Cassandra didn’t flinch. “Yeah. Because she’s not herself. The Alex I know? She’s sharper, calmer, more in control. She hasn’t been that way in a long time. And the only time I see glimpses ofthatAlex again is when you’re around.”
She leaned in, tone firm but kind. “You bring out the old Alex. And I want her back, not just for her racing, but because she’s very dear to me.”
“Why tell me this? What’s in it for you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I just want her old self back on the race.”
Something sharp caught in me, sudden and unwelcome.
“And for the record,” She added, her voice softening, “I want her on that podium. I want her to succeed. But I don’t think she gets there carrying all this weight by herself. She needs you. Even if it’s just knowing you’re not gone completely.”
The noise of the cafeteria blurred and all I could hear was just her words, landing one by one.
Cassandra leaned in a little, her tone steady but not sharp. “You don’t have to forgive her today. You don’t even have to talk to her if you’re not ready. But don’t fool yourself into thinking she’ll just… bounce back without you. You’re not a footnote in her story Olivia, you’re the chapter she keeps trying to rewrite.”
I stared at her, speechless, throat tight, pulse caught somewhere between anger and ache.
She didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed her chair back, gave me the kind of look that was more understanding, and said simply, “Think about it.” Then she left, her tray balanced in her hands, leaving me in the noise of the cafeteria with nothing but her truths echoing in my head.
CHAPTER 33
ALEXANDRA
The race is tomorrow, but my brain has decided sleep is optional. I’ve stretched, eaten the right food, laid out my kit like a good little Olympian. I even double-checked the timing chip like three times, because God forbid I get disqualified before even touching the water.
Every time I tried to “visualize success” like Cassandra drilled into me, I wound up imagining every possible way I could faceplant on live television. Trip on the pontoon. Miss the start horn. Forget how to pedal a bike, which, by the way, is not supposed to be something youforget.
And then, because my brain is wired like a traitor, I think of Olivia.
My therapist’s voice pipes up in my head:When you’re anxious, redirect to what calms you.Well, congrats, Doc. Mission accomplished. Thinking about Olivia is the only thing pulling me out of the panic spiral.
But the problem with thinking about her? It turns intookay, how do I top the pancake stunt?Because apparently my anxiety coping strategy now involves plotting romcom-worthy gestures like I’m Hugh Grant with a bike helmet.
So here I am at 10 p.m., watchingNotting Hilland10 Things I Hate About Youon my phone, literally taking notes. Flowers? Too generic. Boombox moment? Loud, possibly illegal. Handwritten poem? Please, myhandwriting looks like a toddler’s first attempt at hieroglyphics.
I even corner Dad earlier, ask him for “tips.” Big mistake. The man is still smug about his Olympic rooftop stargazing stunt. He pats my shoulder and says, “You’ve got the genes for it. Just be sincere.” Thanks, Dad. Incredibly helpful.
So yeah. It’s the night before the biggest race of my life, and I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling like a lunatic.
•••••
I’m up before the sun; nerves don’t care about sleeping hours. I don’t even remember how I fall asleep, probably somewhere between plotting grand gestures for Olivia and staring at the ceiling too long.
Some Filipino athletes I’ve talked to swing by my room, braid my hair while I fidget like a toddler, hands restless, mind racing. Then come the race numbers: stick-on tattoos pressed to my arms and legs, official and impossible to ignore, like the Games have finally branded me as theirs.
Dad and I arrived at the venue extremely early, because Olympic prep is basically ninety percent logistics and ten percent not losing your mind.
Just before I headed off to warm up, I spotted Mom, Archer, and Bobby. One last good luck, a squeeze of my shoulder, Mom pressing a kiss to my temple, Archer yelling something about not face-planting on live TV. Comforting. Very comforting.
The buzz was deafening. Commentators couldn’t stop saying it, Cassandra Dubois, hometown queen, and of course, Alexandra Cadiz, always in the same breath. Every camera cut stitched us together like a rivalry the world had been waiting for.
Game face mode, no small talk, no smiles. It’s weird, how even athletes who are usually inseparable, suddenly look like strangers about to duel. No words, just clenched jaws and eyes fixed somewhere far away.
I took a glance at Cassandra across the stretch zone. She looked murderous, and that was probably exactly what I looked like too. Only worse.
My eyes snagged on the barricade, on familiar faces and then my world tipped. Olivia. Standing right there, like some impossible mirage, rain flecking her jacket, Maddie at her side like a smug bodyguard.
For half a second, I forgot I had lungs. Forgot the crowd, the cameras, and even the damn Olympics.
