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“Welcome to the second day of rowing at the 2020 Tokyo Olympics! We are live from the Sea Forest Waterway, pleased to hand over to Angela and Ben who will be commentating today.”
“Thanks, Mike. What a thrilling first day we’ve had! With such phenomenal results achieved by rowers across singles, doubles, and quadruples, I can only imagine what the eights have in store for us this afternoon.”
“Absolutely, Angela. We have an exciting lineup today, culminating in the first heats for both the men and womens’ eight. While there are many talented athletes here in the water today, word on the street is that the American women’s eight crew are set to deliver a stellar race. Of note are Quinn Ateara and Emma Call, two first-time Olympians whose performances at the qualification regatta were especially strong. Truly incredible, they are!”
“That’s right, Ben. Team USA is already pulling ahead in the overall medal tally, and with qualifying times like those, the women are set to secure a fourth consecutive gold medal.”
“Stay tuned, folks - we’ve got a big day ahead of us. We can’t wait to see the fierce competition as it unfolds!”
“Bring it in, team,” Bonnie Black calls, gesturing heartily at her milling group of athletes. “We ready for this?”
“Yes, coach,” the group choruses, some more heartily than others.
It doesn’t take an expert to see who.
Her tempestuous coxswain-stroke duo, who are steadfastly avoiding each other’s gaze, are the root of her pre-race nerves. Intense and intimately attuned to each other, Bonnie had expected the pair to immerse themselves into the excitement of the games like a duck in water. She didn’t know what exactly had gone awry, but from the very second their plane had touched down on Japanese soil, the pair had barely spoken to each other. It was disconcerting at the least, and disastrous at the very worst. Emma and Quinn were the brains of the boat, and without their wholehearted synchronicity, their hopes of winning gold may as well be dead in the water.
“Ladies, listen up. Team USA has clinched three back-to-back gold medals in the women’s eight, and we have a streak to uphold. The only way we’re getting onto that podium is through hard work, intense focus, and an airtight strategy. I’ve given you the strategy - I need you to band together to deliver the rest. Remember, we’re pushing for a negative split, catch those bastards off-guard. Emma, I need you focused and ready to call,” Bonnie instructs, gazing at each of her rowers in turn.
“Emma and Quinn - remember why we’re here. Remember what we’re working towards,” she says pointedly, clapping her hands together. “This is our time to shine. Stay focused and let’s bring this home. Here we go!”
Samantha leads the group warm-up with minimal fanfare, silently modelling their essential stretches. They’ve worked through this progression a million times over - Quinn’s absolutely positive she could run through it in her sleep - but they look to Sam regardless, letting this one piece of familiarity be their anchor. With nerves running high and tensions ratcheted up to a maximum, bending and folding in perfect harmony like eight fragments of a whole is comforting - it’s proof they can hit all of the marks, delivering an immaculate six-minute production. They’re no strangers to stress, Quinn included - from the moment she’d been headhunted from her tiny college team, everything had become one big crazy blur, and rowing was the only constant - but it doesn’t lessen the thud of their hearts as the race draws near.
They can’t lose this race.
Before long, Bonnie’s leading them towards the platform, marching in single file towards what could possibly be the best - or worst - moment of their lives. They clamber into the boat with the sort of grace derived from thousands of hours of practice, rearranging limbs and oars in an attempt to secure the smallest modicum of comfort. The hard plastic seat digs painfully into Quinn’s sit bones, but that discomfort doesn’t hold a candle to the swooping sensation in her gut that blooms when Emma sinks into the seat facing her.
They’ve been a duo since they were snotty-nosed kids in the community kindergarten, doing everything together - including college try-outs - which had hammered in the growing wedge between them. Emma had missed out on a full ride to U-Dub by a single second, watching the final place go to some trust-fund rowing prodigy, and she’d slinked off interstate without a single text goodbye. Two years of silence and wondering had been truncated by their unexpected reintroduction at Qualifiers, and not even their record-breaking run had been able to rekindle their once-unbreakable friendship. Even so, Bonnie has remained firm in her insistence that they lead the team - none of the other rowers could hope for a connection as strong as they have, even if it’s immensely strained - meaning that Quinn has to face Emma for six torturous minutes, working to predict and respond to her every move with inexhaustible concentration.
