Chapter 4: The Camp

The housing coordinator hands Zoe her room assignment while three other sprinters hover nearby, waiting. 237. Training dormitory C, second floor, east wing. Zoe takes the key card and is already moving toward the elevator when she hears it.

"Oh, that's funny," a woman's voice says behind her. "You're in 237?"

Zoe turns. Coach Martinez's assistant, Madison, is scanning her tablet. She's got that look—the one that says someone just realized two things that should have been separated are now in close quarters.

"And?" Zoe asks.

"Cole's in 236."

The key card feels heavier in Zoe's hand.

"Across from each other," Madison continues, not looking up. "I know you two just signed that sponsorship thing. The organizers wanted to keep you close for... visibility. Social media coordination, I think. They sent me a whole memo about it."

Zoe's jaw tightens. $2 million. Joint marketing campaign. They should have expected this—of course the facility would optimize for access, for photo ops, for the boyfriend-girlfriend narrative they're supposed to be selling. Of course they'd put them in adjacent rooms.

"Great," Zoe says flatly.

The elevator closes on three other athletes watching her with poorly concealed interest. Everyone knows. Everyone's waiting to see if they're going to show up to press events holding hands or if this whole thing is as calculated as it looks.

She gets to 237 first. The room is small—single bed, desk, bathroom the size of a shoebox. Window facing the practice fields. She can see the outdoor track from here, pristine red clay, the morning light turning it almost copper. She throws her duffel on the bed and that's when she hears him in the hallway.

"Room's good," Cole says to someone—probably his roommate escort. "Yeah, I know. Zoe's across the way. We saw the memo."

Zoe stands very still. She can see him through the crack in her open door: lean, shoulders already loosening from the car ride, carrying a duffel in one hand and a protein powder container in the other like he's done this a thousand times. He has. One Olympic cycle. One injury. This is his comeback attempt, and she's standing in the way of it.

He doesn't see her yet.

"We're professionals," he says into the pause. "We'll figure it out."

Something in her chest does a small, unwelcome flip. She closes the door quietly.