Chapter 29
“Wait, so that’s your boyfriend? Your actual, real-life boyfriend?” My brother gapes and points at the TV as the Americans march into the arena for the Parade of Nations. “You weren’t joking?”
“Nope.” I grin and snuggle even farther into the official Team USA hoodie Nox sent a few days ago. It’s a leftover from his last Olympics since he still needs all his new gear for these games. I’m obsessed. “I wasn’t joking.”
Nox is close to the front, just behind the flag bearers—a famous basketball player for the guys, and a famous tennis pro for the girls.
He’s smiling so wide I almost don’t recognize him at first. Pride warms my heart, fizzing down my limbs.
I’m so used to being one of the few to see that grin, but now the whole country—the whole world—gets to see it, too.
I love that for him, love that he’s allowing himself to enjoy the experience, to let go of his laser focus, even if just for a small blip in time.
I know how hard that can be for him. I’ve been begging him for days to take a moment to breathe, let himself be happy with everything he’s already accomplished, and clear his head.
Honestly, I probably used too much therapy speak, but maybe it’s working.
We’ve been video chatting once a day for an hour (yes, we use a timer) ever since I got back from Australia.
It helps that New York and California are only three hours apart, instead of fifteen.
Also, he’s been tapering, which means more allocated rest time.
We still write emails too, but I just knew that wasn’t going to cut it, not after we got those few days together in Sydney.
He never did get around to inviting me to LA, and I didn’t bring it up. So the countdown continues.
14 days, then forever.
We’re really in the home stretch now.
“Mom!” Ollie shouts. “Clara’s boyfriend is on TV! She wasn’t lying!”
“Of course she wasn’t lying,” my mom chides, then catches my eye with a grin. “But I still can’t believe you’re dating Madeleine Shaw’s son. I mean, what are the chances? My little Clara…”
I arch my brow as she trails off, daring her to finish that sentence. My dad interrupts before I can challenge her directly.
“I don’t like him. He’s too good-looking.”
“Dad!” I gape at him, completely offended. “What the hell?”
“What?” My dad has the audacity to shrug. “He is.”
“And what am I?” I ask. “A freaking troll?”
Ollie snickers into his fist. I shoot him a glare while my dad flounders.
“No. Of course not, honey. I didn’t say that. Did I say that? Clara, you’re beautiful. You know I think you’re beautiful. He’s just—” My dad waves his hand, at a loss for words.
“He’s really, really beautiful?” I offer, letting him squirm.
My dad looks at my mom. “Would you help me out here?”
“I think you’re doing just fine on your own,” she murmurs.
“Yeah, Dad,” Ollie chimes in. “Top notch.”
“I’m not saying anything, I’m just saying. You should hear the way the women talk about him on that morning show your mom watches. And his father does have a reputation. They’re both prolific swimmers. Maybe his old man taught him some other things, too, if you know what I mean…?”
All the humor floods out of me. I know they idolize his mother. I know how closely they followed all that divorce drama. And honestly, I know he’s right about Nox’s dad. But they’re wrong about him.
“He’s nothing like his father,” I answer coldly, leaving no room for debate. My parents and sibling all share a glance. I huff at them and turn back to the TV. “Would you all just shut up so I can watch, please?”
I have the rest of my life to convince my dad Nox isn’t the Hollywood playboy he fears he is. I’ve only got two weeks to watch this.
And I do.
Morning. Noon. Night. I’m glued to my phone, glued to the TV, consuming as much live coverage as my schedule will allow.
Aside from a few conflicts during babysitting jobs, I don’t miss a single one of his races—not the prelims, not the finals.
Every time he leaps into the pool, I swear my heart just stops until his fingertips touch the wall.
I don’t breathe, don’t blink. My entire body burns with anticipation and pride and fear. But I’ve got no reason to be afraid.
He’s Nox.
He steps onto the pool deck as if he owns the place, every time.
He doesn’t smile, doesn’t play to the cameras or the crowd.
He keeps his head straight, his eyes laser focused on the future he’s envisioning.
The smiling man from the opening ceremony is dead and buried by the fierce competitor he truly is deep down.
Every fiber of his being is dialed in, seeing gold.
