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)
And then, the announcer calls, “Winner of the gold medal…Sullivan Meadows!”
She steps onto the podium and waves to the crowds and to us.
I’m a six-seven, muscled man—but I have trouble keeping my shit together. We all applaud with emotion barreling through. Akara’s hands clapping over his head.
Tears stream down Daisy’s cheeks and proud smile. She videotapes her daughter on an old camcorder and whistles, two fingers between her lips. Winona howls and hugs onto her mom, jumping up and down with happy tears.
No one claps harder or more vigorously than Ryke Meadows.
I rub my wet eyes with my fist.
Akara blinks a ton before he has to use his shirt to wipe his face. “That’s our Sulli!”
I cup my hands over my mouth and shout, “Hot damn!”
Sulli laughs into a bigger, happier, more overwhelmed smile. God, knock me over. That smile is an arrow piercing through my heart.
I’m fucking done for.
My phone buzzes in my pocket a few times.
I ignore.
Not wanting to miss a beat.
The Jumbotron above the champions shows flashes of the audience. Maximoff, Jane, Luna, Beckett, and more—SFO, her aunts and uncles—all clapping. Barely a dry eye in the house.
I sniff hard when Sulli bends her head, and an official slips a gold medal around her neck. A woman passes Sulli a small bouquet of orange California poppies.
We clap harder. Daisy lets out another whistle.
Sulli yanks her sleeve, and then lifts the medal to her lips. She bites the gold, a signature pose for all her golds. But clear as fucking day is the tattoo on her wrist, facing every camera.
Forward & Onward.
My chest rises in a deeper breath.
Akara reaches up and holds onto my shoulder. We exchange a determined, strong look, and I lightly smack his upperchest. Careful of his stitches.
The three of us aren’t just surviving.
We’re thriving.
How long that’ll last—I can’t say, but I take these moments as they come, and God, is this is a beautiful fucking one.
When Sulli splays the medal flat to her chest, cheering dies down as the competitors lift their gazes to the flags. The national anthem starts playing. Hands to our hearts, time seems to stop for a second.
Tears crest her reddened eyes.
She pinches them away, trying to see through the emotion. Cameras zoom in on her overcome face, and my heart is beating stronger for her.
You did it, Sulli.
Three flags are hoisted up. Two American flags and then the Japanese flag on the far right.
I see Sulli break through the tears into another big smile. Seeing her radiate the sorta joy I wish I could bottle and shelve and save for later. When the world won’t be as kind to the girl I love.
That’s tomorrow.
That’s another day.
Sulli pulls her eyes off the flags and looks towards me and Akara. She tugs her ear.
We tug ours back.
We love you too, mermaid.
After the ceremony ends, Sulli hops off the podium and bypasses cameras and reporters. She heads straight for us.
Ryke and Daisy wrap their daughter in a hug.
“World fucking record holder,” Ryke says, messing Sulli’s damp hair as they pull apart.
She smiles. “I heard you, you know, Dad. Cheering me on.”
“Yeah?” Ryke wears a rare gentle expression. “What was I doing?”
“Yelling go, Sulli.”
Daisy brightens. “The accuracy of it all.”
Ryke laughs—and just as Sulli turns to us and her sister, Ryke’s laugh is choked off with a violent, bang!
Shrieking pitches the air. People stir at the sound of a gunshot. Instinct shoves me more than fear.
Protect Sulli.
Protect our girlfriend.
I curve an arm over Sulli, quickly—in the blink of a fucking eye. Pulling her down, and she’s already ducking. Akara swoops in, shielding her frontside.
Wylie covers Ryke.
Price covers Daisy, and Greer is on Winona. We’re all seconds from racing the Meadows out of the stadium. We start to move.
“Fuckfuck,” Sulli cries in terror. “Dad?”
“I’m alright, sweetie.”
And then our comms ring in our ears.
“It’s a confetti popper,” Farrow says loudly.
Oscar confirms, “A kid shot off a confetti popper. Section three-hundred, around the twelfth row.”
Fucking kidding me. Unblinking, I sweep the pool, where reporters crouch and hide behind camera equipment. And the stands where people stampede out of their seats and to the nearest exits.
Akara speaks hushed in his mic. “No threat, no threat. Everyone stay close to your clients.”
Even with the no threat call, adrenaline is pumping and we guide the Meadows family into a back exit with urgency, leading them down a hall.
Quiet.
We’re all fucking deathly quiet, and my gaze is sharp. Narrowed.
I’m frosty.
She’s safe.
They’re safe.
We enter an emptied locker room. Smells like chlorine and wet socks. But I push out ahead of everyone and do a quick scan.
“All clear,” I tell Akara and the Triple Shield bodyguards.
Sulli, Winona, and Daisy sink onto a wooden bench between a row of lockers. I put a comforting hand on Sulli’s head while she catches her breath. She keeps muttering, “Fuck,” over and over again.