“Of course,” Bobby said, a quiet reassurance in his tone. “She’ll be fine after a couple of days of rest. And… she’ll hear from you. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Please do,” I murmured, my grip loosening on the phone. “Thank you, Bobby.”
“Anytime,” he said simply, before the line clicked off.
I stared at the blank screen for a long moment, chest still tight but lighter than it had been all evening. Alex was okay. And that was enough… for now.
ALEXANDRA
Yesterday, I took the bike out after training because standing still felt worse. Somewhere between pushing thepace and convincing myself I was fine, my phone came loose and met the road. I heard the crack before I looked.
One moment I was still moving, the next I was here, a hospital room, fluorescent lights, no sense of how quickly things had tipped.
Now it’s just white sheets and enforced stillness. A body that’s finally done negotiating. No phone. No noise. Rest, whether I want it or not.
When Bobby knocked and stepped into the room, I already knew what he was going to say.
“Olivia called,” he said quietly. “She was worried, but I reassured her.”
I sat up against the pillows, the ache in my body sharp, but the heaviness in my chest sharper. “What did you tell her?”
“The truth. That you needed rest. That you’re burned out. But I didn't tell her about you needing to be pulled out due to hypothermia. You need to tell her that, not me.”
I dragged a hand through my hair, guilt pricking at me. Of course, she’d notice my absence, of course, she’d wait for my reply. Normally, I’d text her back in seconds. But I broke that tonight.
“She sounded scared, didn’t she?” I asked quietly.
Bobby’s look gave me the answer before he said, “She cares about you. A lot. She deserves to know why you’re like this.”
I pressed my palms over my face. Part of me wanted to find my wrecked phone lying somewhere on the road, so I could send her something. Anything. Proof that I wasn’t disappearing on purpose. But what was I supposed to say? That I wasn’t strong enough today? That the Olympic chase was suffocating me?
Lately, it felt like everything was pressing down on me. I’d always handled pressure well, or at least I thought I had, but these past weeks? It was different. Heavy.
Abu Dhabi should’ve been a clean slate, a chance to start the season strong. Instead, it turned into a nightmare. I was right there in the lead pack on the bike when one of the girls went down. Her crash took me with her, but all I could think was:You have to finish. You need the points.
So I did. I dragged myself to the finish. Twenty-third place. Useless. More than disappointment, it was humiliation. The media headlines weren’t about my fight to finish; they were about my failure.
The headlines didn’t talk about finishing through pain. They talked about how far I’d fallen.
And beneath every article was the same message:Can Alex still keep up with Cassandra? When will the rivalry return? Has she lost her edge?
Triathlon fans, commentators, and even people inside the sport kept comparing us, pushing the narrative that the only version of me that mattered was the one who could chase Cassandra down and give her a challenge.
I told myself I’d bounce back, prove them wrong in the next race. I pushed harder, past the point of reason. Double sessions, brutal test swims, and refusing to let my body rest. And my body fought back. First cramps in the water, then shivers that wouldn’t stop. By the time they dragged me out, my lips were blue, and the wordhypothermiawas being thrown around like a warning sign I’d ignored.
Dad’s voice still rang in my ears, sharp with anger and fear. “You’re burning yourself down, Alex. This isn’t strength, it’s recklessness.”
And beneath all that, something I thought I’d buried years ago crept back in. Anxiety. I used to wrestle with it as a teenager, the sleepless nights, the racing thoughts that made my chest feel tight. I thought I’d outgrown it, out-trained it, but now it was clawing its way back.
It was like carrying a stadium inside my head. And every mistake amplified until it drowned out reason.
Last night, the world narrowed to clipped instructions and gloved hands as they rushed me into the hospital. I was already preparing to say I was fine, that I needed to be discharged so I could get ready for my race today but Dad shut that down before I ever got the chance to argue.
“You’re not racing again until you’re cleared,” he said, his voice iron-strong, fear threaded through it whether he meant it or not. “I don’t care what’s on the line. You need to stop before you break yourself.”
I hated him for it in that moment. He also called my therapist after that. Said I needed to talk, needed to process, because this spiral wasn’t just physical anymore.
The truth? He was concerned. More concerned than I’d ever seen him. And maybe that scared me most of all.
