For the Win Page 14

  *

  “Are you kidding, ref? Is that really the call you want to make? Are you blind?” My mother is in a rage, along with every other American fan in the stadium. We’re in the Amazonia Arena with forty thousand other soccer fans, watching the women play against Colombia.

  “I don’t think he can hear you,” I remind my mother. Her cheeks are bright red and seriously, we don’t want a repeat of my senior year in high school when she was banned from the playoffs.

  “They’re getting a penalty.” She points to the field. “Do you see that? A penalty. In the box. Off a really crappy call.”

  “I know.” Becky Saunders collided with Colombia’s center forward and the ref called a foul. It didn’t look illegal, but the call held. This sucks because they’re in a tight spot—the score is one-one. “Maria can stop it, though.”

  Maria is the US women’s goalie. At six feet tall, she’s nearly as broad as me. She’s a senior at UCLA and an amazing player. The big screen shows Maria’s face up close as sweat rolls down her cheeks. She’s already let one through this match, and I can tell from the set of her jaw and shoulders she’s not planning on letting another.

  My mother’s hand clutches mine. I find Melina down on the field, shaking her head and calling something out to the other players. If this ball goes in, they’ll most likely lose. It won’t knock them out of the finals, but it will give them a less than desirable slot.

  The striker lines up at the end of the penalty box and the ref drops his arm. My mother covers her eyes. My stomach turns to stone. Her foot connects and Maria waits…one…

  “Now,” I mutter, but she waits an extra beat and the ball tips through her fingers, hitting the back of the net.

  “No!” My mom shouts, drowned out by cheering fans.

  “It’s okay.”

  “It’s not. That was a crappy call.”

  “It was, but they’ll be okay. This isn’t the end for them.” It’s a mindset. The professional mindset. Losing can’t bring you down; it’s just another game in a series of games. I wrap my arm around her shoulder. “They’ll make up for it next time.”

  Mom looks up at me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  The play starts again at midfield. There are three minutes on the clock and all they have to do is keep the ball out of the goal box. I kiss my mother on the top of her head, squeezing her tight. “Me too.”

  *

  “Are you serious?”

  “What? You have a problem with this?”

  “No…I mean, I just.” I give up, caving when Melina’s mouth crushes mine. She’s still pissed about the game and seems determined to use me as her whipping post. I slide my hands down the curve of her ass and mutter into her ear, “I thought our days of making out in locker rooms were past us.”

  She found me after my evening workout—just a light jog on the treadmill to keep my muscles loose. Other than two guys lifting weights across the room, the gym was empty when Melina strolled in. She breezed past the row of machines, barely glancing in my direction before disappearing in the back. I followed her through the swinging doors, securing the bolt: the agreement between us may be new, but I’m not an idiot.

  “Well, we both have roommates and I’m not keen on being seen coming out of your room anyway... Golden Boy of the Olympics.” She makes a face. “There’s a high chance I’d get attacked by one of your fangirls.”

  “I don’t have fangirls.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You have fangirls and boys. And grandmas. And Aunties.”

  “Stop.”

  “Stop what?” she asks, pushing my shirt up to reveal my chest. She kisses me over the heart. “Because I can stop if you really want.”

  I rip the shirt off and go for hers, peeling the thin tank off quickly. My elbow slams into a metal locker, and I curse under my breath. And then I swear again, this time at Melina’s body. She’s curvier than before—her tits are well, spectacular, rounder, fuller than before. Her stomach is flat with muscle.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I run a hand down her side, feeling the smooth skin. She flinches, ticklish. “You just look different.”

  She snorts. “Yeah, you too.”

  “You think?”

  She eyes my chest, my stomach. I was a boy the last time she saw me like this, lean and not fully grown. My body has transformed during our time apart, and yeah, I’m at the top of my game physically. Her fingers tip-toe down the ladder of hard-earned muscle. She reaches the waistband of my shorts, edging her fingers underneath. “Definitely.”

  I clamp my hand around her wrist. “You sure about this?”

  We never had this much time before. Our homes were small, our siblings ever present. My mother left packages of condoms in my top dresser drawer (I wasn’t using them, but they seemed to diminish at a rapid rate anyway thanks to my sister) but Mel’s father was a looming, terrifying figure who took her to mass and laid on the Catholic guilt.

  She had always been focused on getting out—moving forward. We’d both seen the consequences of teenage pregnancy, so in high school our intimacy consisted of a lot of kissing, groping and sticky shorts as we dry-humped raw and hormonal. I’d seen her naked, but only in various stages, in the dimmest of light. She’d touched me, but under the blankets.

  What we’re doing now? Whole different animal.

  “I’m sure,” Melina replies, curiosity replacing the game-related frustration on her face. “You?”

  My stomach caves from the brush of her fingertips. Reaching behind her back, she unhooks her bra. I’ve barely caught up when it drops to the ground.

  All I can do is stare, overwhelmed by the want for her body. She grabs for me again, laughing. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  *

  I don’t want to know where she learned to do it, but Melina not only has the skills of a more experienced woman but the confidence, too. We don’t go all the way—not here in the overly lit locker room— but we both emerge with red cheeks and the taste of one another on our lips.

