That night, after dinner, I gathered my team in the lounge. I told them they need to head to New York earlier than planned. They needed time to settle in, get the logistics squared away, and shake off the travel. As for me, I had a detour to make first. Something I needed to sort out with my dad before the US Open swallowed us whole.
•••••
The morning sun bounced off the glass towers of the Chicago skyline as Bobby and I stepped out of the cab, race-day chaos already spilling into the air. The venue buzzed with movement, athletes jogging in place, volunteers darting around with clipboards, the low hum ofnervous chatter from spectators who’d clearly had too many coffees. My heart gave a little kick; nothing quite matched the electricity of race day.
“Alright, let’s find Dad,” I said to Bobby, scanning the transition area.
We navigated through the crowds until we spotted him: Dad, clipboard in hand. He looked up as I approached, a knowing smile on his face.
“Alex,” he said, voice steady as ever, like we weren’t surrounded by chaos. “I’m glad you made it.”
I nodded, my chest loosening a little. “It’s good to be back in the middle of the chaos.”
Dad’s grin tilted, that mix of pride and mischief he always saved for me. “We’ll save the big talks for after the race.”
Just then, Uncle Chris appeared, clipboard tucked under his arm like it was an extra limb, scanning the chaos with his trademark drill-sergeant focus. The second his eyes landed on me, his whole face cracked into a grin.
“Well, if it isn’t Alexandra Cadiz!” he boomed, striding over before I could even wave. He pulled me into one of those hugs that felt less optional and more mandatory. “About time you showed up in the flesh. I was starting to think you only existed on TV.”
“Thanks, Chris,” I said, laughing lightly as I stepped back.
I returned the smile, but my attention had already drifted. The team was moving onto the waterfront, sun glinting off their gear, goggles being adjusted, muscles stretched, that low hum of nervous energy I remembered from every pre-race moment. Familiar.
And then I saw her.
Cassandra Dubois.
My best friend. Or… ex-best friend, technically.
Her signature French blonde braid swung behind her as she jogged in place, the tri-suit clinging like it was made for her. The sight of her hit me harder than I expected. Suddenly, I was eighteen again, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with her at dawn, swapping strategies and laughing through brutal drills.
She wasn’t just another teammate back then; she’s my partner-in-crime, my training twin. Dad had coached both of us when we were kids: me, the fiery Cadiz heir, and her, the prodigy from Marseille who flew in every summer with a killer accent and an even deadlier swim and run. For a while, it felt like we were destined to take on the world together, until I chose tennis and left her behind in triathlon.
Dad was a few paces away, deep in conversation, when the sight of Cassandra still warming up lit a fuse in me. I stormed over, my voice sharper than I meant. “You didn’t tell me Cass is on the team?”
He looked up, eyebrows raising in mild surprise. “Oh... she joined the roster recently. Thought you knew.”
“Dad, she’s not just some random name on a roster. You didn’t think to mention it?”
His eyebrows pulled together, his tone calmer than mine, annoyingly measured. “I didn’t think it would matter. I didn’t want to rattle her focus with old drama.”
I let out a bitter laugh, part nerves, part disbelief. “Dad, if she even looks my way, she might spontaneously combust. She hated me for leaving. She made sure I knew it.” My throat tightened, the words spilling before I could stop them. “She probably still despises me.”
Dad’s expression softened, his voice gentling. “Then let’s not make it bigger than it needs to be. You’re here tosupport the team, nothing more. If she wants to talk, fine. If not, that’s her choice. We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
I nodded, letting his words sink in. But seeing her again, after all this time, I realized the past I’d tried to leave behind had just walked back into my world.
The horn blared, and the athletes exploded off the starting line, diving into the water like a wall of spray and adrenaline. Within seconds, arms were slicing, legs kicking, the pack stretching into havoc.
And there was Cassandra. Smooth, relentless, already breaking free from the crowd. Her stroke was the same as I remembered it.
She hit the transition zone cleanly, but on the bike, it showed that Cassandra fought to keep pace, her shoulders stiff, her rhythm just a little off. The lead she’d built in the swim started to shrink as stronger riders closed in.
Bobby nudged me. “Guess the bike’s still her weak spot.”
“Never liked it much,” I said softly. “She used to groan through long rides. Always wanted to be back on the track or in the pool.” I shook my head, a mix of fondness and old memories stirring. “Looks like that hasn’t changed.”
But then came the run.
