It's not a question. I don't bother denying it.
“I fucked up, Suzi,” I whisper. “I ran away from something real because I was scared. Because that's what I always do.”
“Then stop running,” she says simply. “You've qualified. You've proven yourself. What you do next is your choice.”
“Is it that simple?”
“Nothing worth having is simple, Bonney. You should know that by now.” She glances at her watch. She pats my leg and stands to leave. “Ceremony starts in five. Get your game face on.”
***
The medal stand feels surreal under my feet—another starting block of sorts, but marking an end rather than a beginning.
When the official drapes the gold medal around my neck, the cold metal touches my skin and I flinch. Its weight hits me like a truth I’m not ready to carry—part victory, part ache. Like something is missing. The anthem rises, echoing through the stadium like it’s being played for someone else. Someone whole. Someone sure.
I should be looking straight ahead, proud, poised.
Instead, my eyes scan the crowd—wild, searching, desperate.
I tell myself it was a hallucination. Stress. Nerves. That flicker of a cowboy hat I thought I saw earlier? Not real. Can’t be.
But then—
There!
Not a trick of the light. Not a ghost.
A cowboy hat.
Moving with purpose. Cutting against the flow of the crowd like he doesn’t give a damn whose way he’s in. My breath catches in my throat.
It’shim.
Those eyes—amber, alive, and locked on me like I’m the only thing in this stadium that matters. That mouth—the same one that once whispered my name like a promise against my collarbone. That same chest, broad and solid, now wrapped in a sling.
His arm is in a cast.
My body jolts like someone pulled the pool deck out from under me. He’s hurt, but he’s here. He’s real.
And he’s coming toward me.
Grant Taylor.
In London.
At my race.
At the highest, most public, most terrifying moment of my life.
The ceremony fades. I don’t hear the applause anymore. I don’t feel the medal against my skin. The silver and bronze medalists step down, and I’m left alone at the top of the podium—shaking, unraveling, undone.
I raise my hand, part instinct, part reflex. And he doesn’t stop. He keeps coming. Like the crowd isn’t even there.
I can’t breathe.
My heart is slamming so hard against my ribs I swear the cameras will catch it.
My knees nearly give out, and for the first time ever, I don’t know if I want to dive into the deep end… or bolt for the exit before he sees just how much power he has over me.
