A/N: This instalment took copious amounts of coffee, gratuitous complaining across continents, and my entire freaking soul.

"Well, that was certainly unexpected."

"I'm not quite sure what to say, Ben. Retired Team USA coach Bonnie Black is already having what is clearly a very stern word, and — oh!"

"Paula Lahote is now following a USRowing representative out of the competition area. Oh, this does not look good."

"A real shame, too. Julie Black looks absolutely shattered — disappointed, I'm sure, at what is likely to be a suspendable offence."

"Ang, for us common folk, can you clue us in on the US Olympic Committee and IOC stipulations?"

"For starters, both the USOC and IOC agree that coach-athlete relationships aren't ideal, as coaches obviously have a lot of power at this level of the competition. USOC actually takes it a step further, prohibiting these relationships for at least two years after their working relationship has ceased."

"So what will this mean for the girls on the ground?"

"It's hard to say, but I'd expect at least an official warning, if not a temporary suspension, for Coach Lahote. Considering the women's eight final is in five days' time, the Ethics and Compliance Office will need to move quickly."

"It's fortunate that Bonnie Black is here spectating — perhaps she'll be coming out of retirement after all."

"She most definitely appears to be in her element, surrounded by much of her old team. Well, in the absence of official comment, I suppose that's all we can say right now."

"We'll check in later to see how Team USA fares, but until then, let's head over for the day's recap — after a commercial break, of course."

In a flurry of disaster mitigation motions, Julie's hauled into crisis talks with her mother, although she's unsurprised to see her eldest brother in attendance, too, listening to their mother pontificate as if he's not the reason they're all in this fucking mess. If he hadn't told her about Kam and Paula . . .

Fuck, she misses Adam. Aaron might be his doppelgänger, and he might have more in common with her, but at least Adam is normal better and follow in her footsteps, Adam doesn't understand anything they talk about over the dinner table — he's never even set foot in a gym in his entire life — but he is an expert in steering conversation back to his boring accountancy job, especially when his stubborn, hot-headed, competitive Olympian siblings start shouting over one another against the Clearwaters about which of their disciplines is more superior (it's rowing, of course; Leland Clearwater can bellow all he likes, but Athletics is akin to watching paint dry).

Aaron sits across from her, ashen-faced and, somehow, more scared of their mother than she is. It reminds her starkly of the awkward dinner conversations they'd have in their elementary school days, of nightly attempts to untangle the intricate webs of conflict they'd weave with their school friends that spanned across classrooms and training sessions.

Julie'd much rather go for another round in her size four trainers and plaid uniform shorts than listen to Mom's ranting, though that's just an exercise in magical thinking.

"—and you," Mom continues, pointing a sun-browned finger in her brother's direction, "know better than to get involved! We had an agreement!"

"The agreement wasn't going to work!" he protests, gesturing in Julie's direction. "This one couldn't keep her mouth to herself!"

Julie rolls her eyes. "Please. As if you've ever been the paragon of respectability."

"Ooh, good one. Playing Words With Friends again?" he taunts, grinning despite Mom's stormy expression.

Before she can reply with an equally stinging barb, Mom slides a stack of stapled papers across the table, handing a duplicate to Aaron. "These are your conditions for competing on Friday. You're on thin ice as it is — one more misstep, and we may have to call on Effy."

Julie stares at the stark white sheets, blinking as the words swim together before her unusually watery eyes. Unfamiliar phrases like immediate termination jump out at her in thick, black letters, digging their poisonous barbs into her suddenly tight chest.

Mom clears her throat. "The long and short of it is that you and Paula can't be seen together until after the Games. That means no texting, no visits, no coaching. She's on immediate probation until Ethics convenes, but we're going to play it safe. She'll assist with coaching the men's quadruple sculls. Kam will assume Head Coach responsibilities with me assisting as necessary."

Julie swallows. The lump of sandpaper bobs in her throat. "You're firing her."

"Sweetheart, I don't know what you expected. She could be permanently banned from Olympic venues — missing the final is the best-case scenario," she says, realigning her stack of documents. "You two can't be together — not now, and not anytime soon. You need to keep your head down and get through finals without making a fuss."

