Page 1 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

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ABS AGED BETTER THAN REPUTATION

LIAM

The water was my confession booth, and this morning, I had sins to atone for.

The pool deck was silent at five in the morning except for the hum of filtration systems and my own breathing, which was measured, controlled, and the only thing in my life that still was. With a deep breath, I dove in, letting the cold shock my system awake, and started my first set of butterfly strokes.

One length. Then two. By the third, I could feel that fraction of a second where my timing was off, where my body wasn’t quite syncing with my mind. My fingertips brushed the wall at fifty-four point three seconds.

It should have been fifty-three point eight.

Half a second.

But in swimming, that was the difference between gold and going home. Or between being ‘Liam James, Olympic Champion’ and ‘Liam James, Remember Him?’

Coach Ricardo stood at the edge, stopwatch in hand, his weathered face carefully neutral. We both knew what those numbers meant. He said nothing, just nodded for me to continue.

He said nothing, and that was worse than yelling.

Once upon a time, the 100m butterfly had been my entire identity. Olympic gold, world records, and magazine covers calling me unstoppable.

Now? I was the guy with a six-pack and a scandal attached to his name.

Apparently, abs aged better than reputation.

The pool had always been my church. The only place where the noise stopped, where I could be just a body moving through water instead of Liam James, Olympic gold medalist turned professional disappointment with commitment issues.

I pushed harder on the next set, trying to find that rhythm again. The one that had won me gold in Tokyo, which had made me the fastest butterfly swimmer in the world. But my shoulders were tired in a way that had nothing to do with lactic acid, and everything to do with the fact that I had been running on empty for longer than I cared to admit.

The fire was dimming. I could feel it, that hunger that used to consume me every time I touched the water. Now it was just routine. Muscle memory and going through motions that used to mean everything.

“Take five,” the coach called out.

I grabbed the edge, breathing hard, and that’s when my phone buzzed nearby. Seven missed calls from Xavier, my publicist. This is never a good sign.

Before I could reach it, my mind did what it always did during rest intervals. It drifted back to places I had spent a decade trying to avoid.

I was eighteen again, standing in the hallway of my high school, watching Ethan Kane, my best friend, kiss Kiara Sharma.

My heart ached because they were meant for each other. I had made sure that they got together because Kiara was brilliant and kind. Ethan was sweet and head over heels for the Indian firecracker ever since they were kids.

And he wasn’t the kind of guy who broke things just by existing near them.

I never told anyone about the heartbreak. Not Ethan, not Kiara, certainly not my parents, who were already disappointed enough that I had chosen to swim over the family business.

That night, I made a decision that love wasn’t for people like me. People who were always chasing something, always moving, never quite able to stay still long enough to hold on to anything real.

It was easier that way.

My phone buzzed again, snapping me back to reality.

I hauled myself out of the pool and grabbed it, water dripping onto the screen. Xavier’s name flashed, and I sighed.

“Please tell me you’re calling with good news,” I answered, already knowing better.

“Define good,” Xavier said, his voice tight, which meant he already had four espressos, and it wasn’t even seven in the morning. “Have you seen Elite Gossip this morning?”