Page 2 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

“Xavier, darling,” I crooned, knowing his jaw was clenched. “I’ve been swimming. I haven’t seen anything except chlorinated water and my own mediocre fucking times.”

“Right,” he said tightly. “Well, according to Elite Gossip, you’re currently dating three women. Simultaneously. There are photos of you with the Swedish gymnast, the model from that charity gala, and… wait for it—Sofia.”

I closed my eyes. Sofia, the Portuguese swimmer I went on exactly one date with three months ago. She wanted something serious, while I wanted to go home and watch Netflix. Alone.

We had agreed to disagree.

“The Swedish gymnast and I had coffee. One coffee. We talked about carb-loading strategies.”

“Sounds riveting and very romantic.”

“The model? I said hello to her. Just once at a gala I attended for exactly forty-five minutes.”

“And the yacht party photos?”

“I left that party at ten because I had training at five, which, shockingly, is where I am right now,” I said, rubbing my face. “Xavier, I haven’t even—” I lowered my voice, even though Coach was the only one here. “I’ve been celibate for four months. I have forgotten what pussy feels like. I’m more concerned with which hand lotion⁠—”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“Liam. Your entire brand is built on being the charismatic playboy athlete. The sponsors eat it up, and the fans go crazy over it. And you’re telling me it’s all⁠—”

“Smoke and mirrors? Yeah, pretty much.” I grabbed my towel, suddenly exhausted. “Most of those women? We didn’t even kiss, let alone hold hands! The media sees me talking to someone and runs with it.”

“But can you at least try to look like you care about your image?” Xavier said, sounding as if he were strangling his phone. “The James family brand is getting nervous. Your father called me yesterday.”

Of course he did. My father, who built a luxury watch empire and expected his only son to be the perfect ambassador. Instead, he got me. An Olympic champion, yes, but also the guy who couldn’t seem to keep his face out of the tabloids for the wrong reasons, and couldn’t keep it in his pants.

“Tell him I’m handling it.”

“Are you, though?” Xavier said, his voice softening. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re self-destructing in slow motion.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“I’ll clean it up,” I said, not knowing how. “Just... give me some time.”

After Xavier hung up, I sat on the bench, staring at my reflection in the pool’s surface. Twenty-six years old, Olympic gold medalist, millionaire from endorsements and family money.

And completely, utterly hollow inside.

Ethan had finally proposed to Kiara two weeks ago. I had stood there with a champagne flute, watching my best friend slip a ring onto the finger of the girl I loved when I was a kid, and felt... happy.

Genuinely fucking happy.

Of course, I didn’t want her anymore, but I craved what they had. That certainty and that solid, tangible thing that didn’t disappear when the cameras stopped flashing.

I wanted to feel something that wasn’t performance.

My phone dinged again. Another tabloid notification. I was about to close it when a name caught my eye.

Deepika Sharma: Hollywood’s Jealous Problem Child?

I shouldn’t have clicked. I had my own PR disasters to deal with. But something made me open it. Maybe boredom, maybe that dark curiosity that made me read articles about myself, even though they always made me feel worse.

It was as if the article was dishing out insults in that typical internet way, where being mean was just part of the show.

‘Depika’ couldn’t let her sister be happy. ‘Depika’ was difficult on set. ‘Depika’ was jealous, unstable, and unprofessional.