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Nic

The 2008 Olympics, Beijing.

Fifteen Years Ago.

My ankle throbs like fire, despite my brand-new fuchsia crutches taking most of my weight off. They’re a perfect fit, but after standing for this long, they’re just as uncomfortable as my rusty old pair.

I glance at the empty seats of the stadium’s private booth. Below, the men’s 200-meter freestyle final is about to begin.

The seats are almost empty because everyone is pressed against the railings, cheering and craning for a better view as the swimmers are called in.

Everyone except me.

“Nic, you’re missing it!” Theo Aldridge, my BFF, shouts as he pushes against his father’s legs to make space for me.

He rakes back the blond hair flopping onto his face and bounces on the balls of his feet. “I can see everything from here! Come on!”

Suppressing a groan, I tighten my grip on the crutches and hobble down the steps, wincing as the too-tight bandage digs into my skin.

The nurse who changed it this morning in the swanky Beijing hotel room didn’t speak any English, and I was too scared to complain to Mrs. Aldridge.

Not that complaining would have changed anything. It never does.

Finally, wedged between Theo and Mr. Aldridge, I take in the indoor stadium for the first time. The Water Cube—the Beijing Aquatics Center—gleams like a huge fishbowl, glowing blue and silver, its glass walls shimmering under the bright lights.

It’s impressive, I suppose. We could have been watching the Olympics on the Aldridges’ hundred-inch TV back in L.A., but Theo’s parents insisted their son had to experience the Olympics live. And since they didn’t want him bored while on the trip, I got dragged along too, despite being only six days post a major surgery.

“Who is your daddy betting to get the gold medal this time?” I ask Theo, who is leaning so far over the rail, I’m worried he might fall off.

Before Theo can answer, Mr. Aldridge turns to me, his booming voice drowning out everything else.

“It’s Chase Mitchell, you little gimp!”

Heat floods my face, and I shoot a mortified glance at Theo, praying he didn’t catch that, but he’s already bellowing at his father’s jibe.

My gut twists, but I swallow the feeling.

It’s just a joke, Nic , I tell myself.

Besides, your leg is getting fixed. You just need to get through the surgeries. And then you won’t be a gimp anymore.

“Jack, really,” Mrs. Aldridge chuckles, cuffing her husband lightly on the arm. “You must stop calling her that. Anyway, you’d better be right about Chase Mitchell taking gold. Half a million dollars is riding on it.”

Their gazes flick to the group of friends standing beside them, then they exchange a secret, knowing smile.

A rock of unease settles in my gut as I follow their gazes and glance at their wealthy friends, noticing, not for the first time, how . . . dazed they look.

Their mouths are slackened into strangely identical smiles, and their movements are sluggish—almost like they’re underwater.

The Aldridges promised this trip would be fun. Theo was over the moon, and I pretended to be, too.

But honestly? I’d rather be home.

I miss my dad and my baby sister, Bea. But most of all, I miss Cass. My step-sister. It’s been a year since she turned eighteen and left us for her biological dad. I still haven't figured out how to stop waiting for her to return.

Between my surgeries and doing activities with Theo and the Aldridges, I hardly get to spend any time with my family.

“Go have fun,” Dad had said when Mrs. Aldridge suggested they take me on the trip. “It’ll be good for you to get out of the country.”

What he really should have said was: It’ll be good for you to get out of my hair.

Dad prefers it when it’s just him and Bea. Not that I blame him. Bea was only four months old when Mum died. I was six years old. Bea has always needed Dad more.

The crowd suddenly roars, and I look up to see the swimmers filing onto the deck and peeling off their tracksuits.

I lean closer to Theo, whispering, “Which one’s Chase Mitchell?”

Theo shoots me a look like I’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world. “Duh, the one with the US flag on his back.” Then he cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Let’s go, Chase! Let’s go!”

One swimmer—a tall, broad figure in a black hoodie with the American flag on his back—lifts a hand in a lazy thumbs-up in our general direction. He doesn’t bother looking back.

Theo gasps, his green eyes widening to saucers. “Oh, my God! He heard me! He heard me!” He screams, grabs me by my arms, and shakes me. He then starts jumping up and down, nearly knocking me over.

I roll my eyes and shift back to protect my leg. Theo can be such a boy sometimes. “He’s just being polite, Theo. Calm down.”

Glancing back, I watch Chase shrug off his hoodie to reveal tanned skin and shaggy black hair curling under his swim cap. He’s bigger than the others, broader, but it’s not just his size that makes him stand out.

There’s something . . . off about him.

While the other swimmers stretch and swing their arms like windmills, Chase stands perfectly still, clenching and unclenching something in his fist. His eyes are fixed on the far wall of the arena, his jaw tight.

An older man in a white tracksuit—his coach, maybe—steps up to him, grabs him by his shoulder, then murmurs something in his ear.

Chase nods stiffly, but his body stays rigid, almost like he’s bracing himself for a fight.

Then he pulls a pair of goggles over his head.

A laugh escapes me when I see they’re fuchsia—just like my crutches—with a rainbow-colored strap. They’re ridiculous—something a child would pick out; not what I’d expect a six-foot-four, two-hundred-pound, two-time Olympic champion—according to the commentators—to wear.

As if he can hear my thoughts, he suddenly rips off the goggles and flings them to the ground like they had just burned him.

Theo frowns. “What’s his problem?”

I don’t answer. I can’t tear my eyes away from Chase. He’s pacing now, his movements jerky. His coach returns to hand him another pair of goggles—black this time. Chase puts them on, but his shoulders remain tight, his fists still clenching at his sides.

