CHAPTER 33 #2
The haze didn’t last. Suddenly I was being hauled to my feet, medal control volunteers ushering us around, cameras shoved in our faces. Someone thrust the Philippine Flag into my hands, and instinct kicked in, I draped it over my shoulders. Silver, baby. Olympic Silver.
Cassandra was the same, only with a French flag wrapped tight around her, the crowd roaring. She found me in the chaos, eyes red, cheeks wet, and before I could even say anything, she pulled me into another hug. Then she pressed a kiss against my cheek, quick but fierce.
We posed for cameras, held up our flags, and the Julie squeezed between us, smiling so wide it almost hurt to look at her.
Georgia finished fifth, and when she came stumbling through the mix zone, she still threw her arms around me.
“Proud of you two, mate” she panted, and I swear that meant almost as much as the medal.
It was chaos, broadcasters yelling, microphones shoved in my face, but then I saw my family. Past the barricades, pressed up against the sideline.
The world shrank in an instant. Olivia looked… relieved. Like she’d been holding her breath through the entire race.
I didn’t even think, I broke through the sideline, ignoring the officials yelling, and went straight for them. Mom hugged me first, Dad clapping my back so hard it rattled my ribs, Archer yelling something about “Olympic medal looks good on you!”
But when it was her turn, I leaned in, still out of breath, flag slipping off my shoulders, lungs burning from more than just the race. “Hi,” I rasped, voice rough with exhaustion and nerves.
Her smile hit me harder than any finish line ever could. For a second, the noise blurred into nothing, like the world had gone quiet just to give me this moment.
I drew in a shaky breath, lips quirking into a grin. “So… who’s this gorgeous girl in the stands who keeps looking at me like I might actually be worth something? Think I should maybe introduce myself.”
Her brows arched, amused, the corner of her mouth lifting, but she let me keep going.
I straightened, tried for mock formality, and held out my hand. “Alexandra Cadiz. Triathlon. Olympic silver medalist. And if I get this right, maybe the girl who doesn’t mess it up this time.”
Her lips twitched, fighting a smile, and then she leaned in, her voice velvet-soft but sharp enough to make me shiver. “Olivia Smythe. Tennis. Four-time Grand Slam Champion.”
Her hand slid into mine, steady and lingering. She gave the faintest squeeze before adding, low enough only I could hear, “And maybe interested in seeing if silver-medal girl really means it this time.”
I let out a breathless laugh, holding her hand tighter. “Oh, I mean it. Consider this my proper start.”
Her eyes glittered with mischief, but her smile softened, too. “Then prove it. Because a cute introduction alone won’t win me over.”
For the first time, it felt like a new beginning.
Maddie appeared at her shoulder, all grins. “Congrats, Alex. Silver at your first Olympics, that’s massive.” Then, turning to Olivia: “But sorry to take your moment together, we’ve got to run. She’s got a match this afternoon.”
Olivia gave me one last look, like she knew exactly what she was leaving me with.
“Good luck,” I said, letting my grin slip crooked, easy. “I’ll be watching.”
She tilted her chin, eyes gleaming. And just like that, she was gone, swept away in the tide of her team, while I was still standing there, heart ten times heavier in my chest.
OLIVIA
I had a match later that day, R16, no less and I should have been conserving energy, staying locked into my routine. But that morning, I couldn’t sit still. Cassandra’s words in the cafeteria had slapped something out of me, stripping every excuse bare. She’d been right.
So before breakfast, I’d grabbed Maddie’s wrist and said, “Come on. We’re going to the race.”
She’d looked at me like I’d lost it. Maybe I had. But something in me had refused to miss it. Call it stupidity, call it weakness, call it whatever you want. Alex Cadiz still had a hold on me.
The venue was chaos, but weaving through it, I found her family. Amelia smiled the moment she saw me, warm in a way that made me ache. She pulled me aside quietly.
“Olivia… it means the world to Alex that you’re here. Seeing you here, when you didn’t have to be…” Amelia’s hand brushed mine, gentle. “Whatever you decide, Liv, whether you let her back in, or not just make sure it’s your choice. Do what feels right. Follow your heart.”
The words stuck with me long after the race, through Alex’s silver finish. I found her in the swirl of cameras and sweat still drying on her skin. Somehow, even in the madness, her eyes found mine.
And before I knew, Maddie’s hand dragged me back toward training.
The hours after blurred together. Warm up drills, physio work, quiet stretches where my mind was supposed to be on patterns and footwork but kept drifting anyway. The morning bled into afternoon, and by the time I finally walked onto the courts for my match, there she was.
Still in full PH team kit. Sweats on, jacket zipped high, her silver medal clanging softly against her chest with every movement. And of course, Bobby was at her side, helping her hold up a banner so ridiculous I nearly dropped my bag right there on the baseline.
With two giant bagels doodled on either side of the words, like Alex had spent way too much effort on arts and crafts instead of basking in her Olympic medal.
I covered my mouth, half to hide my laugh, half to stop the heat rushing to my cheeks. Instead of celebrating, she was here, holding up nonsense for the world to see, making a fool of herself for me.
And the stupid thing was, it worked.
I won my match because of it. I could see her in the stands, unapologetic and loud and entirely Alex.
The next morning, quarterfinals day, the world tilted forward again.
I went through my routine on autopilot: early stretch, light hit, footwork drills just enough to wake my legs without draining them.