"That's not fair!" she argues, pushing the papers away. They topple off the conference table in a jumbled heap, along with Aaron's favourite pen - his business pen - though she barely notices. "She's worked so hard to be here! Don't punish her because of something dumb I did."

Aaron clears his throat. "Jules, she has to step aside. Now that she's been accused of unethical behaviour, she can't be anywhere near-"

Julie kicks her chair back as she leaps to her feet, incensed. "She didn't do anything! I started it!"

Mom scrubs a hand across her tired face, looking every year of her age. "Let's hope the IOC sees it that way. Aaron, escort her back to her room. Julie, you will stay within eyesight of another Team USA athlete — you are not to be alone under any circumstances, and, for the love of God, stay away from Paula."

Mom nods at Aaron, who loops a burly arm through her elbow. "Let's move. I'd hate to miss out on sauna hour."

Julie only treads on his toes a little — his full-body wince is entirely overdramatic and unnecessary.

Besides, he deserves it.

Without Paula to ogle — and with the IOC Ethics threat hanging over her head - the days creep by slower than molasses, and not even the fun kind. No, her week's better compared to the Great Molasses Flood she'd learned about in American History, her waking hours drenched in a cloying mixture of guilt and shame that seems ultra-visible to everyone around her. She's cared about Paula since forever — how could there possibly be manipulation and ugliness and cloak-and-dagger bullshit when they'd been through it all as equals?

Yeah, Paula was her coach now, but that didn't erase their past, nor did it cancel out the affection that had slowly built over years of shared physical exhaustion and sleepless nights.

It couldn't.

Kam raps his knuckles on the handrails of her treadmill, jolting her back to the present. "Step it up, Black. Y'need to hit 10 miles before you can head off for lunch."

Julie blinks a couple of times, checking the illuminated display.

Six more miles.

Fuck.

Kam smiles at her, but it doesn't touch his eyes. "Crank up the speed and I'll do the talking."

It's a damn near miracle that the rest of the girls have finished their training, stretching and cooling off and chatting over on the mats. It's just the two of them left in cardio, and the rhythmic thud of her feet is enough to drown out their words.

She dials the speed up a few miles, ignoring the fleeting burn in her calves.

"I know you're angry. I know you're upset. I know you feel like you were betrayed — I get that. Right now, though, we need to focus on getting through the week. I don't know what'll happen, but I know that we're all behind you, and Paula, too. Don't let this get in the way of the medal."

"Screw the medal," she spits, belatedly realising her rising volume. "I'd place last if it meant Paula could come back."

"Please don't throw this away for everyone else. I'd understand if you wanted Effy to step in."

Julie misses a step, feet scuffling as she tries to regain her stride, glaring at Kam through narrowed eyes. "Hell no. Effy's gonna have to wait — I'm still racing."

He nods, entirely unsurprised. "Okay. Head in the game, yeah?"

She grunts, fixing her eyes back on that red, blinking number. Ten miles — she can do that.

As for the rest of the week? God only knows.

"Jules! Catch!"

She jolts, ducking to avoid the whizzing projectile launched at her head. The misshapen orange — now severely defective — bounces slightly as it rolls across the linoleum, leaving a sticky trail in its wake.

Sarah sighs, walking a second, rounder orange over to her. "Ignore Jade. She's just messing around."

"I'm not in the mood," Julie grunts, slouching deeper into the couch. Her traitorous brain conjures up memories of Paula perched beside her, eyes glimmering in the muted morning light. It's wild to think those whispers of hope were only days prior and not a lifetime ago.

Sarah delicately lowers herself onto the cushions, dropping her voice to a nearly inaudible whisper. "You know Paula's crazy about you. No one would care if you got together when we all fly back."

Julie presses her knuckles to her temples, trying to massage the stress away. It's a pointless endeavour. "Honestly, I doubt it. I'm half-convinced she doesn't even like me and I got this all wrong."

"Jeez, Jules. You guys were more obvious than Emma and Quinn, and that's an achievement. I thought it'd take another training cycle before you realised."

"Fuck," she groans, scraping a hand through her hair. "We're screwed. Mom's in talks with Ethics now, and I had to sign some crazy declaration earlier about how Paula didn't give me preferential treatment. What if they find something?"

