CHAPTER 23
OLIVIA
By the time I left Beijing, I’d already cried myself empty. I didn’t even try to hold it back. I curled up in that hotel bed, the sound of the city muffled by thick curtains, and let the silence press against me.
My chest ached in a way I hadn’t expected. Alex stepping away without even letting me find the words, had cut deeper than I could have imagined. I hadn’t even gotten the chance to say what I wanted to say, to explain, to reach out. And now, all I had were regrets twisting sharp inside me.
When I woke, the world outside had turned into chaos. My feed was a battlefield. Headlines painted me and Nico as the next golden couple, the “Power duo.” Photos of us laughing, talking too close, smiling too easily… all twisted into a story I never asked for.
If only they knew. The one person who actually mattered, the one I kept pushing away when she was right there, was Alex. I’d had the chance, but instead, I shoved her away.
I fucked it up. Spectacularly.
So when the Beijing tournament wrapped, I disappeared. Just a quiet flight back to London, to the flat that finally felt too big, too still.
Now, with a rare breather before WTA Finals, laptop balanced on my knees, I was FaceTiming Bianca. She was glowing, practically bouncing as she angled the camera toward the table where she and William were in deep in the trenches of planning their engagement party.
“Okay, picture this,” Bianca said, flipping her iPad around so I could see a mood board. “Philippines. By the beach. Sunset, fairy lights strung between palm trees, everyone barefoot by the sand after dinner.” she glanced at William, who was nodding behind her.
“Of course,” I muttered with a grin. “Go big or go home, right?”
“Exactly!” Bianca beamed. “It’s not just for us, it’s about both families. His parents, his friends, my friends, our family. I want it to feel like a proper celebration. Intimate but… unforgettable, you know?”
She leaned closer to the camera, her voice softening. “We’re planning it right after the WTA Finals. That way you’ll actually be there, no excuses. All of us together. Nan, Dad, you, me, our whole family. And William’s parents, his sister, their friends. Just… complete.”
Her excitement was infectious, but it also left a lump in my throat. Everything she described sounded like a film scene.
“Well,” I said, pushing a smile, “wherever you have it, it’s going to be stunning. And I’ll be there, front row seat, clapping like a seal.”
“Good,” Bianca teased, eyes narrowing mischievously. “And maybe you’ll even bring someone as your plus-one.”
I nearly spat out my tea. “Ha-ha. Hilarious.”
She smirked knowingly, and I groaned, because Bianca was many things but subtle wasn’t one of them.
“But it would be nice, wouldn’t it? Sunset, champagne, music, and maybe you’re not standing around on your own while I’m busy being the center of attention.”
I groaned. “Bianca, please.”
She only smirked harder. “Just think about it.”
And the worst part was, I already was.
I let myself imagine it, Bianca married, our family together at the beach in the Philippines, laughter threading through the night air, the comfort of belonging to something steady. And me, maybe, finally daring to believe I could want something beyond the baseline.
ALEXANDRA
Singapore was hot enough to fry my brain cells before training even started. By the time I’d finished my first lap in the marina, the humidity had basically punched me in the throat. Great place for a debut T100, right?
But honestly, the heat wasn’t the hardest part. The hardest part was not thinking. Not letting my head drift where it wanted to, toward her.
Georgia, of course, looked like she’d just stepped out of an advert, all sun-kissed skin and easy confidence.
She’d been part of the British team that more or less adopted me when I trained with them, and back then we used to compete against each other and chat after races.
Somehow that rivalry turned into one of those friendships that stuck.
Besides Cassandra, it was Georgia I kept closest, the one who could still rib me like no time had passed.
“Cadiz, you’re pacing like you’re being chased,” she called as I dragged myself onto the dock after a swim set. “It’s training, not a war zone.”
“It’s Singapore,” I panted, squeezing water out of my cap. “The war zone is the weather.”
She snorted and tossed me a towel. “You’ve been wired since we got here. What’s going on? First T100 jitters?”
I rolled my shoulders, pretending it was just lactic acid, not the mess of thoughts still shadowing me from Beijing. “Just want to be sharp. No half measures this time.”
That part was true.
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 from dying 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.