For the Win Page 12

  Her face darkens, red under her smooth brown complexion. I recognize the determination in her eyes, in the set of her jaw, and when she steps forward I respond, meeting her halfway.

  “You’re going to have to give me a little more detail than that,” I say, daring to brush her hair over her shoulder. Melina and I were once familiar with one another like this—with our touches, our bodies. Back then we had different rules. We were younger. Less experienced.

  Her proposal leads to something else entirely and I have no idea how to navigate these waters.

  Mel’s expression wavers. She’s probably having similar thoughts, second thoughts. I grab her wrist before she makes a run for it. “I just want to have some fun while I’m here, you know?”

  “How about you make the rules.” I loosen my grip without letting go. Melina likes to be in charge, focused and controlled. “Whatever you want. Whenever you want. I’m game.”

  She swallows, nodding slowly. “That could work.”

  “Okay.” My voice sounds rougher than expected. It’s hard to keep a cool head when I’m already visualizing possible outcomes of Melina’s suggestion. Because we both know what it’s been like here—I don’t have to tell her how the adrenaline rolls across my limbs, how the competition doesn’t stop on the field. How the need to claim and conquer doesn’t evaporate just because the timer goes off.

  She stares at my mouth and bites her lip. “Let me think it over. I don’t want to make our relationship any worse than it already is.”

  Can it get worse?

  She runs her hand over my chest and the sensation dominoes down, making my stomach clench. Any other girl would be called a tease, but Melina is just operating like she always does—with meticulous control and order. It’s who she is. It’s one of the reasons I fell for her way back when, and it’s the reason I don’t push for more now.

  She checks her watch. “I better get back.”

  “Okay.”

  “Good luck tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  The door clicks behind her and I stare at it for a long time, trying to make sense out of what just happened. When I can’t, I drop to my knees and steady my palms on the floor, ready for another round of pushups.

  Chapter 32

  August 7

  (Men Game/Women Rest)

  At first, I think maybe people recognize me from the opening ceremonies. That seems illogical, though; there were nearly twenty thousand athletes in the stadium that night. My mother had sent a text right after, complaining she couldn’t see my “beautiful face,” from her spot in the stands. Although “Why is your sister holding hands with that young man?” followed, so I’m not sure her eyesight’s what it used to be.

  But today, even in the Village, people are checking me out like they know me. And right outside the compound, a couple of shopkeepers smile at me like I’m a celebrity.

  While riding to our next game I ask Rory if this happens to him, but he shakes his head, muttering about everything “going to my head.”

  Maybe he’s right—it wouldn’t be the first time. As I step off the bus at our game venue, a text from Veronica arrives. It’s a link with a smiley emoji and the message, “Congratulations! The Wonder Twins are a hit!” We’ve got a little time before we need to get on the field, so I find a quiet spot in the shade, push in my earbuds and click.

  A surreal feeling washes over me as I view the documentary. It’s short—only six or seven minutes, the first minute taken up by network logos and the Olympic theme. The first images are familiar, and it hits me that Veronica has spoken with my mom. I can’t help but smile at the faded photographs of me and Allie as children. Her team photo, soccer ball nestled in the crook of her arm—me in the hospital, newly diagnosed. The audio comes on, and it’s my voice describing Allie and then the game. Our family and our home life. The crappy field behind the school.

  The clip ends and I feel like I’ve had an out of body experience. Veronica is good. Really good. Even I feel complex emotions tugging at my heart. The counter under the video says it’s already had over five million views. I fire off a message.

  Looks Great

  Thanks. I had a natural subject. McDowell was right.

  Please don’t tell him that.

  Ha, don’t worry. He’s watching the ratings. He’ll figure it out.

  Thanks for not making me look like a jerk

  Ah, well, that’s the next segment. There’s one for each match. You and Allie.

  You’re kidding.

  Nope. Get Ready. You and your sister are about to become the Darlings of the 2016 Summer Games.