Something’s wrong with him.

The announcer’s voice booms through the stadium, calling the swimmers to their marks. My heart thumps hard as Chase steps up to the starting block.

He bends at the waist, his muscles rippling under the lights.

The horn blares, and all the swimmers dive into the water.

All except Chase.

He doesn’t move.

“What the—” Theo freezes, his words cutting off as gasps ripple through the crowd.

Chase straightens. He rips off his goggles and slams them to the floor next to the pink ones. His face is pale, almost gray, and his chest heaves as he storms off the platform.

The crowd erupts into chaos—boos, shouts, and confusion drowning out the announcers scrambling to explain what just happened.

I glance at Theo, but his face mirrors my own shock.

Chase Mitchell, the US athlete favored to win, has just walked away, costing the country an assured gold medal.

“Son of a bitch!” Mr. Aldridge booms as he and his wife rush toward the aisle, almost knocking Theo and me over in their haste.

The rest of our group—the Aldridges’ friends—start to cheer, their dazed faces breaking into curious goofy smiles, as if they had just won the lottery.

“What does this mean?” I whisper to Theo, dread already pooling in my stomach as I watch Mr. Aldridge’s irate gestures from across the stadium.

He’s going to be so mad at me.

Theo hesitates, his face almost mirroring my dread, then he whispers. “Daddy made all his friends bet against Chase Mitchell because he was supposed to be a sure thing. He would have won.

My eyes widen. “What do you mean, your dad made all his friends?”

Theo shrugs, looking away. But he doesn’t need to answer. The Aldridges have always been good at getting people to do what they want.

The announcers scramble, their voices pitched higher as they try to regain control.

“We have just received a statement from Team USA. Chase Mitchell made the difficult but smart decision to withdraw from the 200-meter freestyle at the very last minute due to a rotator cuff injury he sustained yesterday during training.”

Boos ripple through the stadium.

I barely process their harried words before Mr. Aldridge storms back into the box, his face redder than I’ve ever seen before. “Rotator cuff injury, my ass!” he snaps.

His wife is right behind him, her lips pressed into a thin, angry line. “Jack, just take it easy—”

“We’re leaving!” he bellows, cutting her off. “Everyone out. Now!”

The rest of the group immediately packs up their things, their dazed expressions sharpening into purpose. Mr. Aldridge waves them toward the exit like a drill sergeant talking to his foot soldiers rather than to his friends.

“Move it!” He barks. “There’s nothing to watch here anymore!”

Theo takes my elbow, his grip firm but careful. “Come on, Nic.”

I press forward, leaning heavily on my crutches as we leave the box.

“Half a million dollars—gone down the goddamn drain!” He shouts again and again as we step into the dim, cooler corridor between the bleachers.

The fire in my leg worsens as I hurry along, the bandages squeezing tighter into my swelling wound. I bite my lip, trying to keep up, even though I want—need—a break.

Mr. Aldridge stops suddenly, turning back toward Theo and me with a glare that makes my stomach twist.

“For Christ’s sake, gimp, you’re holding everyone up!”

“I’m trying,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

“Try harder!” And then, before I realize his intention, he moves to my side and kicks out my crutches from under me.

I cry out, stumbling as the pink metals hit the floor with a loud clatter. A sharp, blinding heat shoots through my leg, and the ground rushes up to me.

Before I can hit the floor, he roughly grabs my arm and pulls me up, ordering Theo to pick up the crutches.

“Walk,” he barks, dragging me forward.

“Mr. Aldridge, please, I can’t—”

“Not a word!” He snaps, forcing me to walk the rest of the way.

I bite back screams of agony as I struggle to keep pace. Every step is white-hot fire, spreading up my leg until my entire body is consumed with it.

Theo stays close to me, his free hand hovering over me like he wants to help but doesn’t dare. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

I want to tell him it’s not his fault. That it’s okay. But it’s not. Not this time.

By the time we reach the rental car, I’m shaking so hard I can barely stand. Mr. Aldridge shoves me into the back seat without a word, then slams the door after me.

Theo slides in beside me, and immediately takes my hand in his small, warm hands, lacing his fingers with mine. He doesn’t look at me, but I see the way his shoulders shake with sobs.

Mrs. Aldridge climbs into the front, her face pinched.

“Imagine all that effort wasted!” Mrs Aldridge mutters as she inspects her makeup in the mirrored visor. “The one time we managed to get everyone in one place, nicely dosed up, and that idiot Chase Mitchell has to ruin it.”

Mr Aldridge’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “We’ll fix it. There’ll be more games, darling.”

Even through the fog of pain, alarm bells ring in my head. “Dosed up?” I whisper to Theo.

Theo shakes his head slightly. “Don’t,” he whispers back.

I shut my mouth and slump back against the seat, the wetness trickling along my bandaged foot and the metallic smell teasing my nostril, a clear sign I’m bleeding.

It’ll be fine. The Aldridges will fix it. They always do. I’m grateful for that at least.

Theo reaches out and brushes back my long blonde curls. I always get a warm feeling in my stomach when he does that, but today, I feel nothing. Still, I don't pull away.

Soon, I stop feeling everything altogether. Theo’s fingers in my hair, the pain in my leg, they all fade into the background.

My mind is left drifting back to that pool deck. To that swimmer.

Chase Mitchell.

I don’t care what Team USA or his coach says. I saw his face. He wasn’t hurt. It wasn’t pain that stopped him—not a physical one, anyway.

It was fear.

The shocking thing is, I’d felt it too.