Page 45 of Oliver

“They sound like they’d beat up whoever wore them,” he muttered. I chuckled and kept on working.

Oliver looked up from the corner, where he was trying (and failing) to zip up one of my prototype jackets. “I think you broke this one.”

“I did not break it,” I said, hands on my hips. “That’s the self-adjusting thermal one. You’re supposed to zip it up slowly or the fabric locks to your body temp.”

He stared at me. “Itlocks to my body?”

“Don’t be dramatic. It’s breathable.”

Olly raised a brow. “Is this why there’s a cape in the living room?”

“That’s not a cape. That’s a convertible poncho-rainfly hybrid. It can cover a backpack or turn into a hammock. Try keeping up, you two.”

Oliver shook his head with a laugh. “You’re turning into a genius-level Bond villain.”

“I prefer ‘wilderness couture mastermind,’ thank you very much.” I looked at Oliver. “Shoes, boots, and sandals. I have to design some to go with the clothes. That way, the women have a one-stop shopping trip.”

Truthfully,I’d never been this excited about something that didn’t involve a starting block or a stopwatch. I was building something new. Somethingmine.

My line wasn’t just for athletes. It was for women who moved. Women who hiked, ran errands, and chased kids through creeks. Women who wanted to look good, feel strong, and never have to choose between the two.

And yeah—some of it was stylish enough to wear on a date. Or on a mission, if your boyfriend happened to be a Navy SEAL.

I had names for each piece:

The Ember Hoodie. The Survivor Windbreaker. The Gold Medal Joggers.

Each one inspired by something real. Somethingearned.

Olly held up a swatch of bright red fabric. “What’s this for?”

“Fireline Collection. For women who fight wildfires—or just like bold colors. Beatrice inspires that one.”

“Ohhh. Can I name one?”

I grinned. “Sure.”

He paused dramatically. “How about...The Pancake Pullover? Because it’s soft and warm and makes you feel happy inside.”

Oliver nearly choked on his coffee, laughing so hard.

“You know what?” I said, laughing, “Sold. Limited edition. Only available in chocolate-chip gray.”

Olly fist-pumped.

As the boys wrestled over the last pancake from the kitchen, I sank into the couch, sample book in my lap. I needed to get started on my line of swimsuits.

The trauma was behind me.

The medals were in a box.

But the future? That was wide open.

I didn’t need a lane or a finish line anymore.

I was building something that would last.

And maybe—just maybe—one day, someone would wear one of my jackets on a trail somewhere, feel the wind in their hair, and think:

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