Emma holds up a sinewy arm, gesturing to the officials that Team USA is ready.
Quinn stares determinedly at her bruised shins, readying her body for action.
The race is about to begin.
“What an incredible selection we have for heat one of the women’s eight. In lane one, we have the Canadian team - the underdogs, but we’ll see how they fare today. We’ve got Team New Zealand in lane two, and lane three is the formidable Team Greece. Lastly, we have Team USA in Lane 4, rounding out heat one.”
“I’m certainly interested to see how this plays out, Angela. Like we mentioned this morning, we’ve got our eyes on Emma Call and Quinn Ateara from Team USA, who are rowing as coxswain-stroke, respectively. Both are recent college recruits, and my oh my do they have strong potential. Ang, what are your placing predictions?”
“Well, Ben, you know I’m a big fan of Paula Lahote, who’s returning for her third Olympics, so I’m definitely cheering for Team USA. I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out New Zealand’s very skilled lineup, with more than half of the team being returning Olympians. I expect these two to be a very close match, but I’m not too sure which team will proceed to repechage.”
“Mmm, interesting, interesting. Oh, I see Emma Call, Team USA, signalling her boat is ready. Siobhan McGregor from Team Great Britain, shortly followed by Tanya Denali from Team New Zealand. And - yes, Chelsea Charmion signals for Team Greece. Looks like we’re ready, folks!”
“The teams are ready, oars raised, and there we have it - the buzzer has sounded. The race is on!”
“Team Greece pulls ahead, closely followed by Team New Zealand. My, look at those beautiful strokes from Greece - they’ve certainly honed their rhythm to a science.”
“You’re absolutely right, Angela. The USA and Great Britain are following closely, and I just know this is going to be a close one. Remember, only the first team across the line is guaranteed to progress to the final - all other teams will face off in the repechage, along with the lower placing boats from heat two.”
“This is quite an exciting race so far, Ben! We’re rapidly approaching the halfway point, and I couldn’t tell you which team is going to pull through for first place. Of course, I’m cheering for Team USA, but their delay only seems to be growing.”
“Yes, Team Greece is clearly pulling away, though there’s still hope for the other boats. Oh - look! Team USA has closed the gap with Great Britain, and they’re advancing on New Zealand. Could they -”
“Oh! Disaster strikes. I’m not quite sure what just happened, but it looks like Team USA’s had a nasty oar collision, and in the last two hundred yards, too. What a shame.”
“Team Greece sweeps through for first place, securing their spot in the final. New Zealand second, Great Britain third with just a second between them. Team USA crosses the line, three seconds behind. Golly, that does not look like the boat to be on right now, Ang.”
“A disappointing start to the women’s eight. Let’s hope they can pull it together over the next few days for the repechage. We’ll now cut to commercial as we await the men’s eight.”
The walk back to the locker room is the longest walk of Quinn’s life. It’s not the first race she’s lost, not by a long shot, but this is different - this one is undoubtedly her fault. Seven other people, depending on her to make the right call, do the right thing, and she failed.
This loss is different.
Quinn ducks her head as she power-walks towards the communal refuge, avoiding the camera flashes and extended microphones of the press corps. Brodie and Kaelyn huddle around her, shielding her from view, and even in her misery, she feels a swell of affection for the team’s youngest members. They seem to hold no bitterness over the catastrophic three-second loss, but they were only a small segment of the team.
Samantha leads the way into the locker room, immediately summoning the middle crew into a huddle to debrief. Brodie and Kaelyn file away to speak with Bonnie, and in the blink of an eye, she’s alone with Emma, who promptly whisks her aside into a shower stall.
“What the fuck was that,” Emma hisses, planting her palms on Quinn’s shoulders to push her against the divider with a thud.
