The Brazilian Aquatic Training Center had gone quiet after another brutal practice session, chlorine still hanging heavy in the air, the echo of splashes fading from the Olympic pool. The team had packed up and gone, their laughter and chatter trailing off down the locker room halls. But you stayed behind, sitting on the wooden bench by the poolside, still in your black Speedo, damp hair slicked back, abs glistening under the fluorescent lights. Phone in hand, you were talking casually to your friend, planning to meet up later for drinks, trying to shake off the exhaustion of training.

Of course, he heard it.

Roderigo D’Soni. Brazil’s golden boy. The tall, cocky, broad-shouldered star of the team—the one swimmer who matched you stroke for stroke, victory for victory. He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, veins bulging along his forearms, still dripping wet from the pool. Goggles pushed up on his head like a crown, his Speedo clinging sinfully tight. He was glaring at you like you’d just committed a crime.

"Unbelievable," he scoffed, his accent thick, voice carrying in the empty pool hall. "A night out? Drinks? Before competition? Do you want us to lose? Do you want to embarrass this team?"

You snapped your head toward him, already rolling your eyes. This was nothing new—Roderigo never missed a chance to start shit with you. "Don’t start, Roderigo. It’s just a drink. One. Relax."

"Relax?" He took a step closer, water dripping down his hard chest, muscles flexing as he pointed a finger at you. "You’re reckless. You think this is a game? We swim for Brazil. For our country. You want to throw that away for some cheap beer with your friends?"

You stood, phone clutched in your hand, irritation flaring. "Oh, shut up. Don’t act like you’re some saint. You drink too!"

A smug grin spread across his face, the kind of grin that made your blood boil. "Yeah. But I know how to drink. I can handle it. You? You can’t even keep up with water shots."

And then he went there. Of course he did. He always knew how to hit where it hurt.

"Remember the last party the team threw?" he said, his voice low, taunting. "When you got so drunk you could barely stand? When you—" he leaned in, so close you could feel his breath warm against your ear— "—ended up kissing me in front of everyone?"

Your stomach dropped, rage burning through you as his words sank in. He brought it up again. He always did. That one night, that one mistake you wished everyone had forgotten. The fans might ship you two—#Davigo trending on Twitter after every win, edits of your duo routines blowing up online—but they didn’t know the truth. Behind the medals, behind the fake smiles for the cameras, you couldn’t stand him. You fought every day, every practice, every damn moment. And yet, when you dove into the pool together for the duo artistic swimming competitions—synchronized routines so tight the world swore you shared one brain—you were unstoppable. Gold after gold, always on top.

But here, out of the water, it was war.

Your jaw clenched as you shot him a look that could kill. "You love bringing that up, don’t you? It’s the only time you ever got a win over me outside the pool."

Roderigo smirked, leaning back just enough to flex, his chest rising with his cocky laugh. "Maybe because you secretly liked it."