  She leaves first, hips swaying as she slips out the door. I reattach my pump, something Melina’s always been understanding about. Some girls freak at the sight or even the idea, but never her. Walking to the sink, I eat a package of candy and toss water on my face, hoping to shock the sex fog off my brain.

  I’ve just about gotten my head, and my stuff, together when the door pushes open and Dominic strides in.

  “Hey man,” I say, hoping I don’t look as awkward as I feel.

  “I passed Melina on the path. She said you may be in here.”

  “Yeah. You looking for me?”

  “I wanted to talk about the game the other day.”

  Standing, I shove my candy wrapper and towel into my bag. “Now? Can’t wait until tomorrow?”

  Dominic rubs his hand over his closely shorn hair. He’s got a thick beard and a foot of height on me. As he stands between me and the doorway I get the distinct feeling that yeah, we’re talking about this now.

  “I don’t know what you and McDowell have planned but my plans do not include riding the bench for the next three games.”

  I clench my fingers around the strap of my bag. “I get that.”

  “I know it’s not your call, but I want you to know I’m fighting for my position. Actively. If they mention your name again I’m pushing back.”

  “That’s fair. I didn’t know they were putting me in the other day.”

  “No, but you knew about the documentary. I have a marketing degree, Anderson. This reeks of one giant PR scheme and it’s clear that everything has been a set-up from day one, but I am not risking our first medal in decades for ratings.”

  “I agree.”

  He gives me a tired look even though his eyes are a bit wild. “I bought into your story, you know. The reformed hot-head who came out to support the team. I thought you were better than this.”

  “I think you’re over thinking things, Dom. There’s no grand conspiracy. And if ther
e is,” I allow, “they sure as hell didn’t let me in on it. McDowell ordered the documentary and you’re right, it’s obviously about ratings. But Mitchell had a point about resting you during that game. The stronger you are down the line the better chances we have.”

  His jaw tightens. I see the stress in his shoulders. “We have to win, Julian. It’s our time.”

  “We’ve got this. The team is solid. Mendez. Rory. Pollard, and then you backing them up. I’ll do my part on and off the field.” He grimaces at the idea. “It may happen. It probably will, because you’re right. McDowell and Mitchell have different M.O.s. We have to work with it.”

  “I want to show all those pricks that say we can’t compete on the Olympic level that we can do it. That the rising U-23 is a force to be reckoned with.”

  It clicks then that Dominic is worried about his next step—where he’ll end up after the games. He’s been playing for a US team, but he probably wants something better overseas. He needs the playing time.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “You’ll get your shot.”

  He finally relents, moving his massive frame out of the doorway. I lead us through the gym, to the pathway outside.

  “What do you think about that girl—Veronica?” he asks on our way back to the building.

  “The reporter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s smart. Beautiful for sure.”

  “Anything going on between you?” His hands are crammed in his pockets as he looks straight ahead.

  “Uh, no. We’re just friends.” For now, at least. Melina and I made our deal exclusive, so whatever interest I had with Veronica is off the table. “You like her?”

  He shrugs. I head for the elevator while he turns left toward the stairs, going without another word.

  Chapter 36

  August 10

  (Men’s Game/Women Rest)

  Mitchell puts me in after the half, and I spot the chip on Dom’s shoulder. Brent and I exchange wary looks. If questioning the coach was something I was allowed to do, I’d suggest leaving me on the bench. But we all have to follow orders, so I pull my gloves on and take my position on the field. The forwards for the Nigerian team smile when they see me. The act should unnerve me—it’s supposed to— but instead it brings about an inner resolve. They don’t know about the transitions I’ve made in the last year.

  The score is 2-1 in our favor when I hit the pitch, which means Coach must think I’ve got it in me to hold onto the lead. I take a deep breath and nod to the referee. It’s time to wrap this up.

  *

  I have an idea.

  M-Yeah?

  Want to get out of here?

  M-Definitely.

  Meet me at the gate. 6pm

  M-The gate?

  The front gate. At the shuttle.

  M-Ok. See you then.

  She arrives in a little sundress, straps criss-crossing over her back and shoulders. My fingers itch to touch her skin but it’s too public, too close to everyone we’re keeping this from.

  “You look great,” I tell her, unable to help myself.

  “I hope I’m not over dressed—I was tired of workout clothes and my mom bought me this in town. I thought it would be nice to wear—wherever it is we’re going.”

  “It’s perfect,” I promise.

  I follow her on the bus and we take a seat among our fellow Olympians. None that I recognize specifically—there are nearly eighteen thousand athletes staying at the Village.

  “So, do you want to share where we’re going?”

  “I thought maybe we could go to the festival.”

  She smiles. “Sounds fun.”

  The Brazilian Olympic Committee has cultural events and activities all over the city, but the big one is an ongoing street festival in the middle of Rio. Our families have been, and so have some of my teammates. “I thought maybe we could get away from the Village for a while.”