She doesn’t mean to, but a tiny squeak escapes her, making her even more pitiful than she’d first appeared. “Em, I didn’t mean-”
“Don’t give me that shit. You cost us our place,” she growls, digging her nails into Quinn’s sunburned flesh.
“You know it was a mistake! I want this as much as you do. As much as we all do,” Quinn pleads, desperately trying to wiggle free.
Emma’s grip holds firm, anchoring her teammate against the wall. She leans in until their noses are almost touching, and between the proximity of her sweaty, muscled body, and the fierce expression on her face, Quinn’s equally terrified and turned on. She shouldn’t want Emma - especially not since she’s trapping her in here, carving slivers out of her shoulders - but she does, craving her with every pathetic cell in her body.
“You fuck up in the repechage, Ateara, and it’ll be the last thing you do,” Emma spits, releasing her. “Don’t fucking speak to me.”
She storms off, sporting a deep scowl, and it takes everything within Quinn not to stare at the fantastic curve of her ass in her rowing trou.
It’s going to be a long week.
Outside of their twice-daily training, Quinn manages to avoid Emma for an entire two days. It’s not like she wants to avoid her teammate - hell, she’d spend every second with her, if the older girl permitted it - but it’s a necessary evil to restore peace within the team. Although no one besides Emma has castigated her for the amateur mistake she’d made in the first heat, the shame lingers, intensified by Bonnie’s continuous scrutiny. Every stroke, every call in practise is dissected and analysed and reviewed until Quinn becomes positive that her eyeballs are about to fall out of her head.
It’s exhausting.
When Jade proposes the team goes out for dinner and drinks in the Olympic village, Quinn has no excuse to bow out - after all, what else could she possibly have to do? Jade insists on arriving at the restaurant early, citing a pressing need to sight the Romanian boxing team, and so Quinn ends up being herded along with Paula and Julie, who are both already a little buzzed. Their table’s empty, of course (and no Romanian men in sight) and so they wait, downing countless sugary cocktails and picking over a fancy charcuterie board, kindly deposited by the waiter.
Joining the team for dinner is a decision Quinn immediately regrets when she sets her eyes upon Emma, clad in an impossibly tight dress and mile-high stilettos. Emma doesn’t look her way once as she walks in, but Quinn can’t tear her eyes away from her smooth, tanned legs, impeccably muscled from years of daily workouts. Not even the dark scowl on her face is enough to detract from her beauty - hell, it somehow makes her even hotter.
There’s just something so captivating about the scary ones.
Emma makes a move to sit beside Julie, but Paula leaps from her seat, a devious grin upon her face.
“Assigned seating, rookie. Go sit with your stroke,” she orders, her smile widening as Emma protests.
“I’m not sitting next to her,” Emma sniffs, glancing over at Jade. “I’ll sit somewhere else.”
“Uh-uh,” Jade says, pointing towards Quinn. “Sit. Listen to your elders.”
“Bullshit,” Emma mutters, reluctantly sinking into her designated seat.
Quinn can feel the warmth of Emma’s body radiating as strongly as her cloying perfume, some delectable scent laced with mesmerising notes of vanilla and something sweet. The restaurant’s beyond squishy, packed to the brim with increasingly inebriated Olympians, and Emma ends up pressed closer to her side as Team Greece’s celebrations unfold.
“For what it’s worth,” Quinn murmurs, pouring her a cosmopolitan from their table’s jug, “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you.”
She slides the glass towards her, and their fingers brush ever so slightly as Emma fingers the stem.
Quinn jumps, withdrawing her hand as if shocked; Emma’s scowl momentarily smooths, quickly replaced by an equally frosty frown.
“Whatever you’ve got to say, I’m not interested,” she mutters, taking a sip. “Ugh. So fruity.”
“I’m sorry I cost us the win. We’ll make it through the repechage. I know we will,” Quinn whispers furtively, offering her teammate a small smile.
It’s not returned.
“I don’t get it, Ateara. Surely they taught you better at U-Dub, while you were languishing around on your full ride. Plenty of time to get it right.”
