Afterward, when the lights dimmed and the noise of Melbourne finally faded, I did what I could to soften the sting. I kept her company, reminded her she was still number one, and tossed out ridiculous jokes about how at least she didn’t double-fault as often as I trip over my own bike shoes. She tried to hold onto her disappointment, but I got a laugh out of her eventually, and in that moment, the loss didn’t define her. She was still Liv.
Besides sneaking around with Olivia, World Triathlon Championship Series is just around the corner, and nowcomes the serious climb. Every race counts, every point matters if I want to punch my ticket to the Olympics. And yes, that also means enduring endless media speculation about me being paired with mytriathlon rival,Cassandra, again.
“Oh, they’re desperate,” I mutter to Olivia one morning as we sit in a quiet café, her still-in-training glare fixed on a plate of scrambled eggs. “They really want to stir up the old Dubois–Cadiz rivalry. Trust me, I’m shaking in my wetsuit at the thought.”
Olivia rolls her eyes but smirks. “You’re kind of adorable when you act as if it matters.”
“It does matter,” I say, waving my fork like a sword. “Olympics are at stake! And every point I earn now…” I gesture vaguely at the menu “...is a potential future medal. Or at least a solid podium. Also, you quietly watching like a tiny manager isn’t helping my nerves.”
“I just… don’t want to jinx your season by breathing the wrong way.” She shoots back, smirking, though her eyes betray her amusement.
“You’re distracting me in a good way. Honestly, you should be banned from the stands and hotel hallways.”
She leans back, the playful edge slipping. Her eyes flicker down for a moment before finding mine again. “So… you’re leaving soon?” she asks, and there’s a small, unintentional break in the sentence. “Europe, the US, Asia… all those conditions you need to train in?”
I nod. “Yeah. I need to lock in, earn my points, and keep climbing until Olympic qualification ends. It’s all-consuming.”
She smirks, brushing her hand lightly against mine. “Looks like we’re both chained to our sport again.”
“Guess that means we don’t need to sneak around this time. No stolen moments in hallways or cafés, our priority is now our sport, huh.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “About time we put the stealth missions on pause.”
“Hey,” I tease, leaning in just enough, “don’t knock the thrill of the missions. You were a very convincing partner-in-crime.”
Her lips twitch, but then her expression softens. “Still… it’s the right call. You’ve got the Olympics in sight, Alex. Every race from here counts. And Grand Slams aren’t going to play themselves.”
I nod, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “Yeah. This is the window. The one we’ve both worked for. It’s too big to get sloppy now.”
She looks at me for a long moment, eyes warm even under the weight of it all. “So we’ll make the most of the time we do have. No sneaking, no drama. Just… us, when we can.”
I smile, brushing my thumb over her hand. “Agreed. No half-measures. You and me, full throttle in sport, and whatever this is.”
She squeezes my hand once, firm. “Exactly. Olympics, Grand Slams… then we’ll see where everything else falls.”
I tilt my head, smirking again. “That almost sounded like a plan.”
“Maybe it is.”
•••••
After a handful of well-stolen days together, reality caught up. My calendar turned ruthless again, and next on the list was training blocks with Dad’s old triathlon friends and a crew of Filipino elites I’d grown up hearing stories about. Different continent, different rhythm.
I dragged my suitcase down the corridor of Olivia’s hotel. She opened the door before I could knock, hair tied up, sweatshirt swallowing her frame as she’d dressed for comfort and defense all at once.
“Flight in a few hours?” she asked softly.
“Yeah.” I tried for casual, but the lump in my chest gave me away.
She let me in, shutting the door behind us. For a while, we didn’t say much, just sat on the edge of her bed, my hand tracing circles over hers. The quiet was loud enough.
Finally, she sighed. “Guess this is the part where we pretend goodbyes are easy.”
I huffed a laugh, leaning my head against her shoulder. “I don’t do easy. You know that.”
“True,” she said, smirking despite herself. “Cadiz doesn’t do easy. Only Olympic qualifiers.”
“Exactly,” I murmured, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes. “And you don’t do easy either.”
