CHAPTER 20
OLIVIA
Beijing had been a blur of flashing cameras, polite bows, and endless questions. Press conferences, sponsor shoots, practice blocks squeezed between hotel ballrooms and media suites, it all blended together until I couldn’t tell which smile was real anymore.
What I didn’t expect is Bianca.
She was standing outside the training center one late afternoon, clutching the strap of an oversized tote bag like it was a lifeline. Her eyes darted nervously as though she wasn’t sure if she should even be there.
My racquet nearly slipped from my hand. “What… what are you doing here?”
She gave a small, uncertain smile. “I got an internship. Two months. They… flew me out yesterday.” She shifted her weight, glancing at me and then at the ground. “I thought I should tell you in person.”
I forced a smile, but it came out stiff. The silence between us back in Berkshire still sat heavy in my chest. Surprise or not, I wasn’t ready to laugh it off.
Later, over steaming bowls of noodles in a tucked-away shop, the awkwardness sat between us like a third chair.
Bianca stirred her noodles, watching the steam curl.
“My flat’s tiny,” she said, almost nervously.
“Three of us share it. But the girls are nice. I can walk to the office in fifteen minutes. It’s busy, but I like it. ”
I nodded, polite. “That’s good.”
More silence. The kind that made the clinking of chopsticks from the next table sound like thunder.
Finally, I set mine down. “Why are you really here, Bianca? Just to tell me you’ve moved to Beijing, or… because you felt guilty?”
Her eyes flicked up, startled. “Maybe both,” she admitted. “I didn’t like how we left things. And I didn’t like… how I made you feel.”
Heat rose in my chest. “You made me feel like tennis was this selfish obsession. Like I didn’t care about anyone else. Do you know how much that stung?”
Bianca winced. “And you made me feel like I didn’t matter. Like I was just… noise in the background.” She toyed with her napkin, twisting it into a rope. “I wasn’t trying to drag you down, Liv. I just… I didn’t know how to be proud of you when I felt left behind.”
Her honesty landed heavy. I stared at my broth, watching the oil shimmer on the surface.
“You could’ve said that,” I murmured. “Instead of...” My throat tightened. “Instead of making me feel like I was choosing tennis over family.”
She bit her lip. “I was jealous. Not of tennis, not exactly… just of how sure you seemed. You had a path and I didn’t. I hated that part of me, so I took it out on you.”
I looked at her then, properly. She wasn’t smug, or sharp, or any of the things I’d told myself she was. Just tired. Honest.
“I never wanted you to feel like you didn’t matter,” I said, softer now. “You’re my sister. That’s bigger than tennis. Always.”
She blinked fast, her eyes glassy. “And I don’t want to be the reason you feel guilty about chasing what you love. You’re… brilliant at this, Liv. You really are. I just needed time to catch up.”
My chest ached at that. “You don’t have to catch up. I don’t want this to be some race between us. You’re allowed to go at your own pace, Bee. I just… I wish you’d told me sooner, instead of shutting me out.”
Her lips pressed together. “I didn’t know how. Every time I tried, it came out wrong. And then you’d leave for another tournament, and I’d tell myself, ‘next time,’ but… there was never a next time.”
I nodded, swallowing past the lump in my throat. “I guess I didn’t exactly make it easy. I was so wrapped up in proving myself that I didn’t stop to see how much it was costing us.”
Bianca gave a small, crooked smile. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we? Both stubborn as hell, both terrible at saying what we really mean.”
That made me laugh, watery but real. “Mum always said we were too alike for our own good.”
“Maybe she was right.” Bianca’s smile softened, tentative but warm. “I don’t want us to keep being strangers, Liv. I miss just… being sisters. Watching rubbish TV together, fighting over crisps, laughing at Dad’s terrible jokes. I don’t want that to disappear.”
Something inside me loosened, like a knot finally untangling. “Then let’s not let it. Even if I’m travelling, even if you’re in Beijing, let’s just… try. Call, text, whatever. I don’t care if it’s about work or what you had for breakfast. I just want to know you’re there.”
Her hand brushed mine across the table. “I want that too. I’ll try harder this time. No more silence.”
