Mia
My hand trembles as I trace the cover of Wanderlust Magazine, my byline printed in bold beneath the title: “The Detour That Became Home.” The issue has been out for three days, and Brè claims it's already generating more buzz than anything I've written before.
“You good?” Grant asks, his fingers interlaced with mine as we drive down the familiar roads of Portree, Texas.
“Just weird to be back,” I admit, watching the town materialize outside the window. “After everything—the Olympics, the media circus—this place feels like a dream I had.”
“A good dream, I hope.” His thumb draws lazy circles on my hand, sending familiar tingles up my arm.
“The best kind.”
The truth is, during the Olympics and subsequent victory tour, I'd wake up disoriented in luxury hotel rooms around the world, momentarily forgetting where I was. But in those bleary seconds between sleep and consciousness, my mind would always drift to the same place—a small Texas town with a river running through it, and a cowboy with brown eyes like amber whiskey.
Now that cowboy is beside me, steering his truck with one hand like he was born to it. The cast still on, but he still favors that arm sometimes.
“Brè called again this morning,” I tell him, watching his profile as he drives. “She's serious about this unconventional training series. Says the publisher is prepared to offer a three-book deal.”
Grant's face splits into that sunshine smile that still liquefies my insides. “Told you they'd love it. Not every day an Olympic gold medalist credits her success to a makeshift river training facility in Nowhere, Texas.”
“That was before you got yourself trampled on national television,” I remind him, the memory still enough to make my stomach clench. “Nothing sells magazines like a heroic cowboy boyfriend kissing a girl on a podium.”
“Exploiting my trauma for personal gain? I'm wounded, Bonney.”
“Literally,” I quip, then soften. “They want me to scout locations, interview local athletes, document different training environments. Brè says I can base myself wherever I want between trips.”
His eyes flick to mine, careful hope written in them. “And where might that be?”
“I was thinking somewhere with good weather,” I tease. “Great coffee shop. River access. Ridiculously attractive population of cowboys.”
“Sounds exclusive. Think they'd let an Olympic groupie like me visit?”
“You'd have to bring references. And possibly bribes.”
He laughs, the sound filling the cab of the truck and something hollow inside me. For all our phone calls, video chats, and hissurprise visit to Paris for the Games, nothing compares to being here with him, breathing the same air, close enough to touch.
I glance out the window, but my mind flickers back—just for a moment—to that day. The day everything changed.
The Olympic final.
The air in the aquatic center had been heavy with pressure, thick with the collective nerves of twenty thousand spectators. My cap tugged tight, goggles pressed into my face, I stood on the block with my toes curled over the edge and my heart hammering like it wanted out. The world was watching. Gold or nothing.
I remember the sound of the announcer’s voice echoing across the arena—"Take your marks"—and that sharp, clean beep that launched us all forward. The water swallowed me whole. For the first twenty-five meters, it was all about rhythm—stroke, breathe, kick, drive. Every breath a gamble, every movement a calculated war against the clock. I couldn’t tell who was ahead. I didn’t care. It was me against me.
But on the final turn, I saw her—the reigning world champ, half a body ahead. Something inside me snapped. Not fear. Not panic. Focus. Fire. I kicked off the wall like a rocket, the burn in my lungs eclipsed by sheer will.
I touched the wall, looked up at the board—and there it was. My name. First. Gold.
Everything exploded around me. Cheers, flashes, announcers losing their minds. But I didn’t care about the medal. Not really. My eyes scanned the stands until I saw him—cowboy hat and all, standing in a sea of strangers, hands cupped around his mouth as he shouted my name.
I yanked off my cap and goggles and I ran—past the officials, past the photographers, past protocol. Straight out of the pool and into his arms.
He caught me like he always does.
Wrapped me up, spun me once, and buried his face in my wet hair. “You did it, darlin’,” he whispered, voice thick with pride and something far more permanent. “Knew you would.”
The cameras lost it. The commentators gushed. Social media blew up with a clip of a girl in a soaked Team USA swimsuit launching herself into the arms of a very hot, very proud cowboy like some rom-com finale no one saw coming. But for me? That was real life.
That was home.