Quinn blinks, speechless. “Is that what this is all about? That I got in and you didn’t? Em, I cried every freaking night of first semester, wishing you’d text me back. I wanted you there. I wanted you. I thought this would be a second chance for us.”
Emma scowls, pushing back from the table. “There is no us,” she hisses, stalking away into the crowd.
“Oof,” Paula winces, leaning across to top up Quinn’s glass. “That was rough.”
“Don’t stress, Q. She’s totally into you,” Julie says, elbowing Jade, who quickly nods in agreement.
The room suddenly feels about ten sizes too small, and a million degrees too warm.
“It’s not like that-”
“Please. You look at Emma like Sam looks at Elliot. We’re not stupid. Give her some time to cool off, and go get your girl. Maybe a good fuck before our next race will do you well,” Paula comments with a smirk. “Certainly helped me with our first heat.”
Her teammates are immediately absorbed in an extremely detailed discussion of Team Argentina’s women; most notably, Paula’s dalliance with Kachiri, the nation’s breakout swimming star. By the time Paula begins recounting her debaucherous evening in sordid detail, Quinn’s made a break for the bathroom, buoyed by the fuzziness of countless vodka-infused beverages.
She’s got a plan: find Emma, apologise, grovel a little, and then attempt to win her over.
It’s possible. Just not likely.
She rounds the corner, intending to make a quick pit-stop in the ladies, and sees them. Emma’s leant against the bar, her lean figure stretched out to showcase six feet-four inches of pure dedication to her craft, smiling flirtatiously at one of Team Australia’s gymnasts as if he hung the fucking stars in the sky. She watches as Emma pats his sinewy forearm, leaning closer as they laugh about some private joke.
Quinn vomits in the bathroom stall, wishing she’d never come to Tokyo.
The day of the repechage arrives after a blur of training marathons, extra duties, and countless remedial massage sessions. Bonnie’s been working them non-stop, drilling skills on repeat until every single athlete can demonstrate mastery. It was tolerable the first few times, but after three hours of ghost-rowing, Quinn’s almost certain her muscles are about to disintegrate into a tiny pile of ashes. Sleep has done little to relieve the ever-present ache in her bones, but the show must go on, she muses, closing her eyes as Brodie threads her thick hair into painfully tight braids. It’s a wonder Brodie has any hand strength left after braiding the entire team’s unruly hair into flawless, slicked-down rows that rest neatly under their matching white baseball caps, but she pulls it off without a single complaint.
Perhaps they can pimp her out to the Equestrian team for a little extra booze money.
Brodie pats her hair, waving her away with the flourish of an expertly manicured hand. “Suit up, boss, it’s almost time.”
Her nerves are bubbling up to the surface as she dresses, huddling between Kaelyn and Julie to hear Bonnie recount their strategy one final time.
“Above all, ladies, we are a team. We look out for each other. We do our best. We are Team USA - we were born great, and we will be great out there on the water today. Bring it in,” Bonnie says, beckoning them to squish together in an awkward group hug.
Kaelyn throws an arm around Quinn’s shoulder as they march across the decks, whispering a note of encouragement in her ear. “You’re going to kill it, Q. Keep it tight.”
They climb into positions in silence, subdued by the raucous chatter from the neighbouring boats.
One wrong stroke and they’re out.
Every movement matters.
Emma raises her arm.
It begins.
“And we are back, bringing the fifth day of rowing at Sea Forest Waterway to a close. This is Angela Weber and Ben Cheney, commenting live on the women’s eight. Ben, what are we keeping an eye out for?”
“Ang, there’s too much to comment on! As we are all aware, the top four boats will proceed to the final heat, with the slowest boat being eliminated. The repechage comes after a very exciting few days of rowing, and we certainly have some standout athletes in this division.”
“I have to say, I’m still rooting for Team USA, despite their rocky performance in their first heat. They have some very strong juniors in their midst, and you know I have a soft spot for Emma Call. Let’s see if she can lead Team USA to the finals today.”