I squeezed her fingers. “No more silence.”
For a beat, neither of us spoke. Then Bianca grinned, shy but cheeky. “Also, for the record, I still think your backhand down the line is unfair. Watching your matches makes me jealous in the best way.”
I groaned, rolling my eyes, but I couldn’t hide my smile. “You’re horrible.”
“Maybe. But I’m also proud,” she said firmly. “Proper proud.”
Something in my chest eased, like a knot I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying. “I’m proud of you too, you know. Beijing, the internship, you’re braver than you think.”
Her lips curved, soft and genuine. “Guess we’re both figuring things out.”
“Guess so,” I said, and this time the silence between us wasn’t heavy. It was comfortable. Like home finding its way back.
ALEXANDRA
Winning the Europe and Asian Triathlon Cup felt like breaking through a wall I’d been pounding against for years, because the morning after, I got a call from my favorite energy drink.
The sponsor I’d always admired, the one built on pushing athletes past their limits and celebrating the impossible. It was huge. For me, it was everything.
Everything after that has been a blur of opportunity.
My next races aren’t just any races, it’s The World Triathlon Championship Series.
The big leagues. The points that matter most for Olympic qualification.
I need to prove myself, and I’ll have to line up at every single Series race left before the Games.
No skipping. If I can manage that, Olympics won’t just be a dream. It’ll be mine.
And as if that weren’t enough, the T100 Triathlon World Tour came calling too. They personally reached out, offering me a full hotshot contract I couldn’t refuse. They told me straight up that they thought I could spice things up for the middle-distance triathletes, shake the field a little.
It’s a massive leap for me. I’ve only ever raced short-course and Olympic distance, never anything beyond. It’s insane. And impossible to say no, so I didn’t.
Now every day feels like I’m balancing something huge. Training’s been relentless, but I’ve had good company, I’ve been adopted by the British team. It’s funny, we’ll all be lining up against each other soon, fighting for the same podiums. But in training, they’ve been nothing but generous.
I was getting ready for our last bike time trial, when the door creaked open. Dad leaned against the frame, arms folded like a brick wall. Not a good sign.
“You shouldn’t have taken that contract.” His tone was warm but concerned, but I heard the weight underneath.
“Morning to you too, Dad.” I kept tightening the strap, refusing to flinch.
“I’m serious, Alex. Middle distance isn’t some side project. It’s brutal. It’s double the stress on your body. And your priority..” he jabbed a finger at me, “should be the World Championships. That’s your shot at the Olympics.”
I finally looked at him, raising a brow. “It’s the T100. It’s the biggest stage for middle distance. You think I’d just say no to that?”
“You should have,” he ran a hand down his face. “You’ve only just proven yourself again in short course. Now you want to leap into something you’ve never raced before, and risk burning out?”
I stood up, helmet in hand. “Or I could rise to it. I could handle both. I’m not going to choose one just because it’s safer.”
His jaw worked, searching for the right words, but I knew him well enough to see the surrender coming. “If I can’t convince you to drop it, then fine. But hear me, the World Championships come first. That’s your Olympic ticket. The T100… treat it as endurance training. Extra mileage. That’s all.”
A smile tugged at my mouth. I slipped the helmet on and clipped it shut. “Dad… sometimes playing it safe is the real risk. You raised me to go all in, didn’t you?”
His eyes narrowed, but I caught the flicker of pride he didn’t say out loud. “Go do your damn time trial before I change my mind.”
I grinned. “Gladly.”
·····
The time trial didn’t exactly go to plan.
One second I was tucked in, legs firing, chasing every seconds, and the next I hit the curve too fast. I didn’t even see the rock lying there, perfectly placed to ruin my day.
My front wheel clipped it, and the bike jolted.
The road rushed up sideways, and before I could blink, I was skidding across the tarmac, scraping skin, until bam.
My shoulder slammed into the concrete barrier.
Silence. Just the sound of my own ragged breath and the hiss of my bike sliding to a stop a few feet away.
Dad was there in seconds, kneeling beside me. His hand hovered uselessly, torn between holding me still and wanting to scoop me up. “Alex don’t move. The medic is coming.”
