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Yet today, nearly the moment she stepped off the podium, she found herself shouldering her way through the surplus of athletes and audience, hurrying for the gear tent so she could find her phone.

She’d been tempted to commit a cardinal sin and turn it on yesterday—even if just for a few minutes—but her ingrained sense of discipline had slapped her back into focus. She didn’tneed to send a goodnight text. She didn’t need to inquire if Kameryn had made it safely to Miami.

Need…? No.Want? Yes. But she refrained, anyhow.

It had started two weeks ago when Kameryn responded to the text she’d sent, forced by Sam’s hand. There had been no reply for hours—Dillon hadn’t honestly expected one—so when her phone chimed in the middle of the night, she’d been surprised.

Kameryn’s response had been sincere—a lengthy apology explaining her agent’s request she catch the first flight out of Maui, and how she had a project in the works she couldn’t talk about yet, but one important enough she couldn’t say no. She’d gone on to reiterate how much fun she’d had, how glad she was they’d met, and—if their paths crossed again—she hoped Dillon would give her another chance.The next dinner’s on me, she’d closed the text, followed by an emoji of crossed fingers andpleasehands.

And then, twenty minutes later, she’d texted again.

I’m so sorry, I just realized it’s 11PM in Key West.Along with an embarrassed face.

Dillon had responded:

It’s actually 4AM in London. Followed by a wink.

And so their conversation had resumed.

Casually at first. The next day, Kameryn sent her a photo of the iconic Hollywood sign, along with the captionproof I do know how to communicate at a reasonable hour.Dillon responded withSorry, I nap from 2-4.And then, despite how much she enjoyed the thought of Kameryn panicking, and the blush that so easily rose to her cheeks, a photo of the Thames.Taking the piss out of you—I’ve just finished a run.

Day by day, the texts had increased, the subjects growing more personal. Dillon, who’d never been tethered to her phone, found herself bringing it with her on her long cycles, and looking forward to Kameryn’s texts goodnight. A few days before she left London to get acclimated in Florida, Kameryn had texted that she’d be in Miami the same weekend as her race in Key West.If you have free time, she’d suggested,you should hit me up. Dillon hadn’t initially imagined it would work out—Key West and Miami weren’t exactly a drive across town. But by the time she’d landed back on US soil, she’d already decided—whatever it took—she wanted to see Kam.

And so, dragging on track pants, and slinging her gear bag over her shoulder, she worked her way through a dozennice raceandwell dones!and skirted through the recovery area while powering up her phone.

There were a handful of texts. Sam. Kyle. Her sister, Seren. She skipped them, scrolling until she found the only one she wanted.

I know I’m texting you in the middle of your 48 hour cell phone jail, so you won’t get this, but I’m sending you good luck tomorrow anyhow. I doubt you’ll need it. I landed in Miami last night. Text me if you have time.

Dillon walked the half mile to her hotel, browsing the flight schedule from Key West to Miami. There were puddle jumpers leaving every hour. Despite it going against her recovery protocol, she could fly in for dinner. Or for breakfast tomorrow morning.

By the time she’d showered, drank another liter of water, and forced down a protein shake, another consideration came to mind. It was quiet in Key West. Beautiful. Without the city vibes of Miami. Stepping onto her oceanfront balcony, she snapped aphoto of the view. Her sponsors were paying a fortune for the room. It was a shame to see it go to waste.

She selected the photo and added a message:

Key West is nicer than Miami. Just saying.

Then hitsendbefore she could change her mind.

Scene 9

There weren’t a significant number of things in life that terrified me. I had always been adventurous, even as a child. I didn’t mind heights. I loved swimming in the ocean. Every spider I’d ever come across in my apartment I’d gently trapped and relocated outside.

There were, however, three things I was not fond of.

1. Planes with fewer than four engines.

2. Planes flying over water.

3. Planes flying in heavy wind.

Okay, fine.Planes. Planes flying. Planes as soon as they left the ground.

It wasn’t one of those terrors so overwhelming I couldn’t fly. I flew. A lot. And I knew mya lotwas about to quintuple—or sextuple—or whatever mathematical multiplication meant my time in the air was soon to increase exponentially. But I didn’t like it. And I admit, I’d grown accustomed to downing Dramamine like it was going out of style. Nor will I deny irresponsibly chasing it with a shot of vodka if the slightest hint of turbulence arose. Whatever it took to put me to sleep as the steel death rocket hurdled at breakneck speeds seven and a half miles above the clouds.

But still, I flew. Even in twin engines—the unfortunate majority of all commercial aircraft. Even in the wind. And, moreoften than not, even over large bodies of water.

However, when I stepped onto the tarmac to catch the last minute flight I’d booked to Key West, I skidded to a halt so hard the family of four in matchingI Heart Miamit-shirts piled into the back of me. I don’t know what in the Indiana-Jones-relic-archive was sitting in front of me, but the brightly painted prop plane was not part of my future.