oh fuck.
I have an awkward fucking smile at the selfie video.
“She’s shy,” Dean tells his viewers.
I actually laugh.
Because, yeah, four years ago, I kept to myself and avoided a lot of the press cameras. And four years ago, we were first-time Olympians together. Dean was my closest friend at the Games. We had the same coach at the club before qualifiers, and he didn’t care that I didn’t talk a lot or that when I did, it usually revolved around swimming.
Once I retired from the sport, we sort of fell out of touch.
My doing.
I never fucking trusted anyone enough to be their real friend. I couldn’t tell them about my family. Couldn’t talk about my life without fearing it’d wind up online. And so I pushed Dean away along with everyone else. Keeping them at a distance was fucking safe.
“Hey,” I wave at his phone.
Dean squeezes me in a side-hug. “She’s going to take gold for America. Watch out for this superstar.”
I lightly slug his shoulder. “You’re taking it home.”
“We’re.” He reminds his viewers, “Hundred-meter mixed relay with me, Meadows, Kingly, and Hansen. You better tune in to that one. It’s gonna be epic, guys.”
A stupid giddy smile plays at my lips.
I’m swimming with my fucking idol.
Tobias Kingly.
He’s somewhere here.
“Kingly!” Dean pushes away from me and weaves through the throngs. I don’t follow him. The closer we are to show time, the more the anticipation winds inside me, twisting my stomach.
I’m about to be on TV.
It could be way worse. The media finding out I’m pregnant—that is a petrifying scenario that I can’t let come to fruition. God, all the questions they’d yell at me….
Who’s the father, Sulli?
I don’t know. One of two. Banks or Akara.
When’d you get pregnant, Sulli?
I can’t be fucking sure. Maybe during Team Trials? Maybe in Hawaii at the Training Camp?
How far along are you?
I don’t know. I don’t fucking know!
With a sharp inhale, I glance at the wall. But instead of making eye-contact with my boyfriends, I find another familiar face.
I slip through the masses and approach him.
Backstage lanyard around his neck, he wears cargo khakis and a plain gray tee. His proud smile among his hardened, scruffy features transports me back to four years ago.