Told myself to breathe. By the time I walked back onto the same stadium court, heart steady, focus narrowing, I already knew where to look.
There she was again.
Same spot in the stands, same impossible confidence. This time, Alex was holding up a fresh monstrosity of a banner, bigger than the last, hand-painted and unapologetic:
Complete with her own terrible doodle of a crown slapped onto a stick figure version of me. I shook my head, laughter threatening to break through my focus, and for a split second, tennis felt lighter.
I braced myself for whatever she’d unveil next. God only knew what she was planning, but whatever it was, it had me playing freer and looser, like she’d found a way to sneak joy onto the court with me.
And it wasn’t just the banners. No, Alex had apparently committed to a full one-woman romcom marathon. Which was almost the most ridiculous part of all, because Alex Cadiz doesn’t watch romcoms. Ever. And yet here she was, bringing them to life.
A tiny bouquet of roses was left with Maddie in the locker room.
A handwritten note folded into a paper plane that actually landed on my practice court; For luck, she’d scribbled, complete with a doodle of me mid-serve.
It shouldn’t have worked. It was cheesy, maybe even stupid. But knowing she’d sat through movies she didn’t care about, just to figure out how to show up for me like this, knowing she was willing to look ridiculous if it meant making me smile, did something to my chest I wasn’t prepared for.
By my semifinal, Alex never missed with the banner. And somehow, that steadied me. If she was out there making a fool of herself for me, then maybe I could survive whatever came next.
And now, here I was.
Olympic final.
My opponent wasn’t just any opponent. Katarina Novak. The woman built like the ball machine itself. A pure baseliner, clay court predator. The kind who didn’t blink, didn’t sweat, didn’t stop. I’d seen her dismantle players, strip them of hope until they looked like tourists holding rackets.
The first set was war. I tried to yank her wide, drag her into the net, but she swatted my plans like flies. At 4–4, I forced myself to breathe, to trust the one thing I had that she didn’t: variety. Slice. Spin. Angles. A drop shot that made the crowd gasp. 6–4, mine.
I wanted to scream in triumph, but Katarina barely flinched. And then she tore through the second set with a brutality that felt personal. She pinned me to the baseline, smothered me, hammered backhands into my body like she was chiseling stone. 6–3, hers.
By the third set, my lungs burned. My calves twitched with every changeover. My thoughts kept splintering, don’t miss, don’t choke, stay in this, for God’s sake, stay in it.
I thought of Alex, too. Somewhere in the crowd, with her banner. I didn’t dare look, but I felt her there, like gravity tugging me upright when everything in me wanted to crumple.
At 5–4, we are deuce. I stood at the baseline, ball in hand. She bounced on her toes like she could go another five hours. My chest was a drum, thumping so loud I thought the umpire might call a let just from the sound.
Toss. Trust. Hit.
The serve flew, not perfect but deep enough. Her return clipped the net, catching the top of it, and floated up just long enough for my body to react before my brain did. I stepped into it and drove the ball hard across the court, sending it clean into the open corner she couldn’t reach.
Championship point.
The stadium held its breath. I tossed again. She lunged for the ball as she stretched every inch of her endless frame, but the ball soared wide past the line, and it was out.
My racket slipped from my hand, and I was running before I knew where.
Straight into my box. Bianca, Nan, Dad, my team, all a blur of hands and tears and laughter. Arms around me, kisses pressed into my hair, everyone shouting something different, none of it really landing because my head was spinning with gold.
Before I could think, I crashed into her too, wrapping her up in the same breathless, bone-deep hug.
I pulled back just enough to breathe. “You again? Don’t you have a life?”
Her grin was lopsided and absolutely hers. “Apparently, it’s following Olympic champions around. Just met one today.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume I want you following me around.”
She murmured, leaning in just enough that I caught the faint warmth of her voice. “I was hoping that maybe, when all this chaos settles… maybe we could… go out?”
Her words tumbled over each other, and it was so un-Alex I almost laughed. Instead, I let a tiny smirk curl my lips. “Are you asking me out right now? At the medal ceremony?”
Color rushed to her cheeks, and she looks so suddenly unsure. “I mean yeah. I guess I am. Terrible timing, but… I didn’t want to waste it.”
I tilted my head, savoring the rare sight of Alexandra Cadiz flustered. “Fine,” I said quietly, just for her. “Maybe we can talk about it… later.”
Her eyes lit up like I’d handed her the gold instead, awkward grin tugging wider. “So… that’s a yes?”
I shook my head, trying to sound stern but failing to hide my smile. “Don’t get cocky. But… yes.”
Then the officials came, herding me away for the part every tennis player dreams of but never quite believes until it’s theirs.
The medal ceremony.
They draped the Union Jack across my shoulders and I clutched it like armor.
Cameras snapped as the medal went over my head and the anthem began.
I sang it, voice cracking somewhere between the second and third line, because my chest was too full, because I couldn’t stop seeing flashes of every court I’d ever trained on, and everything that made me doubt if I’d stand here again.
The photographers swarmed, the flag shot, me biting the medal, trying not to laugh at the absurdity while the crowd roared.
And then my family. Nan and Dad both teary, Bianca practically vaulting the barrier to crush me in the tightest hug of all. For a heartbeat it was just us, London girls who’d dreamed too big and somehow made it real.