Page 37 of Fake Crown

“Me. My coach. The press. My family—my parents and siblings gave up experiences and opportunities they wanted to see me succeed. I was terrified I’d let everyone down.”

“But you didn’t. Do you worry about the same things now?” The sense of pressure is something I’m familiar with—the Bellerive Royals exist under a similar microscope. Except theirs never ends, whereas Brent’s happens every four years.

He spreads peanut butter and jam over a piece of toast. “No. The second Olympic appearance sort of cured me of that. I came home with one less medal than predicted. Fucking fourth in the 400 free.” He takes a bite of his toast and chews. “There’s only so much I can control, and most of the time, I’m okay with that now.”

I set my finished plate back on the trolley and bring Brent his second plate of food. He passes me his empty one, and I set it on top of mine. I’ve never met a man who could eat this much in one sitting. Once I’m back in bed, I snuggle under the covers while Brent is stretched out beside me eating his mound of fruit. I snatch a strawberry off the plate and pop it into my mouth.

“What do you consider in your control?” I ask.

“How often I practice, how hard I work in practice, the food I eat to fuel me, the amount of sleep I get. None of it’s earthshattering. Deviation from any of my routines can impact performance.”

“You’re still two years away from the next Olympics. Not a criticism, but a question—where’s the balance? Is there a balance?”

“You sound like my coach.” He turns a piece of cantaloupe around with his fingers.

“There are a lot of things I’d be happy to coach you on.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Swimming isn’t one of them.”

He chews his bite of melon, and his gaze is alight with amusement. “I’m pretty sure that comment should offend me, but I’m gonna let it slide.”

“I know why I think you should have some balance, but why does your coach think that?”

“He’s worried I’ll burn out before I get to Olympic appearance number four.”

“You don’t think that?”

“I don’t know. That’s the thing about burnout; you don’t always see it coming. Right now, I can’t imagine it happening. Who knows how I’ll feel six years from now?”

My mother and sister thrive on intense organization, which makes them perfect for keeping the king’s life in order. My father and I are twins—spontaneous, quick with a joke, good in a crowd. Even though I’m having a much better weekend than I expected, thinking about them makes me a little sad.

“What’s your big goal?” Brent asks.

“Honestly? You won’t laugh?” I suck in a deep breath.

He crosses his heart and stares at me.

“I want to run an HGTV-type show in Bellerive about interior design. After I’ve been there for a few years. Not right away. People need to care about the designs I’m doing.”

“You’d be good at that,” Brent says. “I can imagine you on TV.”

“What do you want to do when swimming is over?”

“Not a clue.” He gets off the bed to grab a spoon for the yogurt. “I’m taking a master’s in business, but I’m not exactly passionate about spreadsheets and marketing.”

“You could be a coach. You were great with that kid yesterday. God, Bellerive’s swim team could use someone like you. They’re—” Then I realize what I’ve said, and what I’m implying in even bringing it up.

“Go on. You were saying?” Brent dips his spoon in his yogurt and grins.

“I was saying that Bellerive has a swim team. That was the point of my comment. I live in a country where a swim team exists, and you’d be a great coach. No connection there.”

He chuckles and licks his spoon. “Because it sounded like you were trying to convince me to move to Bellerive.”

“That is the opposite of something I would do,” I say, and I drag the covers to my chin.

“Heart of stone, Jensen. Heart of stone.”

“Mine is rock solid. It’s been forged in fire.”

“Maybe it’s time you let that burn heal,” he says, and before I can respond, he takes his empty plate to the trolley.