1
EMILY
Ispend a lot of my life pretending not to be as anxious as I feel. I second guess everything, avoid meeting new people, and fake it all away with a smile. But up here—standing at the top of the high dive, about to perform—all of that fades away. This is the one place I don’t feel nervous at all.
I should. This is the Olympics. Millions of people all over the world will watch this dive. But right here, right now, all that exists is me, my body, and the water far below, glinting like blue glass under the blinding lights. The arena air is cool against my skin. Beneath my bare feet, the rough surface of the diving board is solid, textured, familiar. The thrill rushing through me is pure adrenaline, and here, it doesn’t unnerve me.
It centers me.
The crowd fades. I shake out my hands, bouncing on my toes, anticipating the fall. That’s my favorite part. When I’m suspended between the board and the water, completely in control of my body, but completely out of control, too. It’s the most freeing thing I’ve ever experienced.
The stadium music dims to nothing as the judges focus on me. Silence fills the arena and the weight of these next seconds hums through my veins. My time to shine.
I love this dive. My coach and I made it up after watching videos of Russian circus swing tricks.
My mind quiets as training and muscle memory kick in. I run down the platform. And jump into my crescendo.
Full steam ahead, I leap off the end of the board. The step into nothingness sends a jolt through my legs. I slice into open air, wind rushing past my ears, skin prickling with the sudden drop. The arena lights blur as I tuck tight, spinning like a fuse just lit, heat blooming in my chest. The pressure in my ears builds with each rotation, and for a split second, I feel weightless—like I’ve let go of gravity altogether.
Tucking my legs against my chest, I fold my body in half. Toes flexed straight, I wrap my arms around my thighs and squeeze into a pike, feeling the beautiful sensation of my stomach dropping as I start to spin. Gravity taking over, I flip upside down again and again in three somersaults before flicking my body back out straight. Muscles taut, upside down, I twist and spin before folding myself in half again as I fall.
Stretching out for the final time, I flex myself into a perfect line and pierce the surface. The water parts around me with a satisfying hiss, cool and dense as velvet. I plunge into the silence, pressure hugging every inch of my body before I exhale and let myself kick upward.
It’s over in less than five seconds.
Surfacing, sound crashes back around me in a muffled roar. The sting of chlorine floods my nose. My heart thunders in my chest like a drumroll. I swim toward the edge, water streaming off my lashes, adrenaline still buzzing in every limb as I pull myself out onto the slick concrete. Here’s where my nerves kick in. Afraid to see my score, I search the crowd, spotting Meggieand Ellis first. My best friend and brother wave excitedly, yelling for me to look at the board.
Okay, it’s time. No matter what happens, it’ll be fine. I’ve done my best. I love the dive I did. I left it all in the pool. I competed at the top of my sport. I made it to the Olympics. That’s enough. I take a deep breath—lungs still tight, pulse fluttering behind my ribs—and look up. The screen flashes bright against the arena lights, numbers glowing like they’ve been carved in light.
10s and 9.5s fill the screen from the judges. The two highest and lowest scores are thrown out, leaving me with a 9.5 average. My total score flashes across the massive screens. 507 points after round six.
The Australian is in the lead with 530-something, but holy crap?—
I’m on the podium.
I made the podium!
Smiling, I jump up and down, energy crackling through my veins. I give a little wave to the stands with a smile wide enough to hurt. I should be focused on the scoreboard, soaking in the roar of the crowd—but like a magnet, my gaze findshim.
He came.
The man standing just inside the roped off area away from the crowd, sharp and still as a statue in the sea of motion around him, looks back at me with an intensity that makes my insides tremble.
Officer Declan McLaren.
His dark wash jeans are fitted enough to hint at the thick thighs beneath the denim, and I can’t help but wonder how easily he could hip thrust my bodyweight. The deep blue of his tee hugs the muscles of his arms and—kill me now—the hint of salt-and-pepper hair by his temples makes my uterus stand at attention.
His gaze bores into me with an intensity that leaves no question about his intentions.
The DEA agent has no reason to be interested in me.
I’m a beta. A normal, no-designation, no-drama beta. Alphas don’t usually want us—not for long. Once their omega shows up the rest of us get discarded.
I’ve seen it.
Lived it secondhand. Dante, the man bonded to my brother Ellis, once brought his mom to Christmas dinner, and we spent half the night listening to her story. She, a beta, packed up with Dante’s dad, an alpha, only to be left heartbroken when an omega came in like a wrecking ball and stole her alphas. Dante’s dad didn’t try to fight biology, or maybe he couldn’t, and it left broken pieces all over Dante and his mom.
She told the story with a brave smile, but her voice cracked more than once. I cried and swore I’d never date another alpha again. Not seriously, at least.
