STS Ch-48

I cut cleanly through the water until I reached the end of the lane, flipped into a smooth turn, and powered back toward the starting block. As I touched the wall, my teammate launched himself forward to face swimmers from the other Ivy League schools.

As good a swimmer as I was, there was nothing more I could do once my leg of the relay ended. If I really wanted to, I could temporarily boost my teammates, the same way I had helped Julie while filming The Blue Lagoon. But that would’ve been pushing things too far, especially in a professional or semi-professional setting like this. I could sustain my unnatural speed in solo events, but my relay teammates couldn’t. That kind of imbalance would only invite uncomfortable questions later. It was better if the other three won on their own merit.

I’d asked the coach to let me swim last so I could close any gap between our team and the others. Apparently, he was still a little salty about my refusal to let him train me, so he’d stuck me in the third position of the 4×100 relay lineup instead.

Not that I cared much about university-level competition. Still, it was the principle of it that got under my skin.

“Fuck yes!” Matthew threw his fist into the air as he slammed into the wall ahead of everyone else. Water splashed over the edge as he sucked in a breath. “We did it!”

Of course we did. I’d made sure he started his leg with a solid five-second lead. If my performance were taken out of the equation and only my teammates’ times were counted, we would’ve finished third today.

“It’s all thanks to Noah,” Jeremy said, grinning as he clapped a hand on my shoulder. He was still breathing hard from his swim. “And he would’ve been the one to bring it home if he hadn’t been too busy fending off his fan club.”

He glanced toward the stands, and I followed his gaze.

The bleachers were packed, far more than I’d expected. Faces blurred together in a sea of color and movement. I spotted classmates from VES, people from my dorm, and even a few actors I’d hired for my film. Then there were the girls. A lot of them. Some I recognized from around campus, some from shared lectures, and others I didn’t recognize at all.

They were all on their feet now, cheering loudly as the win was announced.

“Is it not usually this full?” I asked, genuinely curious. “I thought college sports pulled decent crowds.”

“That’s for big team sports like football and basketball,” Matthew said, towel draped over his shoulders. “No one gives a shit about swimming. At least, no one did until you showed up.”

“Huh.” I shook my head, glancing back at the roaring stands. “It’s kind of sad that so few people care about events like this. But if me being here brings even a little attention back to the sport, I’m happy about it.”

Jeremy, Michael, and Tristan exchanged a look. Tristan was the one who finally spoke.

“It’s a shame you won’t be able to take this to the Olympics next year,” he said. “You could’ve given swimming a whole new spotlight, especially with your films coming out. But I guess some things just aren’t meant to be.”

I grimaced at the reminder. Until last week, it had all been speculation. I’d assumed I wouldn’t be allowed to participate in the Olympics because of the amateur rules, but nothing had been confirmed. That changed when the head of the swimming department at the US Olympic and Paralympic Committee paid us a visit. Ross Wales had come to campus to encourage more athletes to sign up for the Olympic trials next year.

I’d met him several times before at national competitions, back when swimming had been my primary focus. The last time we’d spoken, he’d all but promised me a place on the final roster of athletes representing the United States at the 1980 Olympics.

This time, his tone couldn’t have been more different.

“You can’t participate in any amateur event, Noah,” Ross Wales had said, his voice firm and unapologetic. “Because you’re not an amateur anymore.”

He’d pulled out a folded copy of Variety. The same one that had that article about my upcoming films and modeling work.

“You became a professional the moment you accepted money for modeling,” he continued. “Even acting barely passes under the rules, but modeling is a strict no. There’s nothing I can do. Those are Olympic regulations.”

I could’ve argued with him. I could’ve told him I’d take the matter to court and might even win. But I didn’t want to. Right now, my plate was already overflowing with film shoots and classes that barely left room to breathe. The Olympics could wait. If I really wanted to fight it legally, I could try in 1984, when the Games were set to be held in Los Angeles. It’d be closer to home, and my siblings could even watch me compete in person.

I turned back to my teammates and shrugged. “I don’t really mind. I’ve got something better going on anyway, you all know that.”

