Georgia gave me that side-eye she’d perfected over years of racing. “You’ve been doubling mileage. Care to tell me who you’re trying to outrun?”
I barked out a laugh, too sharp, too defensive. “Relax. I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t. Every sprint interval, every brutal swim set, it was all just noise control. Keep my body screaming loud enough, maybe I wouldn’t hear the echo of Olivia’s voice in my head.
“Okay, whatever you say.” Georgia let the silence hang for a bit before tilting her head. “Okay one random question. You got plans three weeks from now?”
“Other than trying not to die in back-to-back races? Not really. Why?”
She twirled her bottle in her hand. “My brother’s engagement party’s in the Philippines. Big family thing. It’s going to be all eyes on them, and I’m not keen on being the spare part sister lurking in the background. So… I’m bringing friends. Thought you might want to come.”
That caught me flat-footed. “The Philippines?”
“Yeah. Isn’t that where your family’s from too? Could be a bit of home for you. Plus, you’d be saving me fromdying of boredom when everyone’s busy fawning over the happy couple.”
I smirked, towel still hanging over my shoulders. “So I’d basically be your human shield?”
She added casually, “I already asked Cassandra, but she’s swamped with her swim camp in Tokyo that week. So it’s down to you, Cadiz. Don’t leave me hanging.”
I laughed, but the back of my mind was already spinning.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said, surprising myself. “Maybe I do need a break. Could be nice to actually treat it like a vacation this time.”
Maybe disappearing for a few days into beaches and chaos wasn’t the worst idea. At least for a little while.
The next morning, though, there was no such thing as vacation. Race day had a way of wiping out every stray thought, every indulgent fantasy, until all that was left was the thrum of nerves under my skin. My first proper T100 race at this length.
The horn blasted, sharp enough to rattle my bones, and suddenly I was in a blender. 2 kilometers of swim, bodies thrashing everywhere, someone’s heel practically kissing my goggles every three seconds. Cute. Just adorable.
Middle distance meant the big dogs were out to play, and I wasn’t about to let them shove me into the kiddie lane. I latched onto the lead pack, every stroke a fight not to lose their draft.
By the time my hands slapped the edge, my lungs were screaming, but my brain whispered the same mantra:Don’t let go. Not yet.
Transition was chaos, wetsuits flying, helmets snapping on and bikes rattling out like cavalry.
Before I knew it, I was on my bike. The race leader were up the road, but I could see them taunting me, daring me to chase.
So I did. I closed the gap, wheel by wheel, but when I finally got within striking distance, I didn’t overcook it. Dad’s voice was in my head:Don’t win the bike, win the race.So I tucked in, let the race leader set the pace, and stayed glued to her back wheel like her shadow. 80 kilometers is a long, long time to be stupid. I wasn’t about to burn all my matches too early.
The second transition was where it broke. The race leader stumbled, cramps ripping through her calves, and while she wrestled with her shoes, I was already out. Feet pounding the tarmac, legs surprisingly light. 18 kilometers to go.
From there, it was just me and my head. No crowd, no noise, not even Olivia, just the rhythm of breath and stride, steady as a metronome. For once, my brain didn’t spiral into a soap opera. No “what-ifs,” no “maybe-she-hates-me.” Just: left foot, right foot, don’t puke.
And somehow, it worked. Because I fucking won.
My first ever T100. My first middle distance. And I didn’t just scrape it, I stormed that finish chute, grin plastered on my face, arms up like I’d just cured global warming.
So yeah. Alexandra Cadiz: certified hotshot, breaker of legs (mostly my own), destroyer of cramps (thank you, unlucky race leader), and apparently, record-setting middle-distance triathlete.
Statement made. History written. And, most importantly… someone get me my medal and a very large pizza.
CHAPTER 24
OLIVIA
The WTA Finals weren’t some casual stop on tour. This was the stage, the top eight players in the world, all crammed into one draw. Round robin to survive, semis to prove you belonged, and then the final, where legends were made. And somehow, I was there. The final. Me, Olivia Smythe standing across the net from the world No. 1, reigning queen of the tour, the woman who collected titles like loose change.
But there had been more on the line that night than just the trophy. If I had beaten her, if I had found a way to crack her wall and come out on top, I wouldn’t just have won the Finals. I would have taken her crown. World No. 1. The thought alone had made my chest feel tight. One match away from the thing I had dreamed of since I was a kid smacking balls against a brick wall.
