Total pages in book: 162
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162567 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Kingly laughs. “Thanks for the World History, Deano.” They fist-bump.
Dean fist-bumps me. I don’t have the fucking courage to announce on camera that I’ve been ousted from a flagbearer role.
I should be relieved. Eyes won’t be all on me. But I’m not.
I hate that I feel ashamed.
Like I’m letting down my country. Like I’m letting down other people in poly relationships. Like I’m letting down my family, my boyfriends, everyone who loves me.
“Here we go!” Dean cheers. Unaware that Kingly isn’t going to pass the flag to me.
Before I fade back into the masses and find Frankie, my swim idol briefly looks down at me.
And Kingly says, “Shit happens, kid.”
7
SULLIVAN MEADOWS
@ollieoop7: knew Sullivan would get the shaft! Sucks to be her lol
@therealone20192: sulli the slut never deserved to carry the flag in the first place. Shes fucking gross
@callowaysfan_forever: The right call was made imo. Love the Meadows but Sulli joined the Olympics at last minute. Other athletes have given more to be there *shrugs*
@porcupine_dreamz: was she crying? I swear I saw her shed a tear haha
@vodkajuicer111: slutty sulli is a loser go get gangbanged bitch
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
And double fuck you.
Social media and Olympic commentators have been obsessing over the U.S. flagbearer drama, but even as I close out my socials, that chaos is background noise to a louder crisis.
Pregnant.
All night and morning after the Opening Ceremony, I keep tossing that big glaring word back and forth in my head. Like a ping-pong match in my brain. By the afternoon it doesn’t land anywhere helpful.
Luna plops down on my single bed next to me, carrying a plastic baggie of multicolored gel pens. Neon-green glitter sparkles throughout her long, light brown hair, and I twist a glittery strand around my finger and begin braiding.
She opens the gel pen baggie.
We’re not roommates in Los Angeles. She’s been staying at a nearby hotel with our families, but she’s visiting me at the Olympic Village after I texted her an SOS:
Need to fucking meet-up ASAP.
I included enough panicked emojis that she practically flew here at the first chance.
“Have you talked to Beckett?” she asks me.
“Not yet. You’re the only one aware of this fucking pickle right now.” Am I really calling my baby a disgusting pickle?
Ugh. I restrain the urge to bury my face in my bed pillow.
Luna glances cautiously at the door.
Locked.
Nobody here but us.
I lucked out receiving a highly coveted single room in the Olympic Village. Well, if you spell “luck” with the letters A.K.A.R.A.
My boyfriend went to bat for me, sighting security reasons. Even with the special treatment, my room isn’t outfitted for a queen. I’m not Princess Sulli, as some trashy sports commentators try to paint me as.
Fuck them.
I have all the same fixtures as every other Olympic athlete, and I love the tiny bathroom, plain walls, itchy sheets, and ugly carpeted floor. Everything about my room screams I made it to the Olympics.
Dean has already documented the athletes’ lodging conditions on social media, highlighting the single bed made from cardboard that’ll be recycled after the Summer Games. Our beds also include fluffy comforters with the Olympic rings printed down the center and a sign that says, Rigorous Activity Not Advised.
Of course they meant no jumping, but my mind went to other things.
Banks & Akara won’t be banging me on the bed. Noted.
Whether or not they’ll take me rough and hot and sweaty seems like such a silly, trivial thought now. I have more pressing issues. One I can’t ignore for that long. Especially since Akara and Banks are rooming with me. They aren’t down the hallway or lodging at a hotel.
They even slept here last night.
Partially because they’re my boyfriends. Mostly because they’re my bodyguards. Two cots are pushed against the wall. And I’m still grappling with how I should tell them.
Fuck, I’m still grappling with the reality that I am pregnant.
While I’m all submerged in my jumbled feelings, my boyfriends are currently in a security meeting with SFO. In their absence, a temp is guarding my bedroom door. The six qualifying events to advance to semifinals start tomorrow, and security is high-stressed about how to keep me safe while I compete.
I’m high-stressed for a completely different reason.
Luna speaks softly. “Have you taken the test yet?”
“Yeah.” I let go of her braid. “It was positive.”
She stops digging around in her bag of gel pens. “Whoa,” she breathes out. Jaw dropping slowly. Eyes bugging.
“I know. Fucking whoa.” I collapse back on the bed. It’s surprisingly squishy for being made of cardboard.
“What if it’s a false positive?” Luna theorizes. “It was only one test. I can go get you more.”
“Oh hey, you don’t have to do that again for me, Luna.” I perch on my elbows. “It’s too big of a risk if someone sees you with one. You’d be subjected to pregnancy rumors, and you shouldn’t have to deal with that because of me.”