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I scanned to the real-time rankings at the bottom of the screen. Dillon had fallen to fourteenth place.

Fuck.

It was okay, I schooled myself. Even in her prerace interview, she’d made it clear she would allow herself leeway in the run. Today was about conservation.

I closed my eyes, chorusing a silent mantra.Top twenty. Top twenty. Top twenty.

“Oh, that is unfortunate,” the American commentator said, interrupting my meditation. “It appears Dillon Sinclair has incurred a time penalty.”

My eyes flew open.

This couldn’t be happening.

Dillon was stopped in front of an official holding up a stopwatch. Her head was tilted to the sky, her frustration evident.

The American continued, “Word’s just come in the British athlete is being penalized for dropping her goggles outside her swim bin.”

“It’s truly some hard luck,” the English commentator lamented. “Sixty seconds is a steep punishment for an inadvertent equipment violation.”

“I think we’ve all been there, Andy—moving too fast through transition.”

I held my breath the entire time she was sidelined, internally screaming as runners continued to pass her.

Fifteen.

Seventeen.

Twenty-one.

I pummeled my palm into the cushion of the chaise lounge. “Come on, you bastard! It’s been sixty seconds!”

Finally, the official clicked the stopwatch and Dillon bolted into the fray of runners. She was in twenty-sixth place.

The English pundit groaned. “It’s a bit of a sticky wicket now for Sinclair—having to play catch-up. There’s no question this is exactlynotwhat she wanted.”

“I wish I could say that stride looked more comfortable, Andy. If I were a betting man, I’d wager that knee—just six months out of surgery—isn’t prepared for heavy sprinting.”

I studied Dillon’s face. Her jaw was tight, the subtle crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes deepening. Having been forced to increase her pace, there was no question she was hurting.

The pair continued their banter as I tore apart my cuticles, the minutes ticking by with excruciating slowness. Dillon overcame a runner. And then another.

Twenty-fourth place.

I sat. Sipped wine. Stood. Paced. Sat again. I tried not to notice her shortening stride. Her noticeable grimace.

My attention was suddenly returned to the commentary when I heard my name mentioned by the American.

“I don’t know, Andy—if there was a chance Kameryn Kingsbury was waiting for me at the finish line, I’d probably give it a go, too, even if I had to do it one-legged.”

Was he even kidding? They were there to report on a professional race and this clown managed to slip in my name?

Hard fucking pass, Grandpa.

The English analyst offered an uncomfortable laugh before steering his cohost back to a more appropriate narrative.

“It looks like it’s going to be a good day for France. Elyna Laurent’s pulled well into the lead, with her French teammate, Josephine Durand, not far behind her.”

They were on the final lap of the run, less than a kilometer from the finish.