Chapter 3: The Performance

The photographer angled her camera down, squinting through the viewfinder. "Cole, Zoe—closer. You're a couple."

Zoe took a step inward. Cole matched it. There was still at least six inches between them, which might as well have been a canyon.

"I need to see the connection," the photographer said. "Look at each other. Like you want to be here together."

From the corner of the rooftop, someone laughed—a sponsor handler, Zoe guessed, already halfway through his second mojito.

The penthouse had views of downtown LA, all glass and steel and late afternoon sun. There were maybe forty people here: media, brand reps, athletes hoping to land sponsorships they'd never get. Zoe and Cole were the main event. The couple. The narrative.

No one had mentioned that they'd never actually spoken.

"Closer still," the photographer said.

Cole leaned in. His cologne was something clean, almost clinical. Zoe found herself holding her breath, which was stupid. This was just standing.

"I can't shoot through a wall of anxiety," the photographer said, not looking up. "One of you needs to smile."

Zoe turned to Cole. "You first."

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised. "Is that a dare?"

"It's an observation. You look like you're about to diffuse a bomb."

"I'm about to be photographed pretending to date someone I've never spoken to. Pretty close."

The photographer was still waiting. Zoe felt the weight of the moment—this was the shot they needed, proof of concept that this whole arrangement could work. Two elite sprinters, compatible on camera, willing to sell the story. It's what the sponsors wanted.

So she did what she'd always done. She leaned into the competition.

"Want to make it interesting?" she said.

Cole turned fully to face her now. "What did you have in mind?"

"Whoever looks more natural on camera wins. No prize, just bragging rights."

His mouth quirked. Not quite a smile, but close. "You're on."

He lowered his hand to the small of her back, and Zoe registered two things at once: that he'd decided this was a competition too, and that she'd felt his touch before he made contact.

The photographer started snapping. Fast. Zoe felt the energy shift immediately. Cole wasn't just standing next to her anymore; he was present in a way that made her hyperaware of her own posture, her own breathing. His hand traced slow circles on her back. She angled herself toward him, and when their eyes met, something crackled through her nervous system.

"Yes, that," the photographer said. "Whatever that is. Hold it."

Zoe's heart was doing something erratic. She told herself it was adrenaline. Competition. The familiar high of performing under pressure, which she was very good at.

Cole's thumb drew another circle. Intentional. She could feel it through the thin fabric of her top.

"Perfect," the photographer lowered her camera. "You two have serious chemistry."

Zoe stepped away from his hand faster than was probably natural. She could have sworn she felt him hesitate before letting her go.

An hour later, she was perched on a high director's chair, Cole beside her, answering questions from a social media person with a ring light and strong opinions about their "love story."

"So when did you know?" the interviewer was asking, her phone recording. "What was the moment you realized this was more than just rivalry?"

Zoe's eyes flicked to Cole. They'd had no briefing. No script. They'd exchanged maybe fifteen words total.

"Nationals," Cole said, and Zoe heard the pause where he was choosing his story. "I'd come back from an injury, wasn't sure I'd run again. Saw her name in the heat sheets and everything just—clicked into place."

The interviewer made a small, pleased sound.

Zoe felt something warm happen in her chest, which was annoying, because she knew he was improvising. But he was improvising right. So she leaned in.

"I watched him run warm-ups," she said quietly. "No one else was paying attention, but I did. He ran a 9.92. Didn't announce it, didn't try to be impressive. He was just out there, running like he was alone." She turned to Cole. "That made it real."

His eyes stayed on her face for one beat longer than necessary.

The interviewer was delighted. "That's beautiful. That's the kind of authentic content that actually moves people."

Authentic. The word landed wrong.

They did two more interviews. By the third, they'd stopped making things up and started just leaning into the story they'd invented together. Cole would mention the injury, and Zoe would jump in with a detail he hadn't told her, something that fit his story so perfectly it seemed rehearsed. But it wasn't. They were reading each other, building on the same current.

After the final interview ended, they stood together while the media person packed up her ring light. There was a lull, a pause where they could have simply nodded and walked away. Zoe was almost ready to do exactly that.

"You were good," Cole said. "With the stuff about watching my sprints. That felt real."

"Because I wasn't lying."

"I know." He was still watching her, and it was starting to feel less like he was performing and more like he was genuinely curious. "I'm not sure how you know my times better than people who've been following me for years."

Zoe shifted her weight. "Competitors watch other competitors. It's not weird."

"It is, a little."

She could have told him then that she'd gone back through video of his races from two seasons ago, before the injury that everyone said would end his career. That she'd timed his acceleration splits and studied how his shoulders moved off the blocks. That watching him run had made her realize she was possibly wasting energy on her own technique. But that felt like too much honesty for a person she'd technically just met.

"Does it matter?" she said instead. "We just spent an hour telling strangers we're in love. We can probably admit that we pay attention to each other."

Cole's mouth did that thing again, the not-quite-smile. "See, that's the part that's been bothering me."

"Which part?"

"That none of it felt like lying."

Before Zoe could respond, one of the sponsor handlers appeared, asking Cole to say a few words to someone's friend who ran college track. It was a brief interruption, but long enough for Zoe to step back and remind herself of the fact: she barely knew this person. The interviews, the chemistry, the way they'd moved through three conversations like they were choreographed—that was all technique. All performance.

Except it had felt like something else entirely.

When Cole came back, he was holding two glasses of sparkling water, which seemed almost considerate.

"Peace offering?" she asked, taking one.

"More like I needed something to do with my hands. This event is ninety percent standing around pretending to be comfortable with strangers."

"And ten percent what?"

"Apparently, standing around with you making it harder to remember why I'm here."

Zoe drank the sparkling water too quickly. "We're here because the sponsors want two relatable athletes who can generate content. That's literally it."

"Right. Literally it." But he was closer now, not threatening or anything, just closer than he had been. "The interviews though. You telling that story about watching me run—that wasn't in the briefing. None of it was."

"You can improvise in an interview."

"You can. But you usually don't improvise the truth."

At one point, Cole reached over and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. It was a small gesture, nothing. But Zoe felt it in her shoulders, her jaw, the small of her back.

She pulled away and excused herself to the bathroom.

When she came back, Cole had moved to a different cluster of people—sponsors and some Olympic distance runner. He didn't look at her. But she could feel him not looking at her.

The event ran until nine. By then, the rooftop had thinned out, and the sun had dropped behind the skyline. Someone had turned on string lights. The air was warm and smelled like mojitos and ambition.

Zoe stood at the edge again, phone in hand, checking if any of the content was live.

It was. All of it.

At 11:47 PM, in her hotel room, she scrolled through the photos. In the first one, Cole was looking at her like she was the only reasonable thing in an unreasonable world. Her hand was on his chest, and she was smiling at him like she meant it.

She clicked the interview link. Watched him talk about seeing her name in the heat sheets. Watched herself talk about 9.92 like she'd memorized every sprint of his career.

Then she found the behind-the-scenes reel the brand account had posted—forty-three seconds, no caption, clearly an accident. Cole backstage, facing someone off-frame, before he knew the camera was rolling.

You actually know her splits, the off-frame voice said.

Yeah. His voice. Nothing performed in it. I've known them for two years.

Zoe set her phone face-down on the nightstand. She did not move.