CHAPTER 28
ALEXANDRA
Olivia was back in full-on preparation mode for the Australian Open, and I was right there with her, technically trying to stay invisible, and definitely not holding her hand in public like the absolute fool I was.
We’d agreed to let her focus. So for the first two weeks of January, I’d hover, mostly unseen, mostly pretending to be invisible, but absolutely watching everything.
I stuck by her side through the entire Australian Open run.
It wasn’t easy, hiding in plain sight, but worth every second just to be there.
And God, she delivered blazing through match after match until she reached the final.
Three sets, a brutal showdown with the tour’s most ruthless hardcourt specialist, and in the end, it slipped away from her.
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 now comes 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 my triathlon 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.”
Her smile faltered, just a little. “So… this means we won’t see each other for a while.”
I nodded. “Yeah. Unless we invent teleportation, we’re stuck with calls and highlights until summer.”
“Summer,” she echoed, like she was testing the word. “That’s… far.”
I didn’t answer. Instead, I wrapped my arms around her, holding on longer than I probably should have. She let me, resting her chin on my shoulder, breathing me in like she was trying to memorize it.
When I finally stood, suitcase handle in my grip, I caught her hand again at the door. “I’ll call when I land. And don’t let your coach talk you into any insane training drills while I’m gone.”
She laughed, quiet but real. “No promises. But… go. Earn your points. I’ll be watching.”
I kissed her before finally pulling away. “See you soon, Liv.”
“See you soon,” she echoed, voice steady but eyes saying the rest.
And with that, I walked down the hall, suitcase trailing, feeling like I’d just left more behind than I was carrying.
The flight itself was a blur of half-slept hours and restless thoughts. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her standing in that hotel doorway, trying to look composed while I was falling apart inside.
By the time I landed in Abu Dhabi, I’d already checked my phone half a dozen times, half-expecting Olivia to somehow pop up between the flight updates and hydration reminders.
She hadn’t, of course. Just a string of safe flight texts and a photo of her and Maddie at breakfast that made my chest ache in the best and worst way.
The desert heat hit me like a wall the second I stepped out of the terminal, but the real shock came a few minutes later at camp.
“Cadiz.”
Standing there like some dramatic plot twist was Cassandra. For a second, I honestly thought jet lag was making me hallucinate. She was supposed to be halfway across Europe with the French team by now.
“You’re supposed to be in France.”
Her mouth curved into that trademark half-smile, all confidence and fire. “Not anymore. Your dad called. Convinced me, actually.”
Dad materialized behind her, grinning like he’d just pulled off the coup of the century. “Told her what I’ve always said, together, you two were a machine. She’s the best out there, but even the best need someone to push them.”
Cassandra tossing her bag like it weighed nothing. “Your dad reminded me how it felt, back when we trained side by side. No shortcuts. Just two engines burning each other out until one of us cracked.”
“And you came all the way here because you miss our training side by side?”
Her gaze sharpened, almost daring me. “Yes, and also because I need someone to push me. Especially on the bike. You’ve got power that I don’t, and I’d rather chase you than plateau with people who can’t keep up.”
Dad clapped me on the shoulder, practically glowing. “Cadiz-Dubois, back in business. Just like old times.”
“So? Ready to suffer again?” Cassandra tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her mouth.
A laugh slipped out of me, half disbelief, half adrenaline. Two stubborn forces locked in a loop, because neither of us ever backed down.
OLIVIA
Training days blurred together, the kind where my body clock woke me before my alarm.
Court, gym, physio, repeat. Coach Dani had me locked into drills that left my lungs burning, and honestly?
I welcomed it. She once told me after one session, “That’s the version of you I’ve been waiting for. ” It stuck with me.
What made the training more bearable was Alex.
Somehow, in both our packed schedules, we carved out little pockets of time every single day.
Quick texts between practice blocks. Late-night calls when she was stretching after an intense training session.
Sometimes we just updated each other on mundane things, me whining about footwork ladders, her venting about swim sets that felt like drowning drills, but it became our rhythm.
