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. . .

Tony

It’s been three years since I last saw Vivienne Gallagher. She was asleep in her Olympic dorm room bed, naked and sated after an intense night together.

From the horror on her face, it’s clear she remembers me.

And when the horror fades and her face creases in a dark scowl, I have to wonder if she doesn’t have the same happy memories of our night together as I do.

“What are you doing here?” she sneers.

“I live here,” I say mildly. “Why are you here?”

She scowls. “I’m supposed to go on a date with your brother.”

My insides turn to ice. “What?”

I don’t like the idea of her going out with Al. I don’t know her, I don’t have any claim on her, we haven’t spoken in more than three years, but…

Vivienne scoffs. “Don’t worry. I’m canceling.”

“Why?”

“I can’t do this.” She shakes her head. “You need to fuck off.”

My eyebrows go up and I cross my arms over my chest. “You’re the one who ran into me. I live here.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever, princess. Get out of my way.”

She tries to push past me, and automatically, my hand darts out and grabs her arm.

Before I know what’s happening, she shoves me, and then her forearm is pressed against my airway as she gets me in a headlock.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she snarls, squeezing my throat.

“Sorry,” I croak. I tap her hand, trying to breathe. My vision starts to go black.

Finally, she releases me. Choking back air, I take a step backward, dusting off my jacket.

“Was that really necessary?” I ask in as dry a tone I can manage.

“Fuck off,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“We should talk,” I suggest. “Grab coffee.”

“Why?”

I look her up and down. “I think you know why.”

It may have taken three years for our paths to cross again, but that doesn’t mean we can’t rekindle things where we left off. Just because she never messaged me back doesn’t mean my feelings changed.

She shakes her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“So you remember me.”

“The worst mistake of my life?” Viv scoffs. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

My heart pounds.

The worst mistake of her life?

She’s the highlight of mine.

“Vivienne—”

“Fuck off,” she snarls again. “Just—don’t. You live your life, I’ll live mine, and we’ll never have to do this again.”

“You’re my sister’s team captain,” I point out.

She scowls. “How did you know that?”

“Are you kidding? Cari can’t stop talking about you. She has some serious hero worship going on.” I take a step forward. “Look, hate me all you want, but Cari likes you. She looks up to you.”

She frowns. “She shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

Let me in. Drop your guard , I try to tell her.

She seems to snap back to herself. Her scowl deepens.

“Fuck off,” she snarls again. “Just—go away. Leave me alone.”

With a sigh, I turn back to the front stoop. I’m ready to get this day over with.

A thought comes to mind, and I turn back to her with a second wind, ready to give her something to think about.

But she’s already gone.

Shaking my head, I let myself into the house I share with my siblings. Our parents retired to Miami a few years ago, mainly to take care of my abuela . For a while, I rented out rooms to my teammates, but when Carolina graduated from Harvard last spring, she needed a place to stay. And I’m not about to tell my baby sister she can’t live in her childhood bedroom. Alberto? Well, he signed a three-year contract with Boston over the offseason. I didn’t expect him to stay for more than a few days, but as we wind down preseason and he starts the hockey season in earnest, he’s making no attempt to move out.

So I guess I live with my siblings again. At twenty-nine, I would rather not have roommates. I would also rather not work three jobs to pay my way, but hey, I do what I need to do in order to survive.

That’s my motto: Do what I need to do.

Inside the house, Cari is sitting in front of the couch, foam rolling her legs.

“Hey,” she says as I hang up my coat. “Have you seen Al?”

I look behind me. “No? Isn’t he at practice?”

She shrugs. “He was supposed to have a date.”

With a hum, I step into the house and make my way to the kitchen. I’m starving.

“There are frijoles on the stove,” Cari calls as I open the fridge.

“Thanks.” I grab the glass container of meal prepped chicken and vegetables, dumping it into a bowl. After a quick turn in the microwave, I add in two scoops of black beans and mix it all together.

With three professional athletes in the house, food is a commodity. All three of us adhere to different dietary standards. Twice a week, one of us will make a few pounds of chicken breast and some vegetables, and then we can doctor it up to meet our individual macronutrient goals. I’ll be honest, I’m the best cook out of the three of us, but I also have the least amount of time. Alberto tends to throw things in the slow cooker, Cari likes to experiment with recipes, but for me, cooking is just another chore. It’s something I have to do. Especially as an athlete. If I want to eat, if I want to make sure I’m getting the proper nutrients to fuel my workouts, I have to cook.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it though.

I eat my meal standing at the kitchen island, scrolling through my phone. I have four hours off before I have to head downtown for my shift at the fancy steakhouse. Do I like serving pretentious twats overpriced steak and seafood? No. Do I depend on the paycheck? Yes.

Do what I need to do.

As I head upstairs, I tug on Cari’s ponytail, and she scowls and swats at me. But she’s hiding a smile as she does, so I don’t think she’s really upset.

I’ve claimed the master bedroom as my own. Al has the room we shared growing up. Cari has her old bedroom. The basement has our home gym. All three of us make use of it.

But as I collapse onto my bed, I can’t sleep. My mind is wired.

Vivienne Gallagher.

As long as we lived in Boston, there was always a chance we’d cross paths, but I could leave it up to fate to intervene.

And now it has, I guess.

Because of my sister. Her teammate.

When I thought about what would happen when I saw her again, I didn’t expect to freeze. I didn’t expect her to hate me. I didn’t expect her to go on a date with my brother.

But I froze.

And she hates me.

And for some unknown reason, she likes Al.

Not me. My little brother.

Al is a catch. He’s a professional hockey player in the prime of his career. I’m over the hill. I’ll probably be forced to retire soon. He makes more money than I do too. He makes more in one season than I’ll probably make throughout my entire career. Probably more than twice what I’ll earn, let’s be real. There aren’t a lot of endorsement opportunities for aging male gymnasts who can’t bring home medals.

Rolling over, I punch the pillow. I did bring home a medal. One medal. A team medal. I’m not dismissing the work our team put in to bring home that bronze. My four events contributed to our team score.

But it’s different from winning a medal in my own right. When it came time for my events, I failed. I couldn’t close it out.

World Championships are in six weeks. I want to be there. I want to prove my worth.

If I make it to Worlds, I might be able to make another Olympic roster. I can redeem myself.

But first I need to go to work.