Down the line, p.29
Down The Line, page 29
It was absurd. Over-the-top. And God help me… it was working. And I hated how much I wanted her to.
One afternoon, I was in the cafeteria with Georgia, both of us poking at pasta more out of habit than hunger.
“So,” she said casually, twirling her fork, “since my brother and your sister are engaged, that makes us in-laws now.”
I snorted into my water. “That’s a terrifying way to put it.”
“No, it’s brilliant.” Her grin widened, all mischief. “Think about it, Christmas dinners, family parties. You bring the sarcasm, I’ll bring dessert. We’re basically stuck with each other.”
I groaned, shaking my head, but there was a warmth in it.
That’s when Cassandra appeared, hovering just behind Georgia’s chair. She didn’t look like the no-nonsense tactician I’d gotten used to, but almost… hesitant.
“Olivia,” she said, voice steady but softer than usual.
Georgia read the tension immediately. She gave me a quick squeeze on the arm and murmured, “I’ll let you two talk,” before slipping away.
Cassandra slid into her seat. For a moment she just studied me, then sighed. “Look, I know I’m probably the last person you want a heart-to-heart with. Alex doesn’t know I’m doing this. She’d probably kill me if she did. But you need to hear it. She really, really loves you. Messy, reckless, sometimes exasperating, but it’s real.”
I arched a brow, arms crossing. “She’s got a funny way of proving it.”
Cassandra didn’t flinch. “Yeah. Because she’s not herself. The Alex I know? She’s sharper, calmer, more in control. She hasn’t been that way in a long time. And the only time I see glimpses of that Alex again is when you’re around.”
She leaned in, tone firm but kind. “You bring out the old Alex. And I want her back, not just for her racing, but because she’s very dear to me.”
“Why tell me this? What’s in it for you?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. I just want her old self back on the race.”
Something sharp caught in me, sudden and unwelcome.
“And for the record,” She added, her voice softening, “I want her on that podium. I want her to succeed. But I don’t think she gets there carrying all this weight by herself. She needs you. Even if it’s just knowing you’re not gone completely.”
The noise of the cafeteria blurred and all I could hear was just her words, landing one by one.
Cassandra leaned in a little, her tone steady but not sharp. “You don’t have to forgive her today. You don’t even have to talk to her if you’re not ready. But don’t fool yourself into thinking she’ll just… bounce back without you. You’re not a footnote in her story Olivia, you’re the chapter she keeps trying to rewrite.”
I stared at her, speechless, throat tight, pulse caught somewhere between anger and ache.
She didn’t wait for an answer. She pushed her chair back, gave me the kind of look that was more understanding, and said simply, “Think about it.” Then she left, her tray balanced in her hands, leaving me in the noise of the cafeteria with nothing but her truths echoing in my head.
CHAPTER 33
ALEXANDRA
The race is tomorrow, but my brain has decided sleep is optional. I’ve stretched, eaten the right food, laid out my kit like a good little Olympian. I even double-checked the timing chip like three times, because God forbid I get disqualified before even touching the water.
Every time I tried to “visualize success” like Cassandra drilled into me, I wound up imagining every possible way I could faceplant on live television. Trip on the pontoon. Miss the start horn. Forget how to pedal a bike, which, by the way, is not supposed to be something you forget.
And then, because my brain is wired like a traitor, I think of Olivia.
My therapist’s voice pipes up in my head: When you’re anxious, redirect to what calms you. Well, congrats, Doc. Mission accomplished. Thinking about Olivia is the only thing pulling me out of the panic spiral.
But the problem with thinking about her? It turns into okay, how do I top the pancake stunt? Because apparently my anxiety coping strategy now involves plotting romcom-worthy gestures like I’m Hugh Grant with a bike helmet.
So here I am at 10 p.m., watching Notting Hill and 10 Things I Hate About You on my phone, literally taking notes. Flowers? Too generic. Boombox moment? Loud, possibly illegal. Handwritten poem? Please, my handwriting looks like a toddler’s first attempt at hieroglyphics.
I even corner Dad earlier, ask him for “tips.” Big mistake. The man is still smug about his Olympic rooftop stargazing stunt. He pats my shoulder and says, “You’ve got the genes for it. Just be sincere.” Thanks, Dad. Incredibly helpful.
So yeah. It’s the night before the biggest race of my life, and I’m lying here, staring at the ceiling like a lunatic.
•••••
I’m up before the sun; nerves don’t care about sleeping hours. I don’t even remember how I fall asleep, probably somewhere between plotting grand gestures for Olivia and staring at the ceiling too long.
Some Filipino athletes I’ve talked to swing by my room, braid my hair while I fidget like a toddler, hands restless, mind racing. Then come the race numbers: stick-on tattoos pressed to my arms and legs, official and impossible to ignore, like the Games have finally branded me as theirs.
Dad and I arrived at the venue extremely early, because Olympic prep is basically ninety percent logistics and ten percent not losing your mind.
Just before I headed off to warm up, I spotted Mom, Archer, and Bobby. One last good luck, a squeeze of my shoulder, Mom pressing a kiss to my temple, Archer yelling something about not face-planting on live TV. Comforting. Very comforting.
The buzz was deafening. Commentators couldn’t stop saying it, Cassandra Dubois, hometown queen, and of course, Alexandra Cadiz, always in the same breath. Every camera cut stitched us together like a rivalry the world had been waiting for.
Game face mode, no small talk, no smiles. It’s weird, how even athletes who are usually inseparable, suddenly look like strangers about to duel. No words, just clenched jaws and eyes fixed somewhere far away.