  Perfect and you’ll just sit at home laughing at my misery?

  Home? I’m in Rio. Don’t think you’re done with me yet.

  I’m poised to reply, but my phone starts blowing up. Texts from my mom and Allie—even one from Edgar back in Ocean Beach. Everyone has seen the documentary, which also means everyone will see me sitting by the sidelines. I’m filled with mixed emotions, including an unexpected flash of gladness that Veronica is in town—a familiar face would be nice right about now, especially someone not addled with adrenaline and hyper-competitive focus.

  Brent shouts for me from the player entrance, so I pocket my phone and jog over. I don’t know what I thought would happen when Veronica interviewed Allie and me, but it wasn’t this.

  I’m not complaining, though. Things are about to get interesting.

  *

  McDowell must have been happy with the results because midway through the second half Mitchell shouts my name.

  “Anderson! Warm up.”

  I’m certain I misheard him. “What?”

  He never takes his eyes off the field. “Warm up. I’m resting Dom for the game against Nigeria.”

  We’ve got a built in off day so I’m skeptical of his justification, but I’m not about to argue.

  Brent warms me up in the small, blocked off area and I test my sugar before inhaling a Power Bar. At the very last minute I take off my pump and stash it in my backpack. The doctors don’t like that I play without it but the idea of it getting snagged or broken stresses me out. As the clock runs down Mitchell waves me over and I wait by the center line. The ref blows his whistle as Dom notices me jog onto the field. A look of agitation crosses his face, but he still gives me a fist bump when he passes.

  “Watch the center right. He’s got a wicked low to the left shot.”

  “Got it.”

  The roar of the crowd is deafening from the sidelines, but it’s a whole different situation on the field. It’s like my senses are being dragged in a thousand directions. Fans clang bells and blow on horns. Flags drape down the stadium walls. I steady myself, tugging on my gloves and entering the goal box. I check the clock. We’ve got twelve minutes left and are up 3-1. All I have to do is hold the score. I’m ready. It’s what I’ve worked my entire life for.

  The Japanese players are fast, but our defense keeps them at bay. Rory and Mendez keep the ball upfield, moving it deftly. Rory shoots and the goalie tips the ball over the bar, setting us up for a corner. I take a moment to absorb everything. I think about my mom in the stands. She’s sitting with Allie and Melina, who have the afternoon off after yesterday’s win.

  Rory’s corner kick arcs through the air and lands in the hands of the Japanese goalie. He punts the ball downfield, moving swiftly—they’re running out of time. Their forward receives the ball but is challenged by Johnson. I expect him to gain possession of the ball easily but he doesn’t, instead tripping over the quick moves of the other player. Pollard kicks into gear, backing Johnson up, but out of my peripheral I spy Japan’s other forward racing down the sideline. His teammate spots him too—or maybe just senses him; he moves so fast—but Pollard doesn’t, and before he gets his bearings the ball crosses over the field in an epic sweeping arc landing perfectly at his teammate’s feet.

  The crowd watches it happen, watches as I end up one-on-one with no defender between myself and the forw
ard. Johnson, Pollard and Bryant scramble toward the box, but he takes a shot undefended: hard, perfectly aligned and aimed right at the left bottom corner.

  I’m in position. Legs bent, quads burning. It’s all about timing, about height and speed. No one will blame me if I miss it. We won’t lose if I do. But in the fleeting seconds that ball soars through the air, my entire history and future seem to hold their breath.

  I dive, focused on the blurring black and white ball. I spot the IOC logo spin across the side. Pushing aside Pollard shouting my name and the frenzy of the crowd, I plunge onto the coarse grass, my head pitching dangerously close to the metal goal. Smooth leather crashes into my chest like a cannon ball, and I land hard, my hip taking the brunt. My head takes the rest. When I open my eyes and blink past the spots I see Mendez’s face in mine. White teeth. Johnson yanks me off the ground. Hands clap me on the back.