The medic sprinted over, kit already open, and dropped to the ground beside us. “Helmet intact?”
Dad’s voice was clipped, controlled. “Yes. No loss of consciousness. Cuts on the face and arms, possible shoulder impact.”
The medic’s gloved hands worked fast, checking reflexes, pupils, running through questions, I answered everything fine. My head was clear. Thank God.
I glanced down and almost gagged. Honestly, it was worse to look at than it actually felt. Nothing broken, nothing career-ending. But the mirror was going to be cruel, and the promo footage? Even worse. Of course, the bloody cameras got everything.
By the time they wheeled me into the hospital, I felt like a patchwork doll. My arms were wrapped entirely, my face stung with butterfly closures and gauze, my legs taped. But nothing broken. No concussion. Just skin.
Bobby slipped into the room, dangling a flash drive between two fingers like it might bite. “I got the footage from the cameraman. Don’t worry, we’re not using the crash for the promo. I told them to cut it out.”
“Good,” Dad muttered, shaking his head.
Bobby hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “But, uh… full disclosure, some spectators probably caught it on their phones. So don’t be shocked if a clip of you eating track ends up online. People love drama, and they don’t exactly wait for permission.”
Dad let out a groan that sounded like it had lived a long, tired life. “Fantastic.”
Bobby held up both hands as if surrendering. “Hey, on the bright side, you bounced. And in slow-mo, it actually looks kind of badass.” His eyes flicked to me. “The internet adores a comeback arc. Just… maybe don’t read the comments.”
I blew out a breath, half a laugh caught in it. “It’s fine. Wouldn’t be my first unflattering video on the internet.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said, grinning. “But at least this time you didn’t threaten a reporter.”
Dad shot him a look that could level concrete. Bobby cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’ll send the edited reel tonight.”
Dad shook his head, still hovering, but finally his shoulders relaxed. “Well… at least training’s over. This was the last day anyway. The doctor said you’re lucky it’s mostly skin, but your muscles need time. No training for a week, just rest. Let everything settle.”
I slumped back against the pillows. “Alright then,” I said, a little too cheerfully, “If I’m officially grounded, maybe I’ll use my week off for something else.”
Dad arched a brow. “Like what? Sleep? Finally watching Netflix like a normal twenty-something?”
I grinned. “Nope. I was thinking… maybe I’ll hop over to China. Catch some live tennis.”
“China?” His mouth twitched. “Who are you watching?”
Before I could answer, Bobby piped up from the foot of the bed. “Olivia,” he said with zero hesitation.
Dad turned to me, eyes narrowing with amused suspicion. “Olivia. As in, Olivia Smythe?”
I shrugged, trying not to look guilty with my bandaged arms and taped-up face. “What? She’s one of the best players in the world. Would be insane not to watch her live while I’ve got the chance.”
Dad leaned back in his chair, still giving me that look. “Mhm. Funny. I thought you and Cassandra were a thing.”
I nearly choked. “Cassandra? No, Dad. She’s my best friend.”
He tilted his head, like he was replaying years of moments in his mind. Then he nodded slowly, his expression softening. “You’ve got my full support on Olivia. I like her. She’s the most amazing player on the WTA right now, class, grit, everything. Plus, she's gorgeous, like model-gorgeous.”
“Dad, please. Don’t make it sound like you’re applying to be president of her fan club.” I groaned, hiding half my face in my bandaged arm.
He chuckled. “What can I say? The girl’s got game. And if you’re smart, you’ll bring your A-game off the course too. Don’t overthink it, just… be you.”
I peeked at him, rolling my eyes but unable to stop my grin. “Is this what it felt like when you were chasing Mom? Chasing a tennis star across the world?
He smirked knowingly. “Exactly like that. And it worked out pretty well, didn’t it?”
I shook my head, laughing despite the sting in my cheek. My dad, the romantic strategist. Who would’ve thought?
“Alright,” he said finally, giving my hair a quick ruffle like I was still twelve. “Get some rest, champ.”
First real crash of my career, and I’d walked away looking like a half-wrapped mummy. Not bad. If nothing else, I had a great story for the team… and one very unflattering video clip for the archives.