CHAPTER 21
OLIVIA
I've been in such a good space lately. Not just because of the matches where I was striking the ball clean, serving with confidence, but because Bianca and I were… well, sisters again. Properly. We’d been messaging every night since, sending silly photos, half-baked jokes, even me begging her to ship me Beijing snacks. It felt like before.
And then, just when I thought I couldn’t be happier about us mending things, she dropped the biggest bomb: Her long time boyfriend, William had proposed.
My sister was engaged. The photo came through, her hand stretched out, diamond catching the light, her grin so wide I could almost hear her laugh through the screen.
It was simple, it was constant, and it made me feel like I had her again. Like the one part of my life I thought I’d lost for good had found its way back to me.
“You look annoyingly confident,” Maddie said, side-eyeing me with a grin.
I smirked, toweling off. “Annoyingly?”
“Yeah. Like the kind of confidence that makes the rest of us feel underprepared,” she teased, then softened. “But seriously, you’re playing really well, Liv. It’s good to see you happy on court again.”
I glanced at her, caught off guard by the gentleness. “Thanks. I feel… balanced, I guess. Bianca and I sorting things out probably helped more than I realized.”
She smiled knowingly. “Funny how family stuff can sneak into your game, huh?”
“Massively,” I admitted. “I thought I could just box it all away and focus on tennis, but turns out, nope.”
She nudged me with her shoulder. “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep at it. This is the best I’ve seen you in weeks.”
I let the words settle, warmth prickling at the edges of my chest. It wasn’t just the tennis. It was Bianca, it was finding rhythm again.
Maddie hesitated then, twisting her bottle cap. “There’s… also, well, someone else who’d probably be glad to see you this way too.”
She faltered, lips pressing together. For a second I thought I knew where she was going, and my chest tightened. But she shook her head lightly. “Never mind. Just… keep this energy going, alright?”
I exhaled, grateful she let it drop, even if part of me already knew.
It had been weeks since Alex’s Asia Triathlon Cup.
Weeks since I’d found out, quietly, almost by accident that Alex had won gold there, and barely a week later, she did it again in Europe Triathlon Cup, two wins back-to-back.
I hadn’t messaged her. I hadn’t dared. But that didn’t stop me from following along, like some silent ghost drifting through the edges of her life.
Her Instagram had practically turned into an energy drink campaign overnight. First came the announcement post: a bright red-and-blue banner behind her and that unmistakable can in her hand. Then the clips started rolling in.
The strangest part was how it made me feel. Proud, definitely. She was brilliant, even if she’d never admit it out loud. But also… restless. Because the triathlon media had started speaking about her nonstop.
I’d been stalking her account more than I cared to admit, scrolling through every new post, rewatching her race interviews. I caught myself smiling like an idiot at my phone screen. Again.
I caught myself thinking… maybe it would be easier to just risk it. To stop running from how I felt about her. Because keeping it locked away was the real distraction and it was costing me more than I wanted to admit.
“Olivia Smythe,” Maddie’s voice cut through my bubble, sharp and laced with amusement. “If you stare at your phone any longer, I’m calling it a relationship.”
I jumped, snapping the screen dark. “Don’t you knock before barging into people’s thoughts?”
She only smirked, arms folded. “Please. I’ve known that look since juniors.
You’ve got it bad.” Then, with zero transition, she tossed a black envelope onto my lap.
“Also, before you combust with longing, here’s something that actually needs your attention.
Porsche dinner tonight. All their top endorsers will be there. You’re one of the faces.”
I blinked down at the envelope. “Dinner? Tonight?”
“Yes, food, speeches, shiny cars, very expensive suits. You know, the part of sponsorships that isn’t just posting ads on Instagram.” Maddie arched a brow. “And don’t give me the look. This one matters. Porsche pulled strings to gather everyone. That means you charm, you smile, you play nice.”
I sighed, envelope still in hand. “Great. Just what I need, an evening of forced small talk while I’d rather be...”
