Two weeks since Rome. Two weeks since the podium, the anthem, the weight of gold against his chest.

Albert pushed open the door to Murphy’s Sports Bar, and the noise hit him first—ESPN commentary mixing with the crack of pool balls and dozens of conversations. Then someone noticed.

“Holy shit, that’s him!”

The cheering started like a wave. Chairs scraped back. Phones emerged from pockets, glowing screens turning toward him like tiny spotlights. A woman near the door actually squealed.

Albert raised his hand in a half-wave, the gesture automatic now. Practiced. He’d done it at the airport, at the gas station, at the grocery store yesterday when Mrs. Chen from his old swim club cornered him by the frozen foods. His face arranged itself into what he hoped looked like gratitude.

He made his way through the crowd, shaking the hands thrust at him, nodding at the congratulations he could barely hear over the ringing in his ears. Someone clapped his shoulder hard enough to hurt. When he finally reached the bar, he slid onto a stool and exhaled.

Ryan was crouched behind the bar, restocking the mini-fridge. He glanced up, and his face split into a grin.

“Albert!” He stood, wiping his hands on his apron before reaching across to shake. “How you doing, boss? Everyone here misses you!”

“Good to see you too, Ryan.” Albert’s voice came out rougher than he intended. “Can I get my usual?”

“You got it.” Ryan grabbed a frosted mug from the freezer. “Sixteen ounces of Bud Light, coming right up. And this one’s on me—welcome back gift.”

Above the bar, three mounted TVs played on different channels. The middle one caught Albert’s attention. Olympics highlights. Of course. He watched himself climb onto the podium, younger somehow, though it had been less than a month. The version of him on screen raised both fists as the medal went around his neck. Behind him, fireworks burst in gold and silver. The camera caught the exact moment the national anthem began, and television-Albert’s mouth opened, singing words the real Albert couldn’t remember now.

Ryan set the beer down. The cold glass sweated in the warm air.

“Thanks.” Albert lifted it and drank. The bitterness hit the back of his throat, familiar and sharp after months of protein shakes and electrolyte water and nothing, nothing, nothing that might slow him down by even a tenth of a second. He drank until the mug was empty.

When he set it down, Ryan was staring.

“Dude. You chugged that thing like the world was ending.”

Albert looked at the foam clinging to the inside of the glass. “Can I have another?”

“Sure thing.” Ryan’s voice had changed, gone careful. He pulled another mug from the freezer, filled it slowly. “Maybe savor this one, though. And this moment.”

Albert nodded without speaking. On the TV, his younger self stepped down from the podium, gold medal catching the light. The crowd in the bar erupted in fresh applause. Someone whistled. Albert wrapped both hands around his fresh beer and stared into it like he might find something there.

“Must be something else,” Ryan said quietly, “being on top of the world like that.”

Albert heard the question underneath the words. He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came.

“Albert? You there?”

A crash exploded from the kitchen, followed by shouting. Ryan flinched, already moving toward the sound.

“I’ll be right back.”

Albert nodded. He lifted his beer and this time took a smaller sip, letting it sit on his tongue. Around him, Murphy’s returned to its normal rhythm—the TV announcers, the conversations, the clink of glasses. White noise. All of it white noise.

The gold medal was in a drawer at home, tucked under his swim trunks. He hadn’t looked at it in three days.

A hand landed on Albert’s shoulder.

He turned. The man standing behind him had the build of someone who’d spent years under a barbell—thick neck, shoulders that strained against his polo shirt. Mid-thirties, maybe. A woman with red hair waited a few feet back, smiling apologetically.

“You’re Albert Robinson, right? From the Olympics?”

“Yeah.”

“Man.” The guy shook his head. “You’re a legend. Youngest gold medalist in the four-hundred free—I watched that race three times. It’s an honor, seriously.”

“Thanks.” Albert’s hand tightened around his beer.

“Would you mind—” The man pulled out his phone. “Quick photo?”

Albert set down his drink and stood. The man’s girlfriend moved closer, holding the phone at arm’s length. Albert felt his face shift into the shape it needed to be—smile, relaxed shoulders, slight tilt of the head. The camera clicked twice.

“Got it. Thank you so much.” The man clapped Albert’s shoulder again, harder this time, the way men do when they’re moved but can’t say it. “Keep doing what you’re doing, man.”

They walked back to their booth, and the woman leaned into the man, saying something that made him laugh.

Albert sat back down. He folded his arms on the bar and lowered his head onto them, his face hidden in the darkness of his own making.

Footsteps approached. Ryan’s voice came from above him.

“Sorry about that. Owner’s losing it on the head chef back there.” A pause. “You alright?”

Albert didn’t move.

Ryan rapped his knuckles on the bar twice. “Hey.”

Albert lifted his head. The lights seemed too bright.

“You good?”

“Fine.”

Ryan’s eyebrows rose. He planted both hands on the bar and leaned forward. “You trained five years for this. Five years, Albert. You won. Gold medal. Youngest ever. You should be—”

“I know what I should be.”

The words came out sharper than Albert meant them. Ryan drew back slightly.

Albert pressed his palms against his eyes. “Sorry. I just—” He dropped his hands. “I’m disconnected. From everything. I feel like I’m watching my own life through a window.”

“Why?”

“Because I got what I wanted.” The laugh that came out of Albert felt hollow. “Isn’t that insane? I spent five years—five years—working toward one thing. One race. I gave up everything. Stopped seeing my friends. Missed my sister’s wedding. Haven’t had a real conversation with my parents in months. All for three minutes and forty-one seconds in a pool.” He picked up his beer, then set it down without drinking. “And now it’s done. So what the hell do I do now?”