Sarah grins, looking more like an evil mastermind than her baby cousin twice-removed. "Brodie and Kaelyn helped me do some digging. If they want to take Paula down then they'll need to bust Kachiri, too, and you know they won't touch her."

"The hell did you find?"

"Well, Paula was only connected to you. Kachiri, on the other hand...through some unfortunate rumours and posts and not-so-private text messages, it looks like she's tied to three of the women's eight, as well as two from their Tokyo line-up. It's almost like Italy's reign of terror over the Village is kaput ."

Julie runs her tongue over her teeth, deep in thought. If Paula can escape with a warning, and they don't work together anymore, the problem is solved — they can be together, sans international sanctions. Plus, that bitch Kachiri gets a taste of what she deserves — and it's surely better coming from the IOC, because Julie'd be far harsher after the way she'd treated Paula.

"Sar, that's absolutely Machiavellian," she praises, reaching over to ruffle her younger teammate's hair. "And that's why I love you."

"Best not be moving in on my girl," Brodie calls, jokingly waving her fist. "Count your days!"

Julie glances at Sarah, intrigued by the flush of her cheeks. "Can I—"

"Nope," Sarah declares, springing to her feet. "Pep talk over!"

And while that may be true, her curiosity absolutely is not, especially not after noticing the flirtatious way Brodie trails her fingers across Sarah's exposed arm, or the tiny smile that blooms over Sarah's face.

Huh.

The night before the final, Julie does something impossibly stupid — Aaron's words, not hers — but incredibly necessary. It wasn't planned, not at first — really, she'd just intended on traipsing the halls, coasting from vending machine to vending machine in search of the best midnight snack. She'd done it the night before her first Olympic event in Rio, bumping into Paula on the way back to her room, and they'd traded equally mischievous grins, momentarily united in their regulation-defying adventures. The same thing had happened at Nationals, and Worlds, and by the time Tokyo had rolled around, it had become an unwritten tradition.

There's no way she can compete in Paris without completing her part of the ritual.

She scuttles down a dimly lit hallway, stepping carefully in her terry-cloth slippers to muffle the sound of her footfall. Paula had made her practice after an ill-fated excursion in Argentina, and Julie can hear the instructions echoing in her mind. Well, not precisely. She remembers some odd statement about walking without rhythm, but the finer points have disappeared like a whisper of smoke, lost to the annals of time. By the time she arrives at the first vending machine, she's well and truly lost in memory, mindlessly swiping her card for a KitKat. She collects a Monster on her next stop, and when she reaches the last machine in the compound, her arms are laden with an assortment of treats that her waistline certainly doesn't require. Julie pauses for a minute as she surveys the options concealed behind fingerprint-free glass: salt and vinegar crisps (a childhood favourite), cheez-its, and an array of snacks with colourful, foreign labels.

She punches in A24, swiping her card one final time.

The crank turns impossibly slowly, jostling her bag towards the end of the shelf—

And it stops.

"Fucks sake," she hisses, kicking the bottom of the machine with far more venom than the circumstances demand.

The chips do not move.

She bumps the machine again, almost losing her grasp on her treats, and still, the goddamned bag doesn't budge a single inch. She's raring up for one last effort, a powerful hip-and-shoulder combo destined to knock that cursed thing clean (or to permanently decommission the machine, if nothing else) when she hears it.

"Damn, Black, what'd the poor thing do to you?"

She whips around, sending a vacuum-sealed cookie flying from her sweatshirt pocket with all the momentum of a turbo-charged centrifuge. The thing skitters away into the darkness — goodbye, four dollars — but she can hardly find it in herself to care; Paula's there, an arm's reach away, a vision in grey sweatpants and a rowing camp tee that looks suspiciously like the one Julie remembers losing two summers before.

"You can't be here," she hisses, pulling her hood up to cover her face. "Mom's going to freak—"

Paula snorts. "Whatever. Worst I'll get is a warning. I just signed over to the quads."

"You're staying with them?" she asks, her voice a pitifully pathetic whisper.

"Don't give me that look," Paula groans, her mouth pressed into a thin line. "You know I'd rather be with you."

"I'll quit," Julie decides, nodding. "I'll quit, and you can come back."

"Huh? How would that fix anything?" Paula questions, her eyebrows shooting up so high that they disappear beneath her tangled mop of hair.

