CHAPTER 33
ALEXANDRA
The race is tomorrow, but my brain has decided sleep is optional. I’ve stretched, eaten the right food, laid out my kit like a good little Olympian. I even double-checked the timing chip like three times, because God forbid I get disqualified before even touching the water.
Every time I tried to “visualize success” like Cassandra drilled into me, I wound up imagining every possible way I could faceplant on live television. Trip on the pontoon. Miss the start horn. Forget how to pedal a bike, which, by the way, is not supposed to be something you forget.
And then, because my brain is wired like a traitor, I think of Olivia.
My therapist’s voice pipes up in my head: When you’re anxious, redirect to what calms you. Well, congrats, Doc. Mission accomplished. Thinking about Olivia is the only thing pulling me out of the panic spiral.
But the problem with thinking about her? It turns into okay, how do I top the pancake stunt? Because apparently my anxiety coping strategy now involves plotting romcom-worthy gestures like I’m Hugh Grant with a bike helmet.
So here I am at 10 p.m., watching Notting Hill and 10 Things I Hate About You on my phone, literally taking notes. Flowers? Too generic. Boombox moment? Loud, possibly illegal. Handwritten poem? Please, my handwriting looks like a toddler’s first attempt at hieroglyphics.
I even corner Dad earlier, ask him for “tips.” Big mistake. The man is still smug about his Olympic rooftop stargazing stunt. He pats my shoulder and says, “You’ve got the genes for it. Just be sincere.” Thanks, Dad. Incredibly helpful.
So yeah. It’s the night before the biggest race of my life, and I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling like a lunatic.
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I’m up before the sun; nerves don’t care about sleeping hours. I don’t even remember how I fall asleep, probably somewhere between plotting grand gestures for Olivia and staring at the ceiling too long.
Some Filipino athletes I’ve talked to swing by my room, braid my hair while I fidget like a toddler, hands restless, mind racing. Then come the race numbers: stick-on tattoos pressed to my arms and legs, official and impossible to ignore, like the Games have finally branded me as theirs.
Dad and I arrived at the venue extremely early, because Olympic prep is basically ninety percent logistics and ten percent not losing your mind.
Just before I headed off to warm up, I spotted Mom, Archer, and Bobby. One last good luck, a squeeze of my shoulder, Mom pressing a kiss to my temple, Archer yelling something about not face-planting on live TV. Comforting. Very comforting.
The buzz was deafening. Commentators couldn’t stop saying it, Cassandra Dubois, hometown queen, and of course, Alexandra Cadiz, always in the same breath. Every camera cut stitched us together like a rivalry the world had been waiting for.
Game face mode, no small talk, no smiles. It’s weird, how even athletes who are usually inseparable, suddenly look like strangers about to duel. No words, just clenched jaws and eyes fixed somewhere far away.
I took a glance at Cassandra across the stretch zone. She looked murderous, and that was probably exactly what I looked like too. Only worse.
My eyes snagged on the barricade, on familiar faces and then my world tipped. Olivia. Standing right there, like some impossible mirage, rain flecking her jacket, Maddie at her side like a smug bodyguard.
For half a second, I forgot I had lungs. Forgot the crowd, the cameras, and even the damn Olympics.
I forced my gaze back to the water, forcing my game face on, and yet… a tiny, ridiculous part of me couldn’t stop grinning. She showed up. She’s here. And yes, my life just got exponentially better while simultaneously threatening to implode my focus.
I lock in. As I stand there, heart hammering, a flash of last night cuts through my head.
Cassandra and I, sitting across from each other, maps and splits spread out between us like battle plans.
Two people aiming for the same podium, honest enough to say it out loud.
Stick together through the swim, and through the bike, then push the pace.
I’ll pull where I’m strongest, you pull where you’re strongest.
She’d looked at me then, almost smiling. Then the last lap of the run? We kill each other.
Her words, not mine.
So here it was, playing out in real time.
The officials herd us onto the pontoon, wetsuits creaking and goggles tugged into place. A horn cuts through the air, and bodies surge forward all at once. There’s no easing into it, just impact as we hit the water.
The swim was a fistfight disguised as freestyle.
First 500 meters, me and Cassandra were welded together, both of us trying to own the current like it was ours to command.
