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The router signal turned green, so I collected my glass and returned to the panoramic view from the balcony.

As I waited for theWorld Triathlonlivestream to load, I sipped the heady Rothschild and watched a flock of pelicans dip their wings into the golden shimmer of the Pacific.

I knew when the leasing agent showed me the luxury apartment, she felt it was her mention of the in-house five-star restaurant and rooftop infinity pool that tipped me over the edge to sign the contract. Little did she know, it was actually the view of the Santa Monica Pier—the sight of the pilings where I’d shared that kiss with Dillon—that sealed the deal on my new residence.

This evening, the distant murmur of the landmark carnival provided a background ambiance as I silently pleaded to any deity who would listen to help see Dillon across the finish line. All she had to do was place in the top twenty. It shouldn’t have been a concern. Aside from her single DNF, she had never come in lower than fifth on the Japanese course in the eight times she had run it.

But itwasa concern.

For the last three weeks, she’d returned to full training despite lacking medical clearance. I hadn’t known until a few days ago that Dr. Monaghan had seen her name on the start list for Yokohama and dropped her as a patient. She’d brushed off my immediate alarm and told me not to worry.

“I feel good, Kam. Better than I did before Hamburg.”

Every fiber of my being wanted to believe her.

But I also knew her.

I knew she would do anything… give up anything… fight through anything… to have a shot at another Olympic medal. The long-term consequences weren’t her priority.

Her mom, Seren, Sam, even her coach, Alistair, had begged her not to push it. But she’d refused to listen.

So, in the end, what choice did I have but to show her support when everyone else was against her? She had enough people telling her she would fail. I couldn’t bring myself to join them.

The livefeed clicked over and a commentator’s voice funneled through my speakers. I wasn’t surprised to see the cameras on Dillon as she stretched out her hamstrings. The media coverage of her return to triathlon had been relentless. We’d known, after the uproar of her name getting linked with mine, she’d be unable to avoid the spotlight. It had been expected. But I’d hoped, after four months, the obsession from the press would have dwindled.

Wishful thinking.

Everyone loved a comeback story. Combine it with rumors of a scandalous affair, and the added pressure of the upcoming Olympics, and it was a plot practically scripted for Hollywood.

Dillon had taken it in stride, never once blaming me for the unwanted publicity. We stuck to our narrative—we were friends—and instead of me flying to watch her in Japan—where I wanted to be—I’d spent the previous evening out with Elliott and his circle, providing fodder for the paparazzi.

Apparently, it hadn’t helped, because Dillon was still the race day headliner.

“No question all eyes this morning are on Great Britain’s most decorated triathlete,” the American pundit said as the footage zoomed in on Dillon’s sunburnt cheeks, hollow beneath her goggles. She did a couple of jumping jacks and dumped a bottle of water into the neckline of her wetsuit. “The big question today is—after an eight-month hiatus from competition, following what was nearly a career-ending accident—does Dillon Sinclair have what it takes to punch her ticket to her fourth Olympics?”

“You know, Mike, if it were anyone other than Sinclair,” an English commentator answered, “I’d stack the odds against her. But I’ve watched the Welshwoman compete for over ten years, and I’ll be the first to say, if anyone can do this—she can. I don’t think the world of endurance sports has ever seen a grittier competitor.”

The two men went back and forth, chatting stats and rankings, as the camera panned out to reveal the sixty-nine women stepping to their marks on the swim pontoon. I skimmed over the faces I’d come to know well—Alecia Finch, Georgina Potter, Elyna Laurent—and focused only on Dillon, whose gaze was on the water. She looked calm. She looked confident.

I, on the other hand, felt like I was going to throw up.

The horn blew, and a split second later the swimmers were crashing through the churning tide of Tokyo Bay. A washing machine cycle of kicking legs and swinging arms obscured all visibility of individual athletes, but as the strongest swimmers separated from the group, I could pick out Dillon’s neon orange cap edging toward the lead.

There was no question she would be first out of the water. The commentators agreed. The swim and cycle were her opportunity to get ahead of her competition before backing offon the run. Despite it going against everything in her nature, it wasn’t in her strategy to podium. Today, it was only about qualifying. Then she would sit out Leeds and turn her full attention to Los Angeles.

I paced, unable to keep seated, unable to stand still. Twice I looped my balcony, returning to peek over the lounge at my laptop, feeling like a child viewing a scary movie through splayed fingers and covered ears. I hated to watch but had to know.

Dillon was out of the swim and onto the bike, making a clean transition. Behind her, A breakaway group of eleven women chased in pursuit. I immediately took note that Elyna Laurent was amongst them.

“Sinclair’s done an admirable job of giving herself some breathing room,” the English commentator observed as Dillon moved into the third and final loop of the bike course. The drone footage showed a sizeable lead—but not enough for my comfort.

My phone chimed, and I swiped a sweaty palm across the lock screen. It was a text from Sam Huntley.

She’s bloody got this!

I tried to send a heart, but my shaking fingers clicked on an emoji of a duck instead. I didn’t bother to correct it.

The footage turned grainy, my internet threatening to freeze, and in the stupidity of my frustration I snapped the laptop closed. It took an eternity to reconnect, and by the time the livestream rebooted, the athletes were out of T2 and into the run.