Settling the Score (The Summer Games #1)(82)

“Archibald, your race is first. Clear your thick head, or else you’re liable to sink,” Coach Cox said playfully, pounding his fist against my shoulder as he passed. I bit back a slew of curse words.

“No one asked for your advice,” I spat, rolling out my shoulder.

He spun around to face me. “Excuse me?”

Thom stepped between us, trying to cut the tension. “He’ll be ready to race.”

“That’s your first warning, Archibald. Another outburst like that and you’ll be on a plane back to London.”

“Right, better send off your fastest anchor before the relay. Fuck off,” I hissed beneath my breath as he walked away.

Thom spun around and leveled his gaze on me. “What the hell is your problem?”

“He’s a prick.”

“Right well, he’s also your coach, but not for long if you keep on at him like that.”

I shoved past Thom and walked to the back of the locker room. Anyone with half a brain could sense the anger rolling off of me. I was a live wire and I needed to channel my rage, not subdue it for the event. I found a spare locker and shoved my bag inside. I turned the volume up on my music until the world around me was completely drowned out.

I slammed my locker door closed and turned to find a quiet place to warm up. I let my music’s rhythm harmonize with my anger as I stretched. In that quiet corner, facing the cement wall, I finally found my focus. I thought of the laps, of the calm that washed over me in the pool. In that lane, there were no mind games or ultimatums. Just water.

This was the easy part.





CAMERA FLASHES WENT off around me as I held up my gold medal. It was the fourth one I’d earned since the start of the games and it hung just as heavy around my neck as the first. I’d broken my world record in the 100m butterfly by finishing a full two-tenths of a second faster than I had four years prior. Every other swimmer had lagged after me; I was untouchable in the water and it felt good to stand on the podium with the stadium erupting in cheers around me.

The media always asked if the winning got old, if my twentieth medal felt as good as the first one had. I glanced down and stared at the ribbon hanging around my neck and smiled.

No, winning never got old.

“Freddie!”

“Archibald!”

“Please Freddie!”

I stepped down from the podium as the reporters shouted at me, trying to get my attention. There was a guy right up front, a little younger and less polished than the rest. He was trying hard to capture my attention and when I met his eyes, I could see the desperation there.

“Freddie, please. Do you have time for a quick interview?”

The media knew I detested interviews. What answers I gave were short and clipped, but something about this young reporter made me want to cut him some slack.

I waved off our team manager—who was trying to lead me back to the locker room through the chaos—and stepped closer to the reporter.

“You have three questions,” I said with a nod. “What’s your name?”

His blue eyes widened in shock and for a second, he stood immobile. The reporters around him shoved forward, trying to steal my interview away from the kid, but I ignored their pestering.

“Mauricio.”

“Good to meet you. Let’s get on with it.”

He shook his head clear of shock and held the small tape recorder out to me. His hand shook violently as he asked his first question.

“Were you n-nervous about the race today?”

The reporters erupted behind him, annoyed with his question.

“C’mon Freddie,” a reporter spoke behind him. I recognized him from races in the past. He was a tall, older man with white hair and thick-framed glasses. He was always ready with a standard question and never took no for an answer. This time, I ignored him completely and answered Mauricio.

“No, I wasn’t nervous. Once I hit the water, my body knew what to do.”

He nodded and glanced down at a small notebook clutched in his hand.

“Did the Olympic level of competition contribute to your record-breaking effort today?” he asked, glancing back up at me. “Or was it something else?”

I inhaled a deep breath. Good question.

“The competitors are great, but today I was able to clear my mind of distractions that tend to slow one down.”

“Can you elaborate on what’s been distracting you?” he asked, hopeful.

“Is it Andie Foster?” the older reporter asked, shoving his tape recorder over Mauricio’s shoulder.

I shook my head and took a step back. “I’m here to win gold, not hearts.”

Those were her words. She’d tossed them at me and now I was using them, trying to get to her through the TV. I wanted to shout from the rooftops about how much I missed her, but until Caroline stopped dropping bomb after atomic bomb, I needed it to look as if Andie meant nothing to me.

Mauricio frowned. “So does that mean the rumors about you and Andie Foster aren’t true?”

I tried to keep my face calm, resolute. “Your three questions are up, but my focus is on swimming, not American football players.”

The reporters jumped forward, clamoring over one another to get their questions in.

“Freddie!” a reporter yelled. “C’mon, just five more minutes!”