  Beyond them, the volume of the crowd shakes my bones, and then, over the loudspeaker, I hear it:

  Julian Anderson.

  USA goalie.

  Number 15.

  I’m back.

  *

  Somehow, amongst the masses of reporters, I manage to spot Veronica. James follows faithfully as always, equipment slung over his shoulder. My plan has been to avoid the press and leave the schmoozing to my teammates, but when Veronica nods at me, I circle around the crowd to reach her.

  “Got a minute for a quick comment?”

  “Don’t you want to talk to Rory? He got two goals. Mendez got the other.”

  She looks pointedly over my shoulder, and I follow her gaze to the crowd of reporters surrounding the star players.

  It’s important to me that the coverage is balanced, and Veronica must sense this because she says, “This is for the documentary. You and I both know today was a big deal for you.”

  My adrenaline has waned, and the reality of being a real Olympian is starting to hit home. Veronica’s words hit their intended target, and I fight back a swell of emotion. I never realized how much I wanted this.

  “What do you want to know?”

  James levels his camera on his shoulder as Veronica moves into position. The red light near the lens blinks on. “How did it feel to go out there?”

  “Loud.”

  She rolls her eyes. “The crowd was certainly enthusiastic. Have you ever experienced anything like that before?”

  “Never.” I take a breath, remembering. “It was pretty epic. I’m grateful Coach Mitchell gave me the opportunity to play. Dominic has done such an outstanding job I can’t imagine I’ll get much more playing time.”

  “Some people, including yourself, weren’t sure you’d be ready for this level of play after the year you took off. Do you think you proved them, and yourself, wrong after that save today?”

  “I don’t know about everyone else,” I say, “but I feel good about my performance. It was nice to be back on the field again.”

  She nods at James and the red light blinks off. “You did a great job, Julian,” she says. “I mean, you looked like a rock star. I know it wasn’t game winning or anything but it was a seriously amazing save.”

  I squirm at her compliment. “Thanks.”

  She rests her hand on my arm. “Even if you don’t get a chance to play again, you should be proud.”

  On the bus ride back to The Village, I think about what Veronica said. She’s right; I should be proud, and I am. Something awakened after stepping on that pitch today, though—a desire deep in my gut to get out there again, and again, to play, to win. I can’t control whether or not I get more playing time, but one thing is certain: the itching in my muscles is not going to cease until I play another game.

  Chapter 33

  Although no one is making out next to my building this evening, the party atmosphere in the Village has intensified. Medals swing proudly from chests, their shine outmatched only by the winner’s smiles. With every passing day, more athletes join the ranks of those who have competed and the energy from that is palpable. Some people are out to celebrate their win, others to soothe their loss. I understand the temptation a bit more after our match today. It’s been a long time since I mixed the adrenaline of competition with this brand of sensory overload, the last time being a deadly reminder of my physical limitations.

  It’s a precarious place to be, making me feel more vulnerable than I care to admit.

  On the way back to my room I pass the enormous, sparkling community pool. According to the brochures left in our rooms, it’s heated, making the pool a prime destination for those hanging around for closing ceremonies.

  “Sorry,” a girl says, bumping into me. She and her friend, a nearly identical blonde, dissolve into giggles. They’re sporting the Australian flag, wearing tiny shorts over muscular, long legs. A small volleyball is stitched onto the collar of their shirts. God. Volleyball players.

  “No problem.” Matching silver medals nestle on their chests, propped by generous cleavage. “Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” The girl’s accent is charming. She narrows her vivid green eyes at me, like I’m a bit too fuzzy to see. “Hey, aren’t you that guy…the one from the video?”

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  The other girl’s eyes pop wide as she nods at her teammate. “Yes! The futbol player! The twin!”

  “Right!” She looks around, the liquid in her drink sloshing. After licking her hand she says, “Where is she? Your sister?”