But the river thrashed back, currents slicing through my rhythm until I felt like I was swimming uphill.
Somewhere in that mess, we lost each other.
For a minute I thought she’d dropped me, or worse, surged ahead but by the second lap, I realized I’d clawed back ground. I was actually a body length ahead.
Which, of course, lasted about as long as my next breath.
Because just before the transition zone, guess who slides up out of nowhere? Cassandra. We hit the ramp side by side, dripping and gasping, slotting into fifth and sixth.
Then the transition to the bike. As soon as I clipped in my bike, I hit the gas.
I got into a pack quickly, tucked in, and dared a glance over my shoulder.
Cassandra was a few bike lengths back, hanging on solo.
The gap wasn’t huge, but my only hope? That Cassandra would claw her way up, because as much as I hate to admit it, we needed each other.
By the second lap, sure enough, she did it.
Dragged a chase group with her. Suddenly it wasn’t just me grinding at the front, it was all of us, one big chasing blob.
We got organized. Me, Cassandra, Georgia, and a couple others trading pulls at the front, letting the pack rotate so no one burned all their matches too early.
The last transition into the run was pure carnage.
I skidded into my rack, hands shaking as I clipped off my helmet and flung my bike into place more by instinct than precision.
Shoes on, feet pounding the carpeted exit as I bolted out of transition.
I came out second. And for about three glorious seconds, I thought I’d actually bought myself some space, right as I heard Olivia’s voice cut through the stands, shouting my name.
It gave me the final lift I didn’t know I still had.
And then yep. Cassandra, materializing again like some horror-movie villain. One blink and she was at my elbow, stride-for-stride. We stayed that way through the second lap, both of us locked in, the crowd roaring like Paris itself was vibrating.
Georgia wasn’t as lucky, she stumbled hard and dropped back.
Suddenly it was down to four: me, Cassandra, her French roommate (because of course France gets two home-soil assassins), and this German runner, named Julie, who clearly hadn’t read the memo about pacing yourself.
Julie lit it up, pushing all of us into the red.
I could feel Cassandra holding back, biding her time, waiting for the exact moment to light the fuse. And I was already doing the math. If she went, I’d have to hang on for dear life because I knew I wasn’t as fast as her at her best. That was the entire strategy boiled down.
Sure enough, halfway through the penultimate lap, Cassandra dropped the hammer, clean and merciless, snapping our quartet apart.
I tried to go with her, but Julie held me off.
Now I was dangling in third, trying to claw back but the gap wouldn’t close.
Grimacing, I glanced over my shoulder just to make sure Cassandra’s teammate wasn’t doing their trademark ghost move into my blind spot.
In my peripheral vision, I caught a flash of familiar movement in the stands.
Olivia’s cheer cutting through the noise as she shouted my name.
Something in me answered. By the bell lap, I went for it.
I locked onto Julie’s back and chased, clawing my way into second, legs screaming as I refused to let the gap stretch again.
Ahead of us, Cassandra looked smooth and controlled.
She kicked like she still had fuel in reserve, posture clean, stride strong, not a hint of exhaustion.
I tried to answer it, tried to close the distance, but there was nothing left to reach for. No extra gear. Just instinct and stubbornness. I was hanging on by muscle memory alone, holding form, holding pace, holding myself together long enough to reach the line.
So I just narrowed my world. Just me, my legs, and the line.
When I crossed that line, my legs buckled, lungs clawing for air, and then I saw Cassandra, already sprawled on the finish line, tears streaming down her face, laughter breaking through them. She’d done it: her dream, her home soil, her moment.
I dropped right beside her, chest heaving like I’d swallowed fire, I did it too. Silver. At my first Olympics. My comeback. Twelve seconds behind Cassandra, which in our world might as well be nothing.
The crowd was thunder, unrelenting, but it all felt far away, muffled, like I was underwater. What I did feel was Cassandra’s hand groping for mine.
We hugged right there, sweat and salt and absolute exhaustion binding us. Years of sacrifice, years of rivalry, and here we were, both collapsed, medals waiting.
The cameras ate it up, the commentators probably losing their minds about “The Dubois–Cadiz rivalry,” but in that moment it wasn’t rivalry. It was us.
And yeah, the German runner, Julie, deserved her bronze shine, too. She earned her place beside us.