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Xie Lian cuts through the water, the rush of his own heartbeat pounding headily in his ears. He can hear the crowd, their cheers muffled and cottony through the water, only sharpening into focus when one ear creeps above the water as he tilts his head for a hasty pull of breath.
He’s nearing the end. Just two more laps, less than 100 meters. He doesn’t glance at his competitors, doesn’t dare look anywhere but forward. But he senses that they’ve fallen behind. And it’s no surprise; after almost 30 laps, their lungs are burning, their muscles fatiguing, aching with each desperate pull through the water.
But not Xie Lian. Because something happens for Xie Lian around lap 15. Something in his body zeroes in, locks down, transcending the muscle-penetrating exhaustion that typically plagues swimmers this far into the race.
Today is no different. Rather than slowing down, he’s ramping up—gaining speed, plowing through the water with breathtaking power and precision. He spins underneath the water and pushes off the wall with his feet, rounding into his final lap. Only a few more yards to go. He can hear the crowd chanting—no, roaring with excitement, cheering him on as he hurdles closer to the proverbial finish line.
His palm touches the wall, activating the electronic touchpad, and just like that, it’s over. For a single, fleeting moment, everything seems distant, fuzzy; as if he’s a balloon, slowly drifting back to the surface of the Earth.
When he finally tugs off his goggles and lifts his head out of the water, the cacophony of sound hits him. The crowd is thunderous, their voices all mashing together in a multitude of languages and tones. But Xie Lian doesn’t acknowledge the crowd, not yet.
Instead, he swivels his head around to the opposite end of the pool, to the leaderboard. It’s only then that he realizes… all the other competitors are still swimming. He’d pulled so far ahead that there’s a several-second delay between them. (A monstrous six-second lead, to be exact.)
He catches sight of his time. 14 minutes and 30.04 seconds. A new world record. It’s then that he registers an announcer’s voice, bellowing throughout the stadium.
“—done it again! It’s only his second Olympic games, but Xie Lian— the darling of China, the ‘Prince of Xianle’—has claimed yet another Gold for China and set a new world record! Absolutely staggering work from the young athlete—only 19 years old, remarkable! As you can see, the other competitors are just now coming into the gate. That makes it Silver for the United States and Bronze for Italy! What a remarkable showdown.”
As the announcers once again celebrate his win, Xie Lian finally turns to acknowledge the crowd with a wave and a smile—the kind of relieved grin that says: I did it. The crowd roars, holding up signs and banners that bear his name and his face. The praise rings in his ears for a few moments, but then quickly fades to the background.
Nodding his head in humble acknowledgement, Xie Lian then turns to his competitors in the lanes next to him, reaching over the line to shake their hands and congratulate them on the race. He can see just barely make out how their every move is reflected on the jumbo screens, which reside just outside his field of vision.
When Xie Lian finally pulls himself out of the water—barely out of breath despite swimming 30 laps—he’s immediately swarmed by his teammates. The first to reach him is Feng Xin. Despite competing in the men’s 200m Butterfly earlier (and claiming a Gold medal of his own), he’s already changed into his dry clothes and now wears a Team China hoodie, his medal presumably hidden underneath.
Xie Lian laughs as Feng Xin embraces him, abandoning his usual stoicism and seriousness to rock them back and forth, uttering a stream of congratulatory words. His voice, deep and booming, cuts through the chaos around them. “…amazing… going so fast… the others had no chance.”
Xie Lian grins, leaning into Feng Xin’s strong arms, allowing himself to be held for a moment before they both lean back.
“I got you wet,” Xie Lian realizes with a laugh, pointing out the dark stain on Feng Xin’s expensive track suit. “Jun Wu’s going to kill us.”
“Oh well,” Feng Xin replies with a shrug, completely unbothered.
It’s then that Mu Qing reaches them. And while his greeting more reserved—a quick, one-armed hug—Xie Lian finds it no less kind and warm. After nearly a decade of friendship, Xie Lian understands Mu Qing’s aloof persona and has learned how to slice through it to glimpse what lies beneath.
Now, as they hold each other’s gaze for a just a moment, Xie Lian can feel the warmth in Mu Qing’s eyes, the pride. They share a small smile and nod before Xie Lian turns to the rest of his team, who crowd around him, jumping up and down as they cheer his name.
Afterward, Xie Lian just barely has time to change into his Team China tracksuit before he’s ushered onto the podium to accept his medal. He acknowledges the crowd, waving at them with both hands before the national anthem is played.
As he stares out at the mass of bodies, he can see his coach—Jun Wu—hovering just next to the other Chinese swimmers, gazing up at him with subdued pride. In his expensive suit, dress shoes, and designer watch, he looks slightly out of place, compared to the other coaches around him, who adhere to a more casual code of dress.
But then again, Jun Wu has always stood out. In his prime, he was much like Xie Lian—a world-class Olympic athlete, considered the best of his time. That is, until an injury brought an abrupt end to his competitive career.
Decades later, he’s maintained that same air of acclaim and notoriety by carving out a place for himself as one of the best coaches of the modern era. (Though his handsome looks and expensive-looking persona have certainly helped, earning him no small number of admirers. He’s arguably more popular than the athletes he coaches.)
Xie Lian smiles at him, offering a small nod in acknowledgement. As he stands on the podium, listening to the Chinese national anthem with his fifth Olympic gold medal in hand, Xie Lian feels as if he’s on top of the world. The crowd’s adoration for him is palpable, their cheers reaching down to embrace him.
In just hours, newspapers will print pictures of the elated, ethereal smile on his face. Reporters will analyze his record-breaking performance, admire his athleticism. Spectators will flock to social media, eager to share their testimony about how they witnessed such a remarkable moment in history.
And Xie Lian will revel in it all—completely unaware that in a few weeks’ time those same newspapers will no longer celebrate Xie Lian’s successes, but instead offer slanderous reports of sabotage and scandal. That those very spectators will turn on him, maligning his reputation, rescinding their support. That the International Olympic Committee will not only strip of him of all his medals, but ban him from participating in any future games.
Xie Lian has no idea that, in just a few short weeks, his entire world will crumble around him, leaving only the shattered remains of a life since lost to time.