“I really do hope today goes well for them. If they’re successful, Team USA will be on the road to their fourth consecutive gold medal in the women’s eight - and that will be the third consecutive gold to team veteran, Paula Lahote. Of course, there will be fierce competition between Team USA and Team Argentina, who narrowly missed first place in the second heat.”
“This is it, everyone. The final coxswain from Team New Zealand has signalled readiness, with all teams readying for a flying start.”
“Oh! There goes the buzzer. What a flawless start from Team Argentina, closely followed by Team USA. Both boats are pulling ahead quite nicely, leaving Team Russia in the dust. What an unfortunate week for the Russian athletes, who have missed medal records in both swimming and gymnastics.”
“It's a shame, Ben. Well, it’ll be fascinating to see how this race pans out. We’ve got our two clear leads, but let’s not overlook that we have three teams all ahead of the world record line, with New Zealand hanging in there. Impressive work!”
“As we pass the halfway point, it’s clear that this race is really between Argentina and the USA. They’re stroke for stroke!”
“Team USA is flying! Look at that impressive technique from their middle crew. If they keep this up, they’ll be on track for a world record time. Thirty seconds - can they do it?”
“It’ll be tight, Ang, but they’re certainly pushing hard. Argentina has no chance!”
“One hundred yards to go, USA pulling ahead, will they-”
“Let’s check that time. Team USA has clocked in at one point five seconds shy of a world record. Regardless, that was a phenomenal effort. They’ve made an incredible comeback from their shaky first heat. Let’s take a look at the other teams.”
“Right, so that will be USA, Argentina, Great Britain, and New Zealand progressing to the final. Sadly, Russia misses the mark. The teams will be joining Greece and Australia to face off for the women’s eight gold medal on Thursday morning. Let’s head to a commercial, and when we rejoin, we’ll be preparing for the men’s eight repechage.”
When they fly past the finish line, the tone is entirely different to their last race. This finish is a big one - Paula’s whoops are deafening, and Quinn’s ninety-nine percent sure that Brodie’s freaking crying. Even Emma’s in a better mood - she smiles at Quinn, a big beaming one that she hasn’t seen in years, and it sends her heart flip-flopping like a swimmer practising their tumble turns.
Their celebration continues all the way back to the locker room, and even Bonnie’s a little teary when they dissect the footage in their post-race meeting. Their fluid strokes are captivating; the team moves as one, seamlessly paddling in beautiful, long carves that push them further and further ahead of Team Argentina. For every call that Emma makes, Quinn springs into action instantaneously, expertly adjusting their rhythm until their boat positively glides towards victory.
“I think this is the best race I’ve seen in my career,” Bonnie exclaims, rewinding the footage again and again. “Look at you all! Oh, we were so close to a world record. I can’t believe it. Much better, Emma and Quinn - that’s what we need to see.”
“We’re going to kick ass in the final,” Paula announces, and the girls whoop in reply.
When they link hands for a celebratory bow, Emma doesn’t pull away. Instead, she grips Quinn’s palm harder, entwining their fingers together in a show of solidarity. And maybe it’s wishful thinking or an overactive imagination, but Quinn’s relatively certain that Emma holds on for just a little too long after the cheer.
Fuck the gold medal; this victory is what makes her blood sing.
She doesn’t manage to catch Emma alone until the morning of the final, having immersed herself in a mountain of last-minute workouts and torturous ice baths. Surprisingly, running into Emma didn’t require an orchestrated effort, after all - they’d both headed to the hall for an early breakfast, hoping to sneak a little extra food before the other athletes descended. Quinn had been making quick work of her double-strength coffee and eggs, already planning her next course of loaded oatmeal and fruit, mulling over a high-protein yoghurt chaser. Training is absolute hell on her body, and it’s a freaking miracle that her body’s still humming along on seven thousand calories a day, mercifully not rounding her figure into something grape-like.
Emma lowers her mug onto the table with a clink, startling Quinn from her nutrition-related musings. Emma doesn’t say anything, opting instead to flop down in the armchair beside Quinn’s.