Like clockwork, at the start of every race while he’s settling onto the block, he shifts his head ever so slightly and lifts his eyes to the crowd, locating the one person who fuels all his motivation—his father.
As if a key is twisting, every ounce of him locks fully into the present, buzzing with so much energy, so much fight, he takes off like a rocket.
The first two events go without a hitch—the 100m butterfly and the 200m individual medley.
He easily secures his first two golds. The Americans lose by a hand’s length to the Australians in the 4x200m freestyle relay.
My heart sinks when I think about how much Nox wanted a win with his friend Nick, but they’ll get another chance later this week in the 4x100m relay.
When he steps up to the block for his next final, the 200m butterfly, the whole pool complex goes silent.
Even the announcers won’t speak above a whisper.
Nox wins by a full body-length and the place goes wild.
It’s official—he tied his father’s record.
Reporters rush him, practically salivating into their microphones.
They keep panning between Peter in the stands and Nox down below, but not in a supportive way.
In a sharkish way that makes my gut churn, as though Nox is bait and the predators are circulating, as though they smell blood.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t even crack a smile when he wins.
He pumps his fist in victory, but that stern expression never once leaves his face.
His jaw remains clenched. His gaze remains hard.
The women on my mom’s favorite talk show dub it the Monroe Smolder, which has me cackling until they throw a split screen up with old photos of his dad.
I stop laughing.
Freestyle is his weakest event—I hear the reporters bring it up again and again, so often I’m starting to think they want him to lose.
After all, what’s a better story? Nox beating the gold medal record as everyone expects him to or him choking at the last second in a poetic callback to dear old dad?
I want to dive into the TV and throttle them.
Instead, I’m on the edge of my seat, my gaze glued to the screen, my stomach flipping at every shot of Nox as he lines up for the 200m freestyle finals.
My mom’s squeezing my thigh. My dad’s silent in his chair.
Even Ollie, who’s been pretending to be too cool for it all by scrolling his phone, is checked in.
The horn blares. Nox dives in the water.
I crush my folded hands to my lips, afraid to make a sound, to move, as if I’ll somehow distract him all the way over here in New York.
My entire body locks up. I don’t move a muscle.
It’s neck and neck with a swimmer from Australia.
To my untrained eye, it looks as though they touch the wall at the exact same time.
Officials wait a few seconds to double-check the sensors before declaring the winner.
It’s not Nox.
When the camera pans to his face, he gives nothing away. But it doesn’t matter. Before he’s even out of the pool, people are already speculating. Is the pressure starting to get to him? Is the weight of history too much? Is this the beginning of the end?
I hate it—hate how these people can go from singing his praises to plotting his downfall at the drop of a hat, at the slightest sign of weakness. A silver medal is still fucking awesome, and they’re acting as if he shat the bed or something. I say as much on the phone with him later that night.
“Screw those assholes,” I growl.
Nox huffs humorously. The sound soothes the knots twisting my insides, allowing me to breathe. “Someone’s feisty.”
“Because they’re assholes!” It feels even better saying it a second time.
“You got a silver medal! Most people can barely even stay afloat in the water, and they’re acting like you failed because you lost by two one-hundredths of a second.
I mean, come on! You didn’t even place in that event last time. You kicked butt!”
“Down, killer.” He’s full-on laughing at me now. “It doesn’t bother me.”
“How can it not bother you?”
“Because it’s all clickbait. None of it matters. It’s just part of the sport. And I knew there was a good chance I wouldn’t win. Hell, Nick almost caught me at trials. He was right on my heels again tonight. And I’ll get it tomorrow. No one’s even close to me in the 400m IM.”
“How are you so calm?” I gape into my phone. “I’m losing it here.”
“Yeah, I can tell.” His tone is smug. I just know he’s grinning on the other end of the line. “Are you defending my honor, Hayes?”
“No.”
“I think you are,” he taunts.
“Oh, screw you.”
“I wish you could.”
I roll my eyes. “So how are you feeling? Actually?”
He groans in protest of my shift in the conversation, then relents with a soft sigh. “Ready,” he says after a brief pause, tone open, honest. “After tomorrow, my dad will never be called the greatest swimmer of all time ever again.”
Nox’s prediction holds true.