Page 28 of Depths of Desire (The Saints of Westmont U #4)
TWENTY-ONE
OLIVER
The starting block was cold beneath my feet.
I adjusted my goggles one final time, pulled my cap down tight until it cut into my forehead. The Denver Aquatic Center stretched before me. A cathedral of competition, eight lanes of blue that would either resurrect my career or bury it completely.
Lane four. 200-meter freestyle final. This is it.
The crowd noise faded to a distant hum as I stepped to the edge. My toes curled over the block’s lip, muscle memory taking over. I’d done this thousands of times before. But never with so much riding on perfect execution.
Last year flashed through my mind like a scar reopening.
The Olympics in Paris, silver around my neck, the weight of it heavier than any medal had a right to be.
Second place. The reporters asking if I was disappointed, if I’d trained differently, if the pressure had gotten to me.
I’d smiled and said all the right things about being honored to represent my country.
Then came Nationals three weeks later. The race that was supposed to be my victory lap turned into a public execution. Sixth place. Sixth. Not even close enough to smell the podium. I’d stood here, watching better swimmers celebrate, and felt something fundamental break inside me.
“Olympic silver medalist Oliver Hayworth, representing Westmont University.” The announcer’s voice cut through my reverie. Silver. Always silver. The word that followed me like a shadow, a constant reminder that I’d been almost good enough when it mattered most.
I scanned the stands reflexively, looking for a face I knew wouldn’t be there.
Lennox should have been here, wearing that stupid Westmont hoodie and grinning like he was personally responsible for my success.
We’d talked about it back when it was supposed to be later in the summer—he’d drive up Friday, watch preliminaries, stay in my hotel room, and distract me from my nerves in all the best ways.
Instead, strangers held foam fingers, anonymous faces in a sea of people who didn’t know that I’d traded the only good thing in my life for this moment.
This is why I can’t be with him. This is why I have to be alone.
The thought had sustained me through every brutal training session, every lonely night in my apartment, every time I’d stared at my phone wanting to text him and choosing discipline instead. Love was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Happiness was a distraction I didn’t deserve.
Not until I proved I belonged here.
If I fail, there’s no career. No endorsements. No future in the water.
If I win, I’m finally vindicated.
My coach caught my eye from the deck and nodded once. We’d run through the strategy a hundred times. Fast start, controlled middle, explosive finish. Save nothing for the swim back. This was my event, my distance, my redemption.
“Swimmers, take your mark.”
I crouched into position, every muscle coiled like a spring.
The pool stretched before me like a judgment, like a test I’d been preparing for my entire life.
Eight lanes, seven other swimmers who wanted this just as badly.
But none of them had fallen as far as I had. None of them needed it like I did.
The silence was absolute.
The starting signal cracked like thunder.
I launched myself into the water with everything I had, years of training, of sacrifice, of choosing the pool over everything else. The dive was perfect, my streamline cutting through the water like a blade. I surfaced ahead of the field, exactly where I needed to be.
My technique was flawless, the product of ten thousand hours of repetition, of breaking myself down and building myself back up stronger. I could feel the water yielding to me, could sense the other swimmers fighting to keep pace.
Fifty meters. I was ahead by a body length.
One hundred meters. The field had closed the gap, but I was still leading. My lungs burned, but it was a familiar fire. I’d trained for this, lived for this moment when pain became transcendence.
One hundred fifty meters. This was where races were won or lost, where champions separated themselves from everyone else. I could hear the crowd now, a roar that seemed to lift me from the water. My stroke rate increased, each pull more powerful than the last.
This is who I am. This is what I was born to do.
The final fifty meters blurred past in a haze of controlled fury. Every training session, every sacrifice, every moment I’d chosen solitude over connection, it all poured into my stroke. I wasn’t swimming anymore; I was flying, transcending the limits of human endurance.
I touched the wall and immediately spun to look at the scoreboard.
1st place. Oliver Hayworth. New meet record.
The arena exploded. My coach was screaming something from the deck, his arms raised in victory. The swimmer in lane three, the defending champion, reached over to shake my hand, his face a mixture of respect and disappointment.
I won.
I actually fucking won.
The realization hit me like a physical blow. After months of doubt, of questioning whether I still had what it took, I’d just swum the race of my life. I’d beaten the best swimmers in the country, set a new record, proved that Paris wasn’t a fluke, and last year’s Nationals was just a bad day.
I was back.
The medal ceremony was a blur of the national anthem and flash photography.
The gold medal was heavier than I’d expected, warm against my chest as they placed it around my neck.
I stood on the highest step of the podium, arms raised in triumph, and let the cameras capture what vindication looked like.
This is it. This is what I sacrificed everything for.
The photographers shouted directions. “Look this way, Oliver!” “Give us a smile!” “How does it feel to be back on top?” I played the part perfectly, the conquering hero, the redeemed champion, the swimmer who’d clawed his way back from failure to glory.
But as the ceremony ended and the crowd began to disperse, something strange happened.
The euphoria began to fade.
Not slowly, like coming down from an adrenaline high. It vanished all at once, like someone had flipped a switch and drained all the color from the world.
I stood there with the gold medal around my neck, surrounded by reporters and photographers and officials, and felt…nothing.
Empty.
Hollow.
Like I’d just won the most important race of my life and somehow lost everything that mattered.
Is this it?
The question hit me with devastating clarity. This moment, this validation I’d been chasing for a year, felt as weightless as the water I’d just conquered. The medal that should have filled the hole in my chest just made it feel larger, more echoing.
Is this why I let Lennox walk away?
Is this why I chose to be alone?
I thought about him playing that hockey game, the way his face lit up when he scored, how he’d looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. I thought about lazy Sunday mornings in my apartment, his laugh echoing off the walls, the way he made even silence feel like home.
I’d traded all of that for this.
For a piece of metal and some applause from strangers.
The reporters clustered around me, microphones thrust forward like weapons.
“Oliver, how does it feel to be back on top?”
“Was last year’s performance a wake-up call?”
“What’s next for you heading into the World Championships?”
I answered their questions on autopilot, gave them the sound bites they wanted. But inside, I was drowning. Not in water. I’d never drown in water. I was drowning in the realization that I’d achieved everything I thought I wanted and felt more lost than ever.
When the interviews finally ended, I walked away from the podium with mechanical precision. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the gold medal was made of lead instead of precious metal.
I’d won.
I’d proven myself.
I’d vindicated every choice I’d made, every sacrifice I’d demanded of myself and others.
And I’d never felt more defeated in my life.
The locker room was mercifully empty. I sat on the bench, still in my racing suit, the medal heavy around my neck, and finally let myself think the thought I’d been avoiding.
I made the wrong choice.
I chose gold over love, and I don’t know how to live with either one.