“Can you believe it’s our last race?” Quinn murmurs, dumping another sugar packet into her coffee.
Emma hums in agreement. “This week has gone by so quickly.”
“Yeah. One more week and we’ll be back in the states, and God knows what’ll come after that.”
“Probably less oatmeal. I can’t imagine dropping back to what I used to eat,” Emma grumbles, taking a sip of coffee.
“You know, I don’t really give a shit about food,” Quinn says bluntly, lowering her fork. “Why did you cut me off? You don’t have to pretend to like me. I’d just prefer to know the truth before we fly back.”
Emma stares into her mug, watching the muddy liquid swirl around the ceramic rim. “I didn’t want to. It was that, or wait for you to get sick of me when you met some Division 1 chick. All I did was get the heartache out of the way.”
Quinn wrinkles her nose. “What are you talking about? You were my best friend. How could I ever get sick of you?”
“This was never about being friends, Q,” Emma bites out, storming away from the table.
Her coffee sits there, cooling, until well after the rest of the team have arrived for breakfast.
Emma doesn’t return.
“Welcome to the women’s eight final! Angela, what a brilliant week we’ve had out on the water.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Ben. We’ve seen some truly spectacular performances, and I’m waiting with bated breath for this next race. I had originally pinned my hopes on Team Greece after their amazing race in heat one, but Team USA’s comeback has me stunned. What’s your medal prediction?”
“I’m inclined to agree with you about Team USA. Silver and bronze are likely to be split between Argentina and Greece, though New Zealand remains a strong contender.”
“They’re preparing now, and - oh, what’s going on with Team USA? They have seven athletes situated, but their coxswain - Emma Call - isn’t on the dock. That’s rather concerning, especially with two minutes until the buzzer.”
“Oh dear. Ang, I see that Bonnie Black, Team USA coach, has Sarah Clearwater, the alternate, standing on the dock. Sarah has a lot of promise - we’ve seen her competing in the NCAA Division 1 Varsity 8, though she normally rows as bowman. She’s yet to compete at the Olympic level, and while I’m sure Miss Clearwater has her strengths, this is certainly a unique time to make a debut.”
“Forty-five seconds to the buzzer, and Clearwater is yet to enter the boat. What on God’s green Earth could possibly be going on?”
“Angela, I don’t believe what I’m seeing. Emma Call is crossing the docks as we speak, and - my word, she almost toppled the boat! That was, without a doubt, the most dramatic entry of the 2020 Olympics. We can only wonder what just happened.”
“Overslept?”
“Quite possibly. Emma Call raises her hand, two seconds before the scheduled buzzer. That’s some timing!”
“Alright, and they’re off. It’s a relatively even start - no real lead just yet. I wonder if Emma Call’s late arrival will throw Team USA?”
“They seem to be hanging in there so far, Ang. They’re beginning to pull ahead alongside Team Australia, with Team Argentina following as a close third.”
“Ben, let’s also note that the leading three are still ahead of the world record line. That’s twice in three days for Team USA - can they break the record today?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Oh, and Team Argentina catches the crab. They’ve clearly got an excellent coxswain-stroke pair to recover so quickly, but that’s a critical second lost.”
“Unsurprisingly, Greece’s beginning to gain on our leading duo. Still, Team USA is matching Australia stroke for stroke, and I just know this is going to be a close call.”
“Folks, we’re in our final third, and we still have three teams ahead of the world record line. I suspect we’re watching history unfold!”
“Team Australia’s losing ground! USA pulls ahead by inches, but will it be enough?”
“Look at those strokes! Will they-”
“Last few yards-”
“My God, that was a close call. I couldn’t tell you who was first! Folks, stay tuned for the official review. Blimey, Ang, that was truly something else! What an incredible performance from all teams!”