  “Not sure,” I admit. “Knowing her, probably over at that party.”

  “Are you coming?” Green Eyes asks.

  “Ah, haven’t finished our matches so...no celebrating for me. Yet.”

  She wraps her hand firmly around my arm. “You don’t have to drink, just come hang out—at least with our team. We’ve been talking about you all day. You’re really an inspiration.”

  I waver. I really do. My feet beg my brain to let them move, to take a dip in the water, but two blonde beach volleyball players will not be my undoing. Not yet at least.

  “How about I catch up with you at the closing ceremonies?”

  Green Eyes pouts, but the other gives me a fast thumbs up. I doubt they’ll even remember this conversation tomorrow, but they might. Anything can happen.

  I dodge other party goers, plus a couple of other athletes that look as miserable as I am: heads down, focused, bunches of bananas in their hands.

  Stopping to get an icepack for my hip, I eventually make my way back to the suite. It’s blessedly quiet. An envelope sits on the floor, just inside the doorway. My name is scribbled across the front in familiar handwriting. Situating myself on the bed, I unfold the single sheet of paper inside. It’s a handwritten list in Melina’s tight script; no details or heading, just a neatly printed one-through-five.

  1. No strings means no strings. This isn’t a relationship. It’s a partnership between two athletes.

  2. Complete secrecy. From everyone. Including Allie.

  3. Complete honesty. No shady stuff.

  4. Either one of us can break it off at any time over the next 15 days.

  5. What happens at The Village, stays at The Village.

  Jesus, I think, instantly caught between hopping up and tracking Melina down, and wondering if this is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Rory walks in a minute later, texting. Slowly folding the ‘agreement’, I tuck it into my back pocket.

  “Did you see that party out there?” Rory asks, tossing his phone aside.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty insane.”

  “There were like, four naked chicks in the pool.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “Yeah—plus some dudes. It was getting a little rowdy.”

  “You didn’t want to go?”

  “Hell no. I just left my parents over at the visitor’s center. They would kill me if I blew all this on a party.” He shoots me a smile. “Next time you’ve got to come with me to meet them. I think my mom has a crush on you.”

&nb
sp; “Dude, shut up.”

  “You think I’m kidding.” He sits on the bed and kicks off his shoes. “We watched the video of you and Allie. I had no idea that’s what Veronica was working on all this time.”

  “She’s talented.”

  “My mom started crying.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, mine too.”

  “I bet. Really tugged the heartstrings with that one.”

  “Yeah, now you see why Mitchell put me in. McDowell probably called him mid-game.”

  “You made it worth it. That was an amazing save.” He jerks his chin at me. “How’s your hip?”

  I lift up my shorts, showing him the purpling bruise. He grimaces in sympathy, but I see the scrape down his thigh. We’re all a little banged up. “I’ve had worse.”

  “So did Dom say anything to you after the game?”

  “No. Did he say something to you?”

  “Not specifically. I just…”

  I shift the ice pack. “What?”

  “Things are going really well with the team. Our energy and the way we’re playing—better than ever before—could get us into the finals.”

  “And you don’t want me to piss Dom off and mess that up.”

  “Honestly? No.”

  He has no idea that me being here wasn’t even my decision, much less my playing time. “Going in wasn’t my choice, Rory.”

  “I know. Mitchell makes the final call.”

  I twist my neck, stretching the muscles. “I hear what you’re saying, and I’m not a fan of how all of this is going down either. The promotion and the play today make it seem like I’m fame-whoring and for those of you that’ve played with me before, that hits a little too close to home.” Wincing, I lie back with the ice pack. “Trust me when I say I’m in this with the rest of you. I’m totally down with the team, with my role as second string. I’m not here to replace Dom...that’s never been my objective. But if Mitchell or McDowell want to play me there’s nothing I can do.”

  Rory rubs his forehead, the tiny braids shifting with the movement. “I know.”