Jeremy scoffed, shaking his head. “Of course we know. If I had half your talent, I’d drop swimming in a heartbeat to make movies too. Hey, does your film have a role for me?”

I nodded without hesitation. “Yeah, sure. If you want, I can include all three of you. My character’s a swimmer in the film, so I can make you guys my friends or teammates or something.”

“Cool,” Tristan said immediately. “Count me in.”

“Me too,” Jeremy and Matthew echoed together.

“Alright,” I said with a grin. “But the swimming scenes will be shot at the end, so don’t stress about that right now.”

I stepped back and motioned toward the locker room, the smell of chlorine thick in the air and the noise of the crowd still rumbling through the walls. “Come on. Let’s change before the medal ceremony. I’ve got a film to shoot afterwards.”

(Break)

As much as I wanted to make the film completely family-friendly, I knew Al Pacino was right. It needed a little edge. And it’s not like I cared if people saw more of me. After The Blue Lagoon, Friday the 13th, and my upcoming film, Risky Business, audiences had already seen just about everything anyway. So what was one more scene like this? It would be brief enough that the MPAA wouldn’t even consider slapping an R rating on it.

Still, I made sure the moment was limited to me alone. Unlike Sean, I wasn’t about to pressure my actors into doing something they didn’t want to do at the last minute.

“Are you absolutely sure about this?” Robert Gardner, my film professor, asked for what felt like the hundredth time. “I’ve already taken permission from the administration, but we can still make the film without this scene.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Yeah, but tell me honestly. Won’t this be funnier and stronger for the script than the alternate version?”

He tilted his head in reluctant agreement before turning to look out at Harvard Yard. It was unusually quiet today, the wide stretches of grass and brick pathways nearly empty thanks to Thanksgiving week. With no classes in session, only the students involved in the shoot were around.

At first, plenty of students had been excited to watch a film being shot right in the Yard. But after days of repeated takes and equipment setups, the novelty had worn off, and most people had stopped paying attention altogether.

No one besides me, Jordan, and Mr. Gardner even knew what kind of scene we were about to shoot. Jordan understood photography as an art form, so when I explained the idea earlier, he hadn’t looked surprised at all. He’d just nodded and started adjusting the camera angles.

I motioned for the cast and crew to gather around, lowering my voice as I explained the shot.

“In this scene, my character gets so fed up with reliving the same day over and over that after waking up in his dorm room, he doesn’t even bother getting dressed,” I said. “He just runs straight out into the Yard naked. All of you who are supposed to be here will stare at me like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

The moment the words left my mouth, eyes widened across the group.

“Like… naked for real?” Tessa asked, blinking.

“Yeah, for real,” I said, nodding. “We’re making a real movie, aren’t we? But it’ll only be shot from behind, so it won’t get rejected by the MPAA. We’re also shooting alternates just in case. Those won’t show anything below the waist. Both cameras will roll at the same time. One gets the full shot, and the other stays on my upper body.”

Some of them were still staring at me like they were trying to decide if I was joking, so I gave them a moment to process it all.

“Those of you handling crowd control,” I added after a few seconds, “make sure no one gathers around. That would make this whole thing extremely awkward for me.”

I got a round of nods from the crew before turning back to Mr. Gardner. “Shall we begin?”

“We shall,” he said, then raised his voice so everyone could hear. “Keep in mind that situations like this are common on real film sets. Don’t joke about it, and don’t try to make Noah uncomfortable. He’s being brave by doing this, so don’t make him regret that choice.”

That seemed to settle everyone. The cast and crew moved into position, quiet and focused. Equipment was adjusted, marks were checked, and the Yard fell into a strange, expectant silence.

I was the last to take my place. Once I did, I loosened the knot of my bathrobe and slipped it off, handing it to Mr. Gardner without ceremony. Eyes immediately drifted toward me, lingering on my bare body, but I barely noticed anymore. Exposure had stopped feeling shocking a long time ago.

“Action!” I called out.

I stepped forward and walked toward a cluster of stunned students, playing my part as naturally as I could.

The idea had come from Happy Death Day, another university-set story where the protagonist reached a breaking point after reliving the same day over and over. All I could do now was hope it looked as good on camera as it did in my head.