“Ben, they’ve just paged the results through. Greece has snagged bronze, with a four-second lead on their previous team record. Australia is confirmed silver, also beating their previous team record. And, by four-hundredths of a second, Team USA secures their fourth consecutive gold medal, setting a new world record with a blistering 5:51.99 - a whole second faster than Romania’s 2016 record!”
“A major congratulations to the USA, Australia, and Greece for their medals. Ang, let’s replay that finish - I’m sure we’ll be seeing it again and again!”
Forty-three seconds.
That’s how long they wait, with chests heaving and fingers crossed, for the official call. They have to have beaten Australia - she fucking needs them to - and maybe it’s got more than a little to do with the way Emma was cosying up to that Aussie gymnast at the bar.
Emma’s whole body is twisted, staring intently at the congregating officials on the docks as they convene, clearly puzzling over the results.
How hard can it be to make the call?
When the PA crackles into life, blaring the announcement across the water, it takes a moment for Quinn’s ears to register the message. Paula’s the first to respond, throwing herself into the icy depths with a deafening yell. Jade quickly follows, flopping on top of the older girl with a solid splash and a hearty whoop. The lifeguard’s boat speeds towards them in seconds - probably rapt they finally have something to do - but Paula waves them away with a cheeky grin, opting instead to float on her back, linking hands with Jade.
Sam reaches forward and coils her arms around Julie, yanking her back against her broad chest. The tears stream down her face as she all but holds the other girl in a chokehold, but Julie doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing: she’s sprawled over Sam’s lap, crying just as hard, her baseball cap drifting away on the gleaming water. The pair of them are a right mess, and Kaelyn and Brodie aren’t faring much better, looking equally stunned underneath their matching white baseball caps, mouths agape as if they can’t quite believe what has transpired. All eyes are on Jade and Paula, screaming and cheering and splashing in the water, waving at the crowds and the camera, apparently oblivious to the fact their oars are missing -- probably somewhere downstream with Julie’s cap, Quinn muses.
It’s like she’s wading through molasses, operating in some otherworldly dream state, trying desperately to reconcile the fact that her best friends have just snagged the world record - as well as her very first gold medal - with the knowledge that her life as an ordinary person is about to irrevocably change.
When she leans forward to wrap Emma in a hug, she’s planning on pressing a quick peck to her tanned cheek, salty and sweet and affectionate, the way she used to when they rowed together on the high school team.
Emma reaches out for her, shucking her gloves off into the water, sandwiching Quinn’s face between her calloused hands.
Her mouth presses against Quinn’s before she can even blink, lips moulding together in a quick, desperate fashion. Maybe it’s Quinn who lets out a little gasp, or perhaps it’s Emma, but neither pays no mind; Quinn’s been dreaming of this moment for years, and it’s finally happening, on the best goddamn boat in Tokyo. Emma sucks a little on Quinn’s lower lip, ghosting a broad hand across her cheekbone before pulling away.
Distantly, Quinn can hear the raucous cheering of her teammates, can feel the hot sun beating down on her back, but she’s only got eyes for one thing: the centre of her universe, all gangly and bronzed and grinning.
“Do you think they know they’re going all googly-eyed in front of millions of people?” Julie remarks, tugging on Quinn’s tangled ponytail.
It works a treat - they immediately pull away, scooting back to their designated seats, faces as luminous red as the flags they sport on their unitards. Rather than confront the teasing grins of her teammates, Quinn opts instead to haul Paula, then Jade back into the boat, letting Emma’s throaty calls guide them safely towards the dock. They clamber onto the platform, clustering around Emma, as a very soggy Paula leads them in their tried-and-true celebration.
“Bow!”
“Two!”
“Three!”
With each count they swing Emma higher and higher, waiting until Sam calls out her seat number -- “Seven!” -- and, finally, finally, Quinn yells, “Stroke!”
Emma tips her head back, swinging weightlessly under her team’s hold, and she joins in with her teammates’ combined scream of “COX!” before they toss her into the freezing water. She disappears into the inky depths, still grinning, still laughing, and when she resurfaces she only catches a blur of blue-white-and-red as the whole team dives into the water after her. Even Sarah takes a running leap off the dock, cannonballing dangerously close to where Kaelyn and Brodie are hugging, looking near-delirious as they hold each other afloat. Even Bonnie leaps into the water, fingers entwined with Assistant Coach Charlotte Swan, and the mile-wide grins they sport are priceless.