"You'll get to be back with the team. Besides, this is my last season — I should've announced it already."

Paula curls a calloused hand around her bicep, shaking her slightly. "Jules. I don't give a fuck about the girls."

Julie blinks. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you. I transferred so I could do this," she mutters, pressing forward until their bodies touch.

Their faces are an inch apart, just close enough to feel the warm brush of breath against her cheeks, and yet it feels like miles. She can't do this — her job, Paula's job (and criminal record ), the contract; there's too much separating them, too many reasons for her to walk away, but the delicious heat emanating off Paula's wiry frame is beyond intoxicating.

Paula ducks her head, speaking words solely for Julie right in her ear, and it's enough to make her heart skip a beat.

"You were the reason Kam and I didn't work out. Wherever I go, and whoever I see, you're always there," Paula breathes, her hands ghosting over Julie's hips. "You're the reason I came to Paris. It's always been you."

Julie's mind is blank — okay, that's a lie; her mind is echoing a dazed refrain of Paula, Paula, Paula in time with the blood that thrums through her veins, and it's most definitely clouding whatever's left of her good judgement.

Paula pulls back to scrutinise her expression, and it takes a concerning amount of self-restraint not to whimper at the sudden lack of warmth.

(She can't get used to that.)

(She wants to get used to that, and that's the problem.)

"What are we doing, J?" Paula murmurs, scanning her expression for some kind of sign.

Julie opens her mouth, feeling, thinking—

"You're committing an IOC violation, that's what," Aaron comments, eyeing them severely as they spring apart. "Paula, get your ass back to our room before I change my mind. Julie, give me that Monster, and let's go."

She chances a look back at Paula as Aaron hauls her away, and it's hard to tell if she's disappointed or relieved at the interruption — an observation that makes Julie's stomach lurch in the most peculiar way.

"Move it, Orpheus. You're cutting into my beauty sleep," her brother huffs, all but marching her down the corridor.

This would be an excellent time to say something — an apology, perhaps, or a plea for help. Instead, she trails silently behind him, listening to his whispered lecture with unusually focused attention. Aaron could be her greatest ally, if she played her cards right, but he's far too worked up for her words to have any bearing.

Finally, after a lifetime of moralistic sermons, they arrive at her room, and he hesitates for a moment before speaking again.

"You're smart enough to realise that you and Paula aren't the only ones, right? Y'all are just the only ones stupid enough to get caught."

Aaron gestures pointedly to her door, sending her fumbling for the key. Working the blasted thing out of her pocket without dropping her snacks is a mission, compounded by the weight of Aaron's scrutiny. As she unlocks the door, slowly twisting the deadlock to avoid waking her roommates, he plucks a bag of chips out of her grasp, allowing himself to smile for a moment.

"Goodnight," he says. "I'll walk you to breakfast."

His stern look leaves no room for negotiation.

She nods.

Four point five hours and counting.

She can do this.

"Good morning and welcome to the final day of rowing at Vaires-Sur-Marne Nautical Stadium! The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and the mercury has just reached a beautiful sixty degrees."

"A bright outlook, indeed! Ang, I don't suppose your good mood has anything to do with Team USA's recent Twitter update?"

"Well, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't relieved. For our viewers enjoying some offline time, Team USA has just announced that Paula Lahote, ex-Olympian and former coach for the women's eight, has received an official warning from the IOC Ethics and Compliance Committee. Surprisingly, this warning is not in relation to the post-game incident with Julie Black, but an earlier altercation with Sulpicia Barras, Italy's women's eight coach. Sulpicia is reported to have received a verbal warning reprimanding her unprofessional conduct. Unfortunately for us nosy folk, the IOC has declined to provide any salacious details."

"Do you think we'll be seeing Coach Lahote in the stands today?"

"Lahote appears to be remaining on the men's quadruple sculls, but now that the IOC has made an official determination, I don't see why she couldn't attend today's race. Regardless, it's a positive outcome for Team USA, and hopefully, it'll take a weight off the team's mind."

"Well said, Ang. The teams are marshalling as we speak, and so far, no Lahote. Team USA is led onto the docks by Kameron Conweller, looking as ready as they've ever been."

"I'm going for the obvious prediction, Ben — USA snagging gold, Italy silver, and perhaps Romania for bronze."