Ryan was quiet for a moment. On the TV behind him, a basketball game played—crowd noise and squeaking shoes.

“You see that guy who just took a picture with you?” Ryan tilted his head toward the booth. “The one built like a tank?”

Albert glanced over. The man was cutting into a steak while his girlfriend showed him something on her phone.

“That’s Marcus Webb. Retired Navy SEAL, two tours. Started training when he was sixteen, made it into the teams by twenty-two. Youngest in his class.” Ryan wiped down the bar in slow circles. “Two years ago, his knee gave out during a training exercise. Surgery didn’t fix it. Medical discharge.”

Albert watched Marcus laugh at whatever was on the phone screen.

“He came in here after they processed him out. Sat right about where you’re sitting now. Drank for three hours. When I cut him off, he told me he’d been thinking about eating his gun.”

The basketball game cut to commercial. A car ad played, too loud.

“What happened?” Albert heard himself ask.

“His girlfriend—that’s Sarah, they weren’t dating then, just friends—she came looking for him. Took him home. Next day, she drove him to the VA. He started therapy. Started going to church with her.”

“Church?” Albert frowned. “Why church?”

Ryan shrugged. “That’s what I asked him. You know what he said? He said when everything else stripped away—the rank, the uniform, the identity—faith was the only thing that told him he was worth something just for existing. Not for what he could do. Just for being.”

Albert looked down at his hands. Swimmer’s hands—broad palms, long fingers. Callused from thousands of hours gripping pool edges.

“He runs a men’s group now,” Ryan continued. “Community counseling. Uses all that leadership training to help other vets, guys going through rough patches. He took all that skill, all that discipline, and found a new mission.” Ryan met Albert’s eyes. “The thing is, Albert, reaching the summit doesn’t mean you stop climbing. It just means you need to find a new mountain.”

Albert’s throat felt tight. He swallowed against it. “I don’t know what my new mountain is.”

“You don’t have to know yet.” Ryan pulled the half-empty beer away and replaced it with a glass of water. “But maybe start by not treating the last five years like they were wasted. You didn’t just train your body. You learned discipline. Resilience. How to push through when everything in you screams to quit. That doesn’t disappear just because the race is over.”

Albert wrapped both hands around the water glass. Condensation pooled under his palms.

Across the bar, Marcus threw his head back laughing at something Sarah said. His hand found hers on the table.

“Does it get easier?” Albert asked quietly. “Figuring out who you are after?”

“I don’t know.” Ryan’s honesty landed softer than comfort would have. “But I know it gets different. And different might be exactly what you need.”

Ryan pocketed the bill with a nod. “Appreciated, boss.”

Albert stood, feeling the stiffness in his legs from sitting too long. Behind him, someone cheered—the Rangers had scored. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the stool.

“Hey, Albert?”

He turned back.

Ryan was wiping down the bar where Albert had been sitting, erasing the water rings. “You know what the difference is between you and most people?”

“What’s that?”

“Most people spend their whole lives wondering if they could do something extraordinary. You already know you can.” Ryan looked up from his work. “The hard part now? Figuring out what’s worth doing next.”

Albert stood there, jacket draped over his arm, keys already in his pocket. Through the window, he could see the parking lot, his car waiting under the streetlight. Beyond that, the road home.

“Thanks, Ryan.”

“Anytime.”

Albert walked toward the door. He passed Marcus’s booth—empty now, just dirty plates waiting to be cleared. Passed the TV showing men chasing a puck across ice. Passed tables full of people living ordinary lives that suddenly didn’t seem so ordinary.

He pushed open the door.

November air hit him, sharp and cold, carrying the smell of coming snow. He stood on the sidewalk outside Murphy’s, hands in his pockets, breath misting under the glow of the neon Budweiser sign.

From inside, muffled sounds—laughter, the game, the clink of glasses.

Albert pulled out his phone. The screen lit up his face in the darkness. Notifications filled it: congratulations messages, interview requests, people wanting pieces of the gold medalist.

He scrolled past all of it.

Found his sister’s number.

His thumb hovered over her name. She’d gotten married in June while he was at altitude training in Colorado. He’d sent a card, two hundred dollars, and a promise to make it up to her. He’d never seen the wedding photos.

He pressed call.

It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Albert?” Her voice carried surprise and caution. “Is everything okay?”

He looked up. The sky was black, starless through the light pollution.

“Yeah,” he said. “I just wanted to hear your voice. And to say I’m sorry. For missing your wedding. For missing a lot of things.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then: “Where are you right now?”

“Outside Murphy’s.”

“Are you drunk?”

Despite everything, he laughed. “No. I’m just trying to figure some things out.”

Her tone softened. “You want to come over? Jack’s watching the game, but I can kick him to the basement.”

Albert looked back at Murphy’s window. Inside, Ryan was already serving someone new, going through the same practiced motions—pull, pour, smile. The same routine tomorrow and the day after, finding meaning not in moments of glory but in showing up.

“No, I’m okay. But can I see you this week? Actually see you?”

“Of course. Thursday? I’ll make dinner.”

“Thursday works.”

A pause. “Albert? I’m glad you called.”

“Me too.”

He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. The cold was seeping through his jacket, but he stayed a moment longer.

A car pulled out of the parking lot, headlights sweeping across him before disappearing down Main Street. The bar door opened, releasing warmth and noise and the smell of beer, then closed again.

Albert looked at his car. Then back at the bar. Then up at the starless sky.

He didn’t know what mountain he was supposed to climb next. Didn’t know how to be Albert Robinson without a race to train for.

But Thursday, he’d have dinner with his sister.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t gold.

But it was a start.

He walked to his car, keys already in his hand.