When Emma breaststrokes over to where Quinn’s treading water, clambering onto her back, it feels as easy as breathing. She wraps her arms around Quinn’s shoulders, anchoring them together, and Quinn’s absolutely, positively sure that life could never be better.
“Congratulations, champ,” Emma murmurs, blowing her hot breath across Quinn’s overheated skin.
When their lips touch once more, it tastes like brine and sunshine and victory, all wrapped up into one perfect melding of mouths.
“Finally,” Paula calls, and the bobbing figures in the waterway dissolve into a mixture of giggles and cheers and claps.
(Somewhere, deep within the Olympics Broadcasting Centre, Angela throws her hands up in defeat. Fortunately, there are no cameras trained on her, watching her crumble as her favourite Olympian embraces the team runt, though she’d be lying if she didn’t admit they were adorable together. Ben simply grins, downing the rest of his stale coffee in one hit. Emma and Quinn ending up together was just as predictable as Katie Ledecky cleaning up in all of her events - a near certainty.)
Four years later
Paris, 2024
“I swear to God, if Paula drills us again-”
“Relax, Q. She knows we’re tight,” Emma winks, leaning into her stretch. “Besides, we’ve only got one day before the final. She won’t push us that hard.”
“Sure hope you’re not talking!” Paula bellows, walking through the rows of stretching athletes. “Ladies eight, this will be our fifth consecutive gold medal. We didn’t come this far to lose to Team Italy. Heads down, muscles stretching. Push hard, or I’ll come and bend you like spaghetti.”
“Coach Lahote,” Sarah calls, rising early from her hamstring stretch. “I have a question.”
“What, Clearwater?” Paula huffs, triple checking her clipboard run sheet. “Sure hope this is worth my time.”
“Are you punishing us because you got reprimanded by the IOC?” she asks, eyes wide. “I mean, it was totally unfair, but-”
Paula holds up a hand. “Clearwater. You can stay behind for an extra circuit. Everyone else, you’re dismissed.”
The athletes disperse in a cacophony of groans and whispers and giggles, leaving Paula and Sarah alone in the compound. Sarah looks positively terrified, the poor thing, but Quinn is not about to go for another round.
She’ll toughen up soon enough.
As soon as they’re out of the building, Quinn turns to Emma, mouth rounded into a perfect o. “What was that about?”
“You didn’t hear? Paula got into a scrap with Sulpicia last night. You know, Team Italy’s coach. Apparently, she made some out of pocket comment about Paula riding them all like the town bike and she lost it. Sulpicia didn’t hold back, either. Jade had to get between them. Since Paula hit first, IOC came down on her, but Sulpicia got a verbal.”
“Christ,” Quinn groans, raking a hand through her sweaty hair. “You reckon it’s true?”
Emma grins, pushing her girlfriend’s shoulder. “Of fucking course it is. She’s been on the prowl since she split with Kachiri. Plus, I heard Kachiri’s here as Assistant Coach, so you know Paula’s got something to prove.”
“This is going to be a long freaking week,” Quinn mutters, shaking her head. “You going after Team Italy, too? Gianna’s totally your type.”
Emma stops walking abruptly, levelling Quinn with an exasperated look. “Q, you know how I feel about you. Once we’re off the team and out of regulation, you know I’m getting you locked down.”
“Promise?” Quinn murmurs, craning her neck to look at Emma head-on.
“Of course, idiot. I love you more than I love avoiding one-leg presses. Don’t sweat it.”
“Come on, you guys!” Brodie calls, waving them over to the rec centre. “We’ve already got a table!”
Emma presses a kiss to the tip of Quinn’s nose, smirking at the bashful expression that crosses her face. “Let’s go, fool. May as well enjoy our last Olympics.”