Scene 20

"And this one?" Kam ran her finger along Dillon's forearm. "What does it mean?"

Dillon didn't respond right away.

Kam's cheek was pressed flat against her shoulder, her hair curtaining her breasts, the tip of her index finger mapping out the scattered tattoos across Dillon's body. It was late—Dillon wasn't certain of the time—but the Cimmerian darkness promised the impending arrival of sunrise.

If she was responsible, she would drag herself to the shower, go out for a run, something—anything—to make up for the lost day of training. But then again, if she was responsible, she'd probably be home in Wales, and have not spent the small hours of the morning putting on a show and tell of how to properly tip the velvet.

Piss it . Responsibility could wait a day.

But at the moment, Dillon wasn't relishing this conversation.

Kam was asking about her tattoos. An innocent, curious investigation. Her fingers currently lingered over the short phrase running down her right forearm, handwritten in German.

Gewinn oder stirb beim Versuch.

Suppressing a sigh, Dillon translated. "Win or die trying." She hated that even when she spoke the words aloud, it was Henrik's voice in her head.

Kam remained quiet, waiting.

Dillon knew she wanted more from her. She wanted a story, a comment, some elaboration, the same as she had done when Dillon teased her about the line drawing of a penguin she had found on her hip—a memento from Kam's first trip to Vegas.

But these weren't something Dillon wanted to talk about. Not here, at least, lying naked beside Kam in the king-size bed. Not on a night like this. She didn't want to scare her away. Because where Kam saw ink and art, Dillon saw only reminders of all the mistakes she'd made.

So instead, she tried to appease her with crusts of the truth.

"I had a coach—the one I told you about—who was a firm believer of winning at all costs." She made a fist, watching the letters twist with the muscles of her forearm. "The phrase was something he never wanted me to forget."

Kam shifted the weight of her head against her chest. "How old were you?" She ran her thumb over the sun-faded cursive.

"I don't know," Dillon lied. "Seventeen, eighteen."

Fifteen and a half .

She remembered everything about that day. It had been the first week she'd moved to Henrik's training center in Germany. Her first morning swimming in the Elbe. The current had been stronger than she was used to in Swansea, the swim longer. She'd been tired. Cold. Nervous about being so far away from her parents.

At the end of the swim, when she'd begun to lag, Henrik called her to the bank, where he stood with his stopwatch. He asked her if she could swim it again—faster.

Her German at that point had been limited, but he'd refused to speak to her in English as soon as they were out of Wales.

Nein , she shook her head.

It had been the first and only time she'd made the mistake of saying no.

He signaled her to get out of the water. He made her run sixteen miles from Reitbrook to Hamburg—to a tattoo studio in the middle of the city, where he'd had the saying inked on her forearm. On the way home, he told her if she ever quit on him again, he'd have the word Drückeberger —quitter, coward—tattooed across her forehead.

She believed him.

And she'd stared at that unwanted tattoo, a hundred times a day, ever since.

But it served its purpose. It was those hated words that had driven her back into the race after she'd crashed her bike in Rio. It hadn't mattered that she'd fractured her clavicle, or embedded her hipbone with gravel.

Win—or die trying.

That simple phrase had pushed her across the finish line to claim her first Olympic medal. It had been the doctrine she was taught to live by—one permanently etched upon her skin.

"Is that where you learned to speak German? Your coach?"

Dillon gave a curt affirmative. She didn't want to talk about Henrik.

She wanted to focus on the warmth of Kam's body draped lazily across hers. To get lost in thoughts of her clumsy hands and uncertain mouth. She wanted to drift to sleep replaying the way Kam had been willing to laugh at herself. The way she hadn't shut up with her apologies— I swear, next time I can do this better —making Dillon laugh in return, caring nothing about better and everything about next time . Because it meant Kam wanted there to be a next time. She'd not just been here to satisfy her curiosity. And Dillon knew, despite all the reasons this was unlikely to work, she wanted a next time, too.

But Kam's attention had already drifted—along with her fingertips—to the next tattoo.

The words REMEMBER WHO YOU ARE printed in block font just above her left knee. Below it, the letters DFS .

This one, at least, she could elaborate on more easily.

"After my first Olympics—after my dad had passed away—I had a rough competition year. I lost badly at a few big races and started to question whether I belonged in the sport. I'm not built for it. I'm too short for swimming. Carry too much muscle to run. Too broad-shouldered for cycling. I came home from the Commonwealth Games and told my friend, Sam, I thought I might be done. She thrashed me for wallowing in self-pity. Told me to grow up and remember who the fuck I was. Swore we wouldn't be mates anymore if I didn't compete the following month at the world final in Leeds.

"Long story short, I showed up, and on the last stretch to the finish, got myself into a foot race with the woman who'd won gold in London the previous year. Sounds silly, but it was Sam's words— remember who the fuck you are —that gave me the edge I needed to best her.

"We went out drinking that night on my prize money and by the time we'd stumbled back to her flat in the morning, I had a new tattoo." Dillon offered a subdued smile. "Can't say I really remember getting it—but I'm glad I had enough sense to go with the PC version. Not sure my mam would have approved of the uncensored edition."

Kam laughed. "You were so drunk you put it upside down?"

"Nah. It faces me so I can see it when I cycle."

"Ah." Kam lifted her head to give it a second look, before flopping back beside her. "And DFS ? Your initials?"

"Nope. My middle name starts with B."

It took a moment before Dillon could feel her smile against her chest. "Of course, I should have known. Dillon Fucking Sinclair."

"For better or for worse," Dillon conceded wryly.

The room grew still. Kam's head had gotten heavier, the whisper of her inhalations slower, the pre-dawn hours finally luring her questions to rest. Dillon stared at the ceiling, idly combing her fingers through the silken strands of long dark hair. The clock on the nightstand hummed in the silence, but Dillon didn't turn to read its digital face. She knew the hour well. The hour when the night was darkest. When daybreak seemed eternities away.

Her thoughts drifted across the Atlantic. It was afternoon in her mam's two-story brick home facing the sea. She knew she should call—wish them happy Christmas.

Tell them she missed them.

But there was a part of her that didn't want to interrupt their day. The part that knew a certain peace came with her absence.

Kam stirred, the cadence of her breath shifting to wakefulness, drawing Dillon's thoughts away from Swansea Bay. Lazily she stretched and rolled onto her side, tucking her head into the crook of Dillon's neck.

"For better," she murmured, echoing Dillon's earlier words, settling onto the shared pillow. "Definitely for better."

Then she was asleep again, and drawn into the warmth of her body, Dillon shortly followed suit.