(Break)

December 1979, Harvard University, Massachusetts, USA

I sat beside my classmate, Oliver, and his team of student editors as they screened the assembled footage. The edit wasn’t complete yet. It couldn’t be until we finished shooting the entire film. Even then, I knew I’d have plenty of notes and tweaks to suggest. Still, everything I’d seen so far looked exactly the way I’d imagined it.

To make sure the novice editors at VES didn’t accidentally ruin the footage, all the raw film was first sent to a local lab to create multiple copies. Only then were they allowed to work on one of those duplicates. The original reels would stay preserved in my personal archive.

“I think this is the best shot scene of the film so far,” Oliver said, pointing at the screen.

The footage showed me standing at the edge of my dorm’s rooftop, the wind tugging at my clothes as I stared down. The camera followed my gaze, revealing the Yard far below, tiny figures moving across the grass.

“Bill! What are you doing?!” Ron shouted from the Yard, fully in character.

“Ending this farce of a life!” I yelled back.

Then I jumped.

The scene cut sharply to Ron’s face, frozen in panic, before dissolving into me jolting awake in my bed once again.

Of course, I hadn’t actually jumped off the roof. No one had. We didn’t have the budget for real stunts like that. Instead, I’d jumped forward onto the rooftop itself, where a mattress had already been placed out of frame. With the right cuts and timing, the edit made it look fast and convincing. Very clean and professional.

It was just one of several moments where my character tried to end his life, each attempt meant to show how deeply frustrated and trapped he felt in this warped version of reality.

“You’re right,” I said to Oliver. “This looks incredible. You guys did a great job, and the editing’s top-notch.”

“Thank you,” he said, nodding, clearly proud of the work.

Oliver had taken on two roles during the making of the film. The first was as a casting director during pre-production, and the second was as our editor. Almost everyone had wanted to be involved in the shoot in some way, but Oliver had chosen the less glamorous job of actually turning the footage into something cohesive and good. He did have a team working under him, but most of them rotated on a weekly basis. Oliver, on the other hand, had taken special permission from Mr. Gardner to stay on permanently. We needed a constant hand guiding the edit to make sure the vision stayed consistent from start to finish.

“Now the only scenes we’ve got left to shoot are the ones in my dorm, the swimming pool scenes, and the ones with my father,” I said, thinking out loud.

Over the past few months, we’d filmed just about everywhere the Harvard administration allowed us. Harvard Yard had been our most frequent backdrop, but we’d also shot scenes in the dining hall, the gymnasium, several classrooms, and even a few of the gardens tucked away around campus. It was hard to believe how much footage we’d managed to capture in a little over two months, in between classes.

“And you’ll shoot the scenes with your character’s father over winter break,” Oliver reminded me. “Once we’re back, we can finish the dorm scenes in two weeks at most, then wrap up the swimming scenes in a few more days. If everything goes smoothly and we’re done by January, I can finish editing by March. April at the latest.”

I nodded. That timeline made sense. After that, I’d only need to add the music and sound effects, adjust the color grading, and the film would be ready to showcase. The sound work alone would take months, and I’d need to bring in outside professionals for it. Harvard simply didn’t have the equipment for that level of post-production.

“Alright,” I said, standing up. “Let’s break for winter. Merry Christmas to all of you in advance.”

“You too,” Oliver said cheerfully.

I carefully gathered the edited reels and placed them into my bag before leaving the room. The film was far too valuable to leave behind carelessly.

Now all I could do was hope Al Pacino stayed true to his word and showed up to film his scenes. I was planning to shoot his part on December twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth, ideally wrapping everything in a single day. Still, some things were always out of your control.

(Break)

I woke up on Christmas morning to news that shook me. Not because it was shocking, but because of what it represented, and what it reminded me about the future.

The Soviet Union invades Afghanistan on Christmas Eve in the dead of night.

I remembered it clearly now. In the original timeline, the invasion had unfolded exactly the same way, and it had led to the United States and much of the world boycotting the 1980 Moscow Olympics.

“Fuck,” I muttered, staring at the headline. “It doesn’t matter whether I wanted to go to the Olympics or not. I’m not winning this year. No one is.”