A routine I didn’t know I needed until I had it.
One night after a brutal day, I had her on speaker while I rolled out my shoulder.
“How was the swim?” I asked, wincing as the foam roller hit a knot.
“Survivable,” she deadpanned. “Dad says I need to find another gear. I told him the only gear I’ve got left is collapse.”
I laughed, tilting my head back. “You’ll be fine. You always are.”
“And you?” she asked, her voice softening. “How’s Dani treating you?”
“Like she’s trying to break me in half,” I muttered. “But it’s working. My serve’s not a liability anymore. Dani even smiled today, which means either I’m improving or she’s plotting something evil.”
“She smiled?” Alex gasped dramatically. “Quick, write it down. Mark the date. Proof Daniella Lys can, in fact, express joy.”
I rolled my eyes, but the smile wouldn’t leave my face.
Still, even with this rhythm Alex and I had built, I couldn’t shake the blindside feeling. Cassandra. She’d told me vaguely she’d be training with her dad’s triathlete friends, nothing about Cassandra suddenly being back in the mix. Of all people.
When I asked, Alex was almost sheepish about it. “Dad convinced her,” she admitted over the phone, towel still around her neck, hair damp from swim practice. “He thinks if anyone can push me harder than I push myself, it’s Cass. He’s not wrong, though, we’re… efficient. Brutally so.”
Efficient. Brutally so. I forced a smile through the screen, nodding like it didn’t sting, like I wasn’t suddenly very aware of how the media already loved their duo and rivalry enough without reviving it in training too.
Alex meant it purely from an athlete’s perspective, but still, it landed heavier than I wanted to admit.
·····
Alex’s triathlon season opener in Abu Dhabi unraveled in a way I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
I’m watching the livestream between practice sets when it happens—one second she’s locked in her rhythm on the bike, the next she’s swallowed by a chain reaction of riders skidding out in front of her, a crash she never stood a chance of avoiding.
My stomach drops.
The camera catches the moment she hits the asphalt, the sickening scrape, the sharp jerk of her body as she tries to roll with it.
By the time she pushes herself upright, blood is already streaking down her leg, bright against the sand-dusted road.
Officials sprint toward them, their expressions making it obvious what they’re saying even without the audio.
I could almost hear the arguments even through the screen:
“We need to get that checked—”
“Leave it, just leave it, I will finish the race.”
And somehow she still got back on the bike. Still ran. Still crossed the line in 23rd place, bleeding and furious and unbroken in the most Alex way possible.
I was shaking by the time I called her. And yes, I was angry. Really angry.
“You should’ve let the medics check you,” I snapped the moment her face appeared on my phone.
She tried to shrug, wincing. “I needed to cross the finish line to get points.”
“I know, but you were bleeding.” I closed my eyes, trying not to let my voice crack.
She brushed it off.
And that nearly undid me. Because the truth is, I would’ve flown to her if I could. Dropped my entire tournament.
But I couldn’t. I was mid-round, locked into my draw, surrounded by obligations and courts.
So instead, I settled for the only thing I could offer from a continent away:
“Please just… look after yourself. Get the cuts and wounds cleaned properly. Don’t pretend you’re invincible. Check in with me, okay? Even if it’s just to tell me you’re annoyed.”
She promised she would.
But I could hear the exhaustion in her breathing, the kind that isn’t just physical.
Days after the race, we still maintained our routine, updating each other about our matches and training, trading the little highs and lows that no one else really understood. It kept me sane, reminded me she was still there even when the days blurred together.
But something changed after that.
The little things were different. A shorter reply where there used to be paragraphs.
A pause before answering, like she was somewhere else in her head.
Maybe it was just the grind of her training, the weight of everything she was preparing for.
But try telling that to my brain at midnight, when I’d replay our conversations and dissect every syllable like a deranged codebreaker.
And for the first time since we’d made this routine ours, I caught myself wondering if the cracks were starting to show.