The second her feet hit the pavement, Cassandra lit up. It was like watching her step into her natural habitat. Her stride opened wide, smooth and powerful, eating ground with ease. She tore through the pack, one runner after another, the crowd rising with every split time.
By the final lap, no one could touch her. Cassandra stormed down the finishing chute, breaking the tape with arms lifted high. Gold. Maximum points for the team. Top of the individual rankings.
The rest of athletes poured across the line, finishing strong, but all eyes were on her. Always Cassandra.
As I made my way toward the team, weaving through the crowd, my gaze locked on her as she bent forward, catching her breath. She looked every bit the athlete I remembered; fierce, unstoppable, larger than life.
Then her eyes found me.
Her easy post-race glow dimmed, replaced by a tension that made the air between us feel taut.
“Alexandra?” she said, her French accent curling around my name, the sound at once familiar and foreign. “What are you doing here?”
I swallowed, forcing my voice steady. “I’m just… watching,” I said, offering a small shrug. “You were amazing out there.”
Her eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight. The flicker of gratitude was there but it was buried under something heavier: hurt, maybe resentment, a quiethow could youthat didn’t need words to cut.
“Thanks,” she said, clipped. Sharp.
For a heartbeat, the tension hung between us, thick enough I could almost reach out and touch it. I wanted to fill the silence, explain, apologize, but the words lodged in my throat.
A volunteer in a bright vest appeared, breaking the moment. “Cassandra, interview this way.”
Her gaze lingered on me, stormy and unreadable, the faint flare of anger in her eyes refusing to soften. Then, with a rigid nod, she pivoted and let herself be guided toward the cameras, leaving me rooted in place.
My heartbeat had steadied, but the sting of that icy exchange still clung. I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets and let the noise of the transition zone wash overme, scanning for Dad. When his team finally huddled up, muttered through their debrief, and scattered in different directions, I slipped into motion. I drifted after him until we found a quiet corner near the training area. Dad leaned casually against a metal railing, clipboard tucked under his arm, arms crossed like he was half-coach.
“Dad,” I started, voice neutral but laced with curiosity. “We need to talk about this Philippine Olympic Committee thing. Is that… true?”
Dad’s gaze softened but stayed serious. “I heard some whispers, yes. But nothing official landed on our desk. You know I wouldn’t sign you up for anything without you being fully aware and ready.”
Before I could reply, Bobby appeared from the sidelines, phone still in hand, wearing a grin like he’d just struck gold. “I got confirmation. Not official paperwork yet, but yes, your name’s on their shortlist. If you want to represent the Philippines in triathlon, they’re giving you a chance to go back in the sport.”
My breath caught. “So… it’s real?”
“Real enough,” Bobby said, lowering his voice a notch. “But here’s the catch, you’d need to get your world ranking back up, I’m talking about maybe inside Top 50 if you can. Earn points on the World Triathlon circuit so the Committee has grounds to officially select you. It’s eligibility, not a free ticket.”
Dad crossed his arms, gaze steady. “And even if you do that, the choice is still yours. No one’s forcing you. Tennis, triathlon, whatever path you choose, your health and peace of mind come first. Remember that.”
The Olympics. That word had lived in the back of my head since I was a kid, watching athletes march into stadiums, seeing the flags, the anthem, the sheermagnitude of it all. I’d always dreamed of being one of them. And now, the door wasn’t just cracked open, it was wide enough for me to step through, if I dared.
The problem was timing. I had the US Open to finish and obligations to sponsors. But maybe after that… maybe I could take a year, put tennis on pause, and give triathlon everything I had.
“I’ll need to think,” I said finally, trying to sound steadier than I felt. “Dad, can you catch me up? When’s the next major competition to earn points and climb the rankings again?”
Dad shifted, his expression thoughtful, almost like he was slipping back into coach mode. “Triathlon qualification is pretty cutthroat. Everything runs through the World Triathlon rankings. The higher the level of the race, the bigger the points, especially if you finish in the top ten. But since you’ve been out for years, you’d probably have to start in the Continental Cups to rebuild your standing. You need enough points to make the cutoff.”
“Like a Continental quota?”
Dad nodded. “Yeah. Basically, if you’re the highest-ranked in Southeast Asia, you can claim that slot. But you need points to prove it.”
“So… how do I earn points?” I asked.
Dad smiled. “Start with Continental Cups across Asia. Then stack more in World Cups or Series races. The more you race and place, the higher your points. It’s not a one-time thing. You’d have to compete consistently until the qualification window closes, usually right before the Olympics.”
I exhaled. “Sounds like a grind.”
Bobby grinned. “It is. But you’ve always loved a challenge.”
