“And you?” she asked, her voice softening. “How’s Dani treating you?”
“Like she’s trying to break me in half,” I muttered. “But it’s working. My serve’s not a liability anymore. Dani even smiled today, which means either I’m improving or she’s plotting something evil.”
“She smiled?” Alex gasped dramatically. “Quick, write it down. Mark the date. Proof Daniella Lys can, in fact, express joy.”
I rolled my eyes, but the smile wouldn’t leave my face.
Still, even with this rhythm Alex and I had built, I couldn’t shake the blindside feeling. Cassandra. She’d told me vaguely she’d be training with her dad’s triathlete friends, nothing about Cassandra suddenly being back in the mix. Of all people.
When I asked, Alex was almost sheepish about it. “Dad convinced her,” she admitted over the phone, towel still around her neck, hair damp from swim practice. “He thinks if anyone can push me harder than I push myself, it’s Cass. He’s not wrong, though, we’re… efficient. Brutally so.”
Efficient. Brutally so. I forced a smile through the screen, nodding like it didn’t sting, like I wasn’t suddenly very aware of how the media already loved their duo and rivalry enough without reviving it in training too. Alex meant it purely from an athlete’s perspective, but still, it landed heavier than I wanted to admit.
•••••
Alex’s triathlon season opener in Abu Dhabi unraveled in a way I wouldn’t wish on anyone. I’m watching the livestream between practice sets when it happens—one second she’s locked in her rhythm on the bike, the next she’s swallowed by a chain reaction of riders skidding out in front of her, a crash she never stood a chance of avoiding.
My stomach drops.
The camera catches the moment she hits the asphalt, the sickening scrape, the sharp jerk of her body as she tries to roll with it. By the time she pushes herself upright, blood is already streaking down her leg, bright against the sand-dusted road. Officials sprint toward them, their expressions making it obvious what they’re saying even without the audio. I could almost hear the arguments even through the screen:
“We need to get that checked—”
“Leave it, just leave it, I will finish the race.”
And somehow she still got back on the bike. Still ran. Still crossed the line in 23rd place, bleeding and furious and unbroken in the most Alex way possible.
I was shaking by the time I called her. And yes, I was angry. Really angry.
“You should’ve let the medics check you,” I snapped the moment her face appeared on my phone.
She tried to shrug, wincing. “I needed to cross the finish line to get points.”
“I know, but you werebleeding.” I closed my eyes, trying not to let my voice crack.
She brushed it off.
And that nearly undid me. Because the truth is, I would’ve flown to her if I could. Dropped my entire tournament.
But I couldn’t. I was mid-round, locked into my draw, surrounded by obligations and courts.
So instead, I settled for the only thing I could offer from a continent away:
“Please just… look after yourself. Get the cuts and wounds cleaned properly. Don’t pretend you’re invincible. Check in with me, okay? Even if it’s just to tell me you’re annoyed.”
She promised she would.
But I could hear the exhaustion in her breathing, the kind that isn’t just physical.
Days after the race, we still maintained our routine, updating each other about our matches and training, trading the little highs and lows that no one else really understood. It kept me sane, reminded me she was still there even when the days blurred together.
But something changed after that.
The little things were different. A shorter reply where there used to be paragraphs. A pause before answering,like she was somewhere else in her head. Maybe it was just the grind of her training, the weight of everything she was preparing for. But try telling that to my brain at midnight, when I’d replay our conversations and dissect every syllable like a deranged codebreaker. And for the first time since we’d made this routine ours, I caught myself wondering if the cracks were starting to show.
CHAPTER 29
OLIVIA