"I'm open to the possibility of Russia placing, though they're clearly the underdog. Can't fault them on their preparation, though, thorough as always; Makenna Charles raises her hand, soon followed by Gianna Wachsberger for Team Italy."

"Hopefully Wachsberger has ironed out whatever caused that stumble in heats. Yes — Emma Call signals for Team USA, and Stefani Weinberg for Romania. The teams are ready, poised for the buzzer — and they're off!"

"All boats are off to a spectacular start, a surprisingly equal playing field so far, and…"

Their bodies are coiled tight, poised for action moments after Emma calls for eyes in the boat. Julie extends her arms into catch position, readying her blades for a sublime first stroke. They've run the starting drill more times than she has hairs on her head, and still, her belly turns over and over, tremulous with anticipation.

It's a weird race, simultaneously an ending and a beginning: her final Olympic run, but her first without Paula's presence.

"At the catch!"

She tenses her muscles, ready and waiting—

The buzzer booms out over the water, and she springs into action, burying her blades into the water to propel the team forward. She doesn't need to look to know that her girls are doing the same, carving clean lines through the still water.

"In two, power thirty!" Emma bellows, her voice a cut above the building swell of noise.

Julie grits her teeth until she can hear the squeaking radiating through her skull, bearing down to stroke with every cell of her body. It's just her and the oars, locked in a furious battle of power and strength; Emma's commands compel her forwards, snapping in and out of action in a well-trained rhythm.

"Down on port! Ease up, Quinn!"

She propels her blade through the water again and again, relishing the prickling burn that's beginning to spread through her working muscles. It's a sensation that she's come to know as intimately as she knows herself, being acutely aware of every twinge and stretch and strain in her body. They're pushing towards the ending, she knows for certain, and soon it will all be over.

"Adjust the ratio! Final push! In two, power thirty!" Emma cries, booming loud and clear as they surge forwards.

Julie squares her jaw, sitting up tall to ekk out the last vestiges of energy from her being. They're so close — Paula is so close — and it all comes down to these last few seconds.

"Push! Ten firm!"

(Jade will later insist that Julie screams as she carves out her final strokes, but that's a lie. Screaming is a tennis-only affair. A professional rower would never scream.)

(Julie refuses to watch the post-race review. She doesn't need to know the answer.)

When Emma calls hold her up, Julie doesn't hesitate to lower her paddle, slumping back against Quinn, who curls a sweaty arm around Julie's chest.

"Good form," Quinn comments, squeezing her tight.

Julie reaches a burning palm into the icy water, splashing her face with a handful of the murky water. Scoring will be announced in moments, and she needs all the reprieve she can get.

Emma whistles, commanding their combined attention. "Good fuckin' race, girls. Sit tight."

She may as well have spurred on the scoring, because the P.A. crackles to life in an instant, causing a hush among the rowers. It's silent on the water; Julie can hear the stuttered breath of her teammates, the droplets dripping off the paddles.

At that moment, two things are concurrently true:

First, that Julie cares about her girls, more than life itself.

And second, that she'd throw it all away in a heartbeat if it meant she could have Paula.

"Calling results for women's eights. Bronze, Team Russia, 5:58.98. Silver, Team Romania, 5:55.96."

"Jesus," Quinn whispers, crossing all of her fingers. "Give us the gold."

Julie crosses her fingers for Quinn.

"Gold, Team USA. 5.54.21. All boats paddle in for medals."

The team devolves into chaos around her, celebrating their tremendous win with a cacophony of whoops and yells and whistles, but all Julie hears is the buzzing of her ears.

It's over.

Her Olympic career is over.

Paula got what she wanted — a coaching Gold.

Is it her turn now?

"Welcome back! We're here with Julie Black from Team USA, moments after their fourth consecutive Gold medal. Julie, what a week it's been for you!"

The interviewer's teeth are too white. Between the lights and the boom mic and the fuzziness in her ears, it's the only thing she can focus on. It takes her a moment to realise the interviewer's waiting for a reply.

"Um. Yeah," she says dumbly, shaking her head. "It's been… a lot. Big thank you to the team for holding it down. I really owe you one."

Julie laughs nervously, and the interviewer joins in, laughing for just a beat too long.