  Traffic is terrible but the shuttle finally arrives, dumping us out into a congested street. Banners and street signs promoting the games hang from lampposts and buildings. The heady aroma of local street food clings to the air, and live music blares from all directions. Melina threads her fingers with mine and I hold tight, not wanting to lose her in the chaos.

  We wander the busy streets, getting lost among the street performers, amorous couples and tired looking parents trailing behind exuberant children. I feel like everything I’ve ever heard about Rio is true —it’s an onslaught of the senses, bursting with color and sound...something different on every corner. I buy a beaded bracelet for Allie and a scarf for my mother. Postcards are cheap, so I buy a bunch—Edgar and the kids I used to coach will love getting those in the mail. Vendors featuring local artwork stand beside old women selling acaraje, fried bean patties stuffed with tomato and shrimp. Rory loves that stuff, so I slow down, pulling Melina to a stop.

  “You hungry?”

  She shrugs. “Sure.”

  “Have you had this yet?”

  “No, have you?”

  “No,” I say. “But Rory said we have to try it.”

  I hear Brazil’s Brahma beer is a must-try, too, but I avoid that for obvious reasons. Probably being supportive, Melina does too, opting for an acai smoothie or something. I’m not sure what’s in it, but she sure tastes good when she kisses me.

  “Can I ask you something?” I’m feeling daring while we’re waiting for the shuttle back to the Village. It’s late afternoon. We both have team obligations before the night is over.

  “Sure.”

  “What all did you do after we broke up?”

  “What all?” she asks.

  “Fine,” I confess, running my hand through my hair. “Did you date anyone?”

  She sits on the curb and I follow her to the ground, knees bent. She tilts her head and studies me. “You really want to know?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, no one for a while. I was too angry and hurt. I pretended I was too busy, but it was more than that. Then late in my junior year I started seeing this guy, Jason. He and I worked in the library together.”

  I envision a short, nerdy guy with glasses, but then I think about the things Melina and I have done and what she looked like doing them with a short, nerdy guy with glasses and push it aside. Dammit. No more imagining.

  “And how did that end? I mean, I’m guessing it ended since, you know...”

  “He was studying agriculture and went to Belize after graduation for a master’s program. We didn’t exactly break up as much as drift apart.”

  “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

  She nods. “He was nice.”

  I swallow and ask the question I don’t have the right to an answer. “Was he your, you know…”

  Her cheeks burn but she doesn’t look embarrassed. “He was.”

  “And he was nice?”

  She lays her hand on my knee and squeezes it, comforting me for God’s sake. “He’s a good guy. Not the right guy, but a good guy.”

  I needed to know, mostly because it should have been me, and it was one more thing I took away from her—from us. Jealousy mingles with relief and when she rests her head on my shoulder I wind my fingers through her hair.

  Since turnabout is fair play, I begin, “Do you want to—“

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Hell no. No thank you. Please do not even.”

  “Fair enough.” We’re quiet for a second, but then we both start to laugh, because it’s so weird but also so us. The shuttle finally arrives with a loud exhale of air, and I stand, pulling her off the curb with me. I stop her before she reaches the steps. “I don’t know where we’ll end up, you and me, but I’m glad we have this for right now.”

  She smiles and kisses me. “Me too.”

  Chapter 37

  August 13

  (Men Game/Women Rest)

  The weirdest thing happens during the next game. Only the starting players are called on the field before
it begins. The rest of us hang back, taking our spots on the bench. It’s an unfamiliar role for me, but it beats sitting at home watching the game on TV.

  The announcer calls out my teammates’ names and numbers:

  Six…Gonzales

  Nine…Pollard

  Seventeen…Johnson

  Twenty-three…Mendez

  All eleven are called, but a murmur rolls through the crowd.

  Michael, the guy next to me, looks around. “What are they saying?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  The jumbo-tron pans away from the players on the field and over to the commotion in the stands. Red, white and blue flags, banners and signs of all colors ripple like water. The camera stops on a kid, brown-skinned, wearing Brazilian colors. His sign has an American flag on it, with the words, “Julian Anderson is my hero.”

  “Dude.” Michael grabs my arm. “What the hell?”

  The camera picks me up and I’m broadcast all over the stadium. Then the screen splits and the kid, along with who I assume is his mother, smiles widely. I have a feeling what this is all about, and a tight lump forms in my throat.

  I wave at the camera, and after what seems an eternity the focus moves back to the field. Dominic trots back to the goal box. Rory takes position at center field. The Romanian players line up, building a barrier between my teammates and the opposing goal. The ref secures a nod from each goalie, signaling they’re ready, and a sharp whistle tears through the air.

  We’ve got a match to win.

  Reporter: How does it feel earning a spot in the quarter finals?

  Julian: Amazing. Really good.

  Reporter: You didn’t play today but your team still took the win, going undefeated so far in the Olympic games. This gives you a much better seeding for the upcoming match, correct?”

  Julian: Dominic had an amazing game. Total shut-out. He should be proud. That kind of win gives us an advantage in the upcoming match. We’ll find out later today, depending on the outcomes of the other games, who we’ll play.”