“Scrolling through Cadiz’s face on your phone?” Maddie interrupted sweetly, clearly delighted at how fast I shut up. “Thought so. Now go shower, put on something they’ll call ‘effortless,’ and don’t be late.”
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The hotel ballroom glittered with soft lights and the sounds of too many conversations layered over one another.
Sleek cars were staged like art installations around the perimeter.
I tugged at the hem of my dress, the kind Maddie had insisted looked “sophisticated but not try-hard,” and pasted on a smile as the sponsor reps swept me inside.
The usual drill: shake hands, smile for photos, answer the same questions about training and pressure and momentum. I was halfway through nodding politely at some executive when I someone I know long before called me.
“Liv?”
I didn’t even have to turn. That voice hadn’t changed, not even with stadium echoes and post-match interviews layered on top of it now.
Nico Tanaka. Premier League rising star, and somehow still the same boy who used to walk me home after practice carrying both our bags because he insisted mine “looked heavier than my entire personality.” The same boy who slid crisps onto my lap on the bus when I got quiet, who let me copy his math homework when tournaments swallowed my revision time.
I excused myself from the executive and when I turned to him, there he was. More taller, sharper jaw and a hair that clearly had a stylist now.
“Bloody hell, it’s been what? Years!” he said, eyes bright in that way that always made people feel like they’d been chosen.
“Too many,” I said, and meant it.
Back in school, he’d been my safe person more than anything, my grounding wire when I felt too odd or too intense or too… tennis for everyone else. He never made me feel like I had to shrink to fit in.
We grew into steadier, almost familial friendship.
Maybe because Nico trusted me with the parts of him he hid from everyone else, like the night he told me he was gay, and my heart broke a little thinking he’d carried it alone for so long.
I’d held that secret like it was made of glass because I knew how rare it was for him to hand it over.
Even now, years later, he still let me see the off-duty version of him. Seeing him now grown as established and overflowing with the kind of confidence he used to fake.
He caught me staring and grinned wider. “Still gawking at me, Liv?” he teased.
“Please,” I scoffed, bumping his arm. “Some of us have matured.”
“Sure you have,” he said, and the familiarity slotted back in like no time had passed at all.
Before I could say anything else, he pulled me into a tight hug, the kind of hug only someone who’s been in your life since childhood can give.
It felt like being fourteen again, waiting for the bus with rain-soaked hair and a racket bag digging into my shoulder.
It felt like home in a room full of strangers.
We stepped back, still grinning like idiots.
“Look at you, Mr. Football Star,” I said, giving him a once-over that was only half teasing. “I’ve seen your name in the papers, but seeing you here? You’re everywhere.”
“And you,” he said, pulling back just enough to look me over, eyes sparkling. “The Olivia Smythe! I should be asking you for an autograph.”
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks heated anyway. “Stop it.”
Within minutes we’d slipped into an easy rhythm, swapping updates, teasing each other about our teenage crushes and failed hairstyles.
As the evening carried on, people began to notice. Maybe it was the way Nico’s hand brushed my elbow when he steered me through the crowd, or the way he leaned in when I spoke too close, and for anyone who didn’t know us, it’s perfectly normal for two people who grew up side by side.
But the photographers caught it, of course. They always do. A few flashes went off, then a few more, like sharks catching the scent of blood. British tennis golden girl in a sponsor gown and a Premier League athlete in a perfect suit. Easy chemistry. Easy narrative.
I couldn’t bring myself to care. If they knew him, they’d realize how absurd it was.
When the Porsche rep finally came to collect me for the next round of photos, Nico straightened, smoothing his suit jacket like he was about to walk a runway. Then he winked at me, full charm, full mischief.
“Don’t think you’re escaping me that easily. I’m buying you a drink after this circus.”
He said it with such casual certainty that I didn’t even argue. Just smiled, shaking my head. God, it felt good to have someone like him back in my orbit.