Scene 46

"She's canny blinding, I tell you! Poetry in motion. And those white pants—"

" Sam ." Dillon wasn't about to listen to Sam express her thoughts on her sister's skintight breeches. They were on their way back from watching Seren compete in a 4-star in Windsor, where she'd come within half a point of sweeping the tournament. It was late on a Sunday night, and the train was nearly vacant.

"She should have won! It ought to be illegal to look that good and come in second!"

"Wild how the riders win for their performance instead of their fashion."

"Exactly what I'm saying! The bloke who bagged it certainly didn't send my heart galloping."

Dillon decided it probably wasn't the time to tell Sam she was pretty certain that same bloke definitely sent Seren's heart galloping. The American rider, Jeremy Hartman, had been spending more and more time in her sister's company. But there was no reason to bring Sam down off her high.

The train pulled to a stop at Hayes and Harlington and a group of rowdy, inebriated kids piled into the empty carriage, cussing one another and pelting a football off the windows and ceiling.

"Sod off," a dark-haired boy shouted when the ball collided with his forehead. A roughhousing scuffle ensued that sent a second boy sprawling in the aisle at their feet.

"Sweet kicks," he said by way of apology for landing on Sam's custom Nikes . Climbing to his feet, he cast a quick look at Dillon, and then returned for a doubletake. "Aren't you…?"

"Will you kindly fuck off?" Dillon didn't give him a chance to finish his sentence. She knew where it was leading and wasn't in the mood for it.

The kid was taken aback but didn't push the situation, and instead scurried to where his mates had resumed their horseplay at the other end of the carriage.

"You might want to reel it in a bit," Sam cautioned once they were alone again. "Can't go on snapping at every person who casts a glance at you."

"That's where you're wrong." Dillon pressed herself closer to the vibration of the wall. "I'll snap at whoever the bloody hell I want." She'd been irritable all day, uncomfortable making an appearance in public. For three months, she'd been holed up in Wales, hiding with her head in the sand.

Ever since photos of her and Kam had turned up on the internet.

It had been the middle of January, three days after Kam flew home to Los Angeles. She'd called Dillon that morning in tears to warn her about the tabloids. The driver who'd picked them up after their escapade at the castle had evidently not been entirely oblivious.

According to Kam's lawyer, the woman sat on the dashcam photos for almost two weeks, battling an ethical dilemma, but in the end, each photo she sold made her more than an entire year's wages driving for Uber. The payout neutralized the sting of being terminated for her violation of privacy toward their patrons.

"You never could do anything on a mediocre level," Sam had mulled, sipping Jack in her coffee while poring over the internet carnage in Jaqueline Sinclair's kitchen. She'd taken the first train to Wales after Dillon texted her about the images going viral. "Leave it to you to get caught post-shag with the hottest movie star on the planet. I guess there's not much room to deny it?" She let out a low whistle, zooming in to view the unmistakable smear of lipstick on Dillon's collar. The stills were wide-angle, high definition, a clear representation of exactly what had transpired.

"Of course we're going to deny it!" Dillon hadn't quit pacing the kitchen. "Kam's on her way to Morocco to finalize filming. The last thing she needs is this rubbish trailing her to the Middle East!"

"The last thing she needs or the last thing you need?"

Dillon stabbed a finger onto the counter. "The last thing either of us needs. Don't lay this all on me, Sam. You know this will affect her career."

"I also know she's made it clear to you she doesn't care—"

"She was crying, for fuck's sake—"

"I got a fiver that says she was crying because she's terrified history is going to repeat itself," Sam said coldly, distant from the empathetic ear Dillon had desired. "After Kelsey—"

Dillon cut her off. "I'm not running away from this, alright? I love Kam. I'm not leaving her. I just…" she glanced at Sam's iPad, where half a dozen browsers hung open, the top headlines flashing across the LED screen.

Out Athlete Identified With Kameryn Kingsbury—Is Love In The Air?

Questions Arise for Sand Seekers Star Caught On Camera With Former Girlfriend of Kelsey Evans

A third, featuring her Team GB headshot, read in bold: Everything We Know About Dillon Sinclair and then wrapped her life into a series of bullet points.

She slumped into a chair. "You're right. It's not her I'm protecting. I just—I don't know how to deal with this level of scrutiny, Sam. I can't handle the press. The attention. Maybe…" She leaned against the island bar, taking in the quiet surroundings of her mother's kitchen. "Maybe when Los Angeles is over. Just not now. Not while I'm feeling so much pressure."

Sam said nothing. They both knew not now was just another variation of not ever .

And so while Kam faced an initial barrage of homophobic hate while filming in a country famous for its intolerance, Dillon had hidden away in Wales, insulated from the outside world. She focused on her training, steered clear of all social media, and let Kam's PR team do what they did best—quell the rampant rumors.

A night out with friends.

A proud ally of the LGBTQ community.

All the implications she was still straight as an arrow.

It was doubtful many people believed it, but as was the habit with celebrity gossip, when the next A-lister took a misstep—in this case, thanks were to be offered to J Lo for divorce rumors #4—the hyperfocus of the zoom lenses turned another direction.

And for the most part, life went on. Dillon ignored the sidelong glances at the aquatics center, performed batch deletes of emails and messages, and tried to let the intrusive comments roll off her shoulders.

Especially when they came to her by way of strangers—like today at the horse show, when a Dutch rider she'd never met stopped to ask if she would introduce her to Kameryn at the Olympics. Or the creepiness of an American spectator who'd trailed her through the barn aisles to the stands, where she spent Seren's entire dressage test surreptitiously clicking photos of Dillon with her mobile.

