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Fall, was all I could think as I stared at the Frenchwoman’s graceful stride soaring across the pavement. Trip. Stumble. Faceplant. Whatever it took to keep her from winning.
It wasn’t fair, I knew, rooting for an injury. Dillon wouldn’t approve. I’d never once heard her wish ill on a competitor. The only way she wanted to win was to beat them at their best—because if they weren’t at their best, was she beating them at all?
Whatever.
I’d leave the righteousness to Dillon. I wasn’t that noble. I would have traded an ungodly sum of money to see her run down by a wild pack of tanukis. Or waylaid by a snow monkey. Maybe slip on a banana peel. Anything to see the Frenchwoman eat shit—to avoid the misery of watching her draped with another medal.
It was a hope born in cloud-cuckoo-land, as a few minutes later, the lean, leggy bitch set a new course record.
I hated her. I didn’t care if my anger was displaced. If she wasn’t the one who deserved my contempt. I couldn’t stand the sight of her demure, awkward smile.
As the cameras focused on the athletes beginning to cross the finish line, I stared at the bottom of my screen, watching Dillon’s ranking.
Twenty-third place.
Twenty-second.
“Please,” I breathed, casting the word to the sea breeze fanning my burning cheeks. “Please let her do this.” Every ounce of energy I could muster, I channeled across the ocean.
“Oh, this has become nailbiting!” the American chimed as Dillon reached the straightaway amidst a pack of five runners. “It doesn’t get more exciting than this! Sinclair’s entered a footrace on the final two hundred meters.”
I flicked the sound off. I couldn’t take it. I watched in unbearable silence as Dillon overcame a Spaniard, and then fought, stride for stride, with an Australian runner. The pair were at the lead of the small group, jockeying for position. Dillon’s gait looked stiff. Her cadence was uneven. Sweat was streaming down her face, her breathing forced between clenched teeth.
Please, God.
They were a hundred feet from the tape.
Fifty.
Twenty.
Two yards from the finish line, the Australian pulled ahead, hurdling herself across the timer. Dillon crossed a half second behind her.
I sat, stunned, watching her drop to the ground on the sideline. A medical staff member knelt beside her, but she brushed him away.
Twenty-first.
A news alert flashed at the bottom of my screen.
Legendary Welsh Athlete Fails to Qualify for Olympic Team
In a fit of disbelief, I swept my arm across the patio end table, sending the Waterford crystal shattering against the sandstone tile. Wine pooled at my feet before the rivulet of red slowly made its way to drip over the side of the glass railing. I choked back a sob. Never had I imagined she wouldn’t do it. That was the magic of Dillon Sinclair—she could do anything she put her mind to.
I stared emptily at my screen as athletes continued to finish the race, thrilled with their top-third placing.
How strange it felt—to see people smiling.
With the footage still on mute, I watched Elyna Laurent’s post-race interview. I watched her nod. I watched her lips move with robotic, one-word answers. And then I watched her walk away without an ounce of joy or celebration.
I should have felt sorry for her. I didn’t doubt her story varied much from Dillon’s. She was just another pawn, the two of them sharing the same loathsome denominator.
But at present, she meant nothing to me. I could think only of Dillon. What I would say when she called. How I would help her move forward.
There was still Leeds. Seven weeks away, she had another chance.
But I’d seen the look on her face. The pain she’d been in.
On my lap, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Seren.