"Yes, I'm sure they're amazing at pushing you forward. Julie, that was a phenomenal race today — perfect form, ideal timing. What do you put that down to?"

She swallows. It's time.

"I think I knew from the moment I landed in Paris that this would be my last Games, and now I know for sure. I will be retiring from competition effective immediately."

The cameras whir into overdrive, clicking and flashing as the pundits race to capture what is sure to be on the nightly news. The interviewer, bless her heart, pauses for a moment.

"You're retiring? Is this a final decision?" she queries, extending the microphone even further towards Julie.

Julie nods firmly, feeling a smile tickle at her mouth for the first time in days. "Yes, I'm sure. Paris really had a way of helping me realise what's most important, and I'd be a fool to ignore that. No further comment. Thank you."

The camera tracks her as she hurries away to the locker rooms, but Julie doesn't bother with giving them any extra attention.

Her performance is done.

Twenty-two months later, Washington State

"Aaron, there's no way—"

"Trust me, Jules. You've gotta see it to believe it," he grins, rapping his fingernails on the brightly coloured poster. "Leland's been a very good influence."

There's something about his cheeky grin that screams duplicitousness, but they're running fifteen minutes late and the meet — the Little Athletics meet, that is — is about to start, and she's fresh out of time for arguments.

"Fine," she says, squeezing through the turnstile. "But you can bet your skinny little ass that I'll be grilling you later."

Technically, Aaron had lured her to the Community Centre with the promise of a mid-morning snack, but she should have seen the writing on the wall: Aaron only eats organic produce, and there's a zero percent chance the hall has that in stock.

Aaron shepherds her into one of the bleachers, gesturing for her to slide her sunglasses on. Sure, they get recognised maybe once every three months, but it's always a pain in the neck. The only ones who enjoy the recognition, aside from Jade (who was demanding attention ever since her misshapen little head crowned), are Bonnie and Charlotte, who seem to be cameoing their way across the British Isles.

Different strokes, she supposes.

Aaron jostles her further along the bench, squeezing up until she's forced to sit beside some guy in a hoodie, the kind of person who very clearly needs some space. He turns his head to look at her, and for a moment she expects a very polite piss off—

"Hey, J. Glad you made it," he says, grinning.

"Kam? What—"

"It's all part of the plan. You'll see."

Ordinarily, she'd be highly suspicious of that sort of statement, but she's known Kam long enough to know that the fool could hardly hurt a fly.

(A strength and a weakness, considering his unruly women's eight, but USRowing has very clearly disavowed corporal punishment, and she'd hate to tarnish Kam's otherwise clean record.)

She settles in beside her ex-coach, grateful for a friendly face, and tries to ignore the fact that Aaron's taken his seat a little further from her. It's not like she stinks. She'd know.

(She hopes.)

Before long, the tiny prepubescent athletes are tromping their way onto the field, led proudly by Leland, who waves his arms theatrically until the small crowd cheers and whoops. Julie's so busy cheering, in fact, that she almost misses the other adult that follows the children onto the field — a lanky, brown-skinned man, clad in a 2020 Tokyo pullover.

"Adam," she states in disbelief, whipping her head to survey Kam and Aaron's reactions.

They're not surprised in the slightest — only amused at her stunned expression - and it all clicks into place.

"Adam… and Leland?" Julie asks slowly, squinting at the pair leading the huddle on-field.

Kam shrugs. "Probably. Haven't asked."

"Huh," she breathes, watching intently as they set up for sprints.

She can kind of see it; Adam's on a sporting field for the first time in his life, grinning like he's just found out that W-2 filing has been streamlined — a deeply unusual occurrence, especially for a man who seems to have a permanent frown in place.

Perhaps Leland, in all of his snarky glory, is a good counterbalance.

"Sorry I'm late," a clipped voice announces from behind her, making every muscle in her body stiffen. "Some asshole tried to take my spot in the lot and we had to have words."

"Is that what we're calling fistfights these days?" Kam teases, reaching across Julie to clap hands with the newcomer.

If she turns her head, it will make this real.

Part of her isn't ready for this to be real.

"Well, are you going to say hello, or do I need to re-do my arrival?"

Julie swallows, finally lifting her head to greet her. "Hi, Paula."

A/N: yes there will be a third instalment, we ain't quitters