"So—you just planning on being a tosser from now until the end of forever?" Sam queried as the train started moving again.

At the other end of the coach, the boys were passing around a bottle of cheap whiskey.

Dillon watched the station disappear out the window. "I wouldn't want to deviate from my status quo."

Sam ran her fingers through her short hair, unsmiling. "Tell me—how are the rest of things going, marra? You've been quiet since your last appointment."

Quiet—because she had nothing to report. It had been five months since her surgery. She'd been back to cycling for nearly eight weeks, but still, Dr. Monaghan wouldn't release her for running. The thickness of the cartilage had yet to meet his requirements.

"Time," he kept telling her.

Time she didn't have. Already, she'd watched Bermuda from the unwelcome comforts of her mam's lounge, staring at the live footage as Elyna Laurent breezed to an easy win on the blue carpet. Now, there were less than four weeks before she was in danger of viewing Yokohama in the same position.

Discomfitted beneath Sam's scrutinizing glance, she self-consciously rubbed at her knee, aware of the way the joint shifted and clicked in its new, uncomfortable pattern. "It's going."

"Yeah?" Sam lifted a brow. "Which direction?"

"Better every day," Dillon lied, trying to force aside her growing agitation. For months she'd tried to focus on the positive. To follow the advice of her sports psychologist, who reminded her setbacks led to comebacks—and all that other fustian nonsense he was paid to say. But each day that passed drew her nearer to a desperation that was getting harder to keep beneath the surface.

Sam steepled her fingers. "What's the word on Yokohama?"

Dillon shrugged. "He thinks I have a chance."

Only, that wasn't what he'd said. A week earlier, over a tele-appointment, Dr. Monaghan had reviewed her latest x-rays and advised her—unless her body miraculously grew two millimeters of cartilage over the next twenty-five days—the Japanese race was out of the question.

Take it slow, wait another month, and we'll reconvene .

As if she had another month to sit around and do nothing. Leeds—her final opportunity to qualify for Los Angeles—was in eighty-seven days. She couldn't cut it that close. She couldn't leave that much to chance.

"Well, that's good, innit?" Sam tapped out an enthusiastic drum roll on the hard plastic of the seat in front of her. "A chance beats a sharp stick in the eye!"

Before Dillon could muster her canned optimism— sure thing, one day at a time —the boy from earlier staggered down the aisle.

"I know you told me to piss off," he planted himself in front of them, "but my sister's a huge fan of yours, and she's not going to forgive me if I don't ask you for your autograph."

Out of habit, Sam made a move to take the pen he'd pulled from his school bag, but he shook his head. "Sorry, I mean her." He chucked his newly stubbled chin at Dillon. "My sister came in top ten in juniors at last year's WTCS championship and you're basically her idol."

The kid wasn't lying. You didn't throw out the acronym for the governing body of triathlon without knowing what you were talking about.

"Alright." Dillon felt a twinge of regret for her earlier beratement. His interest in her had nothing to do with Kam. "What's her name?"

"Olivia."

She signed the back of a Costa Coffee pastry wrapper. Olivia, Keep Racing .

"Ta." The boy pocketed the wax paper.

Another lad from the group appeared over his shoulder, waving the half-empty bottle of whiskey. "Ladies care for a swig?"

For too long, Dillon stared at the Jameson label. She hadn't had a drink in—she didn't even know when. Sometime before she broke up with Kelsey. She and alcohol made poor choices together. Ones that didn't bear repeating. But tonight, it felt tempting.

"No," she finally said, aware of Sam's side-eye at her delay. "My best to your sister, mate."

"Cheers. She'll be rooting for you this summer."

Sam waited until the pair had woven their way back to the opposite end of the carriage before leaning in toward Dillon.

"You sure everything's all right, Sinc?"

"Ace." Dillon brushed off her concern. "Knackered, is all."

"You know I'm here, yeah, if you ever need a chat?"

Dillon waved her off. "It's all good, Sam, really. Every day's forward progress."

More headshrinker rhetoric .

Sam bumped her shin with her toe. "I ever tell you you're a piss poor fibber?" But she let it go.

Two stops later, they parted at Paddington, promising to get together soon. Dillon was staying back at her flat in London, scheduled to meet with a new physiotherapist, and assured Sam she'd call her in the next couple of days. They'd get dinner. Maybe she'd even allow Sam to drag her from hiding to catch an Arsenal match the following weekend.

Something both of them knew wasn't going to happen.

After Sam disappeared on the underground, Dillon skirted the turnstiles to the Bakerloo Line and took the stairs to the street exit. She could feel her knee with every step, the subtle grind that never seemed to vanish.

Another month .

The words rattled around her head. How easy it was for Dr. Monaghan to sit in his plush corner office and say that. To nod like he understood and then tap his pen against the screen and tell her to be patient.

We knew from the start a summer recovery would be a long shot.

She stepped off the curb, fishing her vibrating phone out of her pocket.

Kam was calling.

Behind her, a cabbie honked, hustling her along the crosswalk. Dillon flashed him a two-finger salute and sent Kam to voicemail. It was late in Morocco. She would call her in the morning.

Tentative, she jogged a few steps onto the pavement.

You're basically her idol, the kid on the train had said. She'll be rooting for you this summer .

Her gait felt stiff, her steps heavy beneath the staccato rhythm of her trainers.

Quickening her pace, she continued down the street, past the off-license advertising bottles of Smirnoff in the window.

There were twenty-five days until Yokohama.

She lengthened her stride, ignoring the protests from her weakened knee, and disappeared into the darkness of Hyde Park.

Twenty five days.

Fuck Dr. Monaghan .