I took a glance at Cassandra across the stretch zone. She looked murderous, and that was probably exactly what I looked like too. Only worse.
My eyes snagged on the barricade, on familiar faces and then my world tipped. Olivia. Standing right there, like some impossible mirage, rain flecking her jacket, Maddie at her side like a smug bodyguard.
For half a second, I forgot I had lungs. Forgot the crowd, the cameras, and even the damn Olympics.
I forced my gaze back to the water, forcing my game face on, and yet… a tiny, ridiculous part of me couldn’t stop grinning. She showed up. She’s here. And yes, my life just got exponentially better while simultaneously threatening to implode my focus.
I lock in. As I stand there, heart hammering, a flash of last night cuts through my head.
Cassandra and I, sitting across from each other, maps and splits spread out between us like battle plans. Two people aiming for the same podium, honest enough to say it out loud. Stick together through the swim, and through the bike, then push the pace. I’ll pull where I’m strongest, you pull where you’re strongest.
She’d looked at me then, almost smiling. Then the last lap of the run? We kill each other.
Her words, not mine.
So here it was, playing out in real time.
The officials herd us onto the pontoon, wetsuits creaking and goggles tugged into place. A horn cuts through the air, and bodies surge forward all at once. There’s no easing into it, just impact as we hit the water.
The swim was a fistfight disguised as freestyle. First 500 meters, me and Cassandra were welded together, both of us trying to own the current like it was ours to command. But the river thrashed back, currents slicing through my rhythm until I felt like I was swimming uphill. Somewhere in that mess, we lost each other. For a minute I thought she’d dropped me, or worse, surged ahead but by the second lap, I realized I’d clawed back ground. I was actually a body length ahead.
Which, of course, lasted about as long as my next breath.
Because just before the transition zone, guess who slides up out of nowhere? Cassandra. We hit the ramp side by side, dripping and gasping, slotting into fifth and sixth.
Then the transition to the bike. As soon as I clipped in my bike, I hit the gas. I got into a pack quickly, tucked in, and dared a glance over my shoulder. Cassandra was a few bike lengths back, hanging on solo. The gap wasn’t huge, but my only hope? That Cassandra would claw her way up, because as much as I hate to admit it, we needed each other.
By the second lap, sure enough, she did it. Dragged a chase group with her. Suddenly it wasn’t just me grinding at the front, it was all of us, one big chasing blob. We got organized. Me, Cassandra, Georgia, and a couple others trading pulls at the front, letting the pack rotate so no one burned all their matches too early.
The last transition into the run was pure carnage. I skidded into my rack, hands shaking as I clipped off my helmet and flung my bike into place more by instinct than precision. Shoes on, feet pounding the carpeted exit as I bolted out of transition. I came out second. And for about three glorious seconds, I thought I’d actually bought myself some space, right as I heard Olivia’s voice cut through the stands, shouting my name. It gave me the final lift I didn’t know I still had.
And then yep. Cassandra, materializing again like some horror-movie villain. One blink and she was at my elbow, stride-for-stride. We stayed that way through the second lap, both of us locked in, the crowd roaring like Paris itself was vibrating.
Georgia wasn’t as lucky, she stumbled hard and dropped back. Suddenly it was down to four: me, Cassandra, her French roommate (because of course France gets two home-soil assassins), and this German runner, named Julie, who clearly hadn’t read the memo about pacing yourself. Julie lit it up, pushing all of us into the red.
I could feel Cassandra holding back, biding her time, waiting for the exact moment to light the fuse. And I was already doing the math. If she went, I’d have to hang on for dear life because I knew I wasn’t as fast as her at her best. That was the entire strategy boiled down.
Sure enough, halfway through the penultimate lap, Cassandra dropped the hammer, clean and merciless, snapping our quartet apart. I tried to go with her, but Julie held me off. Now I was dangling in third, trying to claw back but the gap wouldn’t close. Grimacing, I glanced over my shoulder just to make sure Cassandra’s teammate wasn’t doing their trademark ghost move into my blind spot. In my peripheral vision, I caught a flash of familiar movement in the stands.
Olivia’s cheer cutting through the noise as she shouted my name.
Something in me answered. By the bell lap, I went for it. I locked onto Julie’s back and chased, clawing my way into second, legs screaming as I refused to let the gap stretch again. Ahead of us, Cassandra looked smooth and controlled. She kicked like she still had fuel in reserve, posture clean, stride strong, not a hint of exhaustion.
I tried to answer it, tried to close the distance, but there was nothing left to reach for. No extra gear. Just instinct and stubbornness. I was hanging on by muscle memory alone, holding form, holding pace, holding myself together long enough to reach the line.
So I just narrowed my world. Just me, my legs, and the line.
When I crossed that line, my legs buckled, lungs clawing for air, and then I saw Cassandra, already sprawled on the finish line, tears streaming down her face, laughter breaking through them. She’d done it: her dream, her home soil, her moment.
I dropped right beside her, chest heaving like I’d swallowed fire, I did it too. Silver. At my first Olympics. My comeback. Twelve seconds behind Cassandra, which in our world might as well be nothing.
The crowd was thunder, unrelenting, but it all felt far away, muffled, like I was underwater. What I did feel was Cassandra’s hand groping for mine.
We hugged right there, sweat and salt and absolute exhaustion binding us. Years of sacrifice, years of rivalry, and here we were, both collapsed, medals waiting.
The cameras ate it up, the commentators probably losing their minds about “The Dubois–Cadiz rivalry,” but in that moment it wasn’t rivalry. It was us.
And yeah, the German runner, Julie, deserved her bronze shine, too. She earned her place beside us.
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.
