For the Win Page 6

  She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “What was that?”

  “Right.” I laughed, nervous. Sweat dripped down my neck. “Will you go to prom with me?”

  “Julian!” Coach yelled. I glanced over my shoulder, cringing beneath his glare.

  “You better go,” Melina said, amused.

  “Yeah.” I scratched my neck. The question hung in the air between us as a group of her teammates passed by. Abort! my brain screamed. Melina probably wanted flowers and fireworks, banners beneath overpasses. What had I been thinking? Damn it, Marcus. “Uh—“

  “Jules?”

  “Yeah?”

  Her eyes softened. “I’d love to go with you.”

  I smiled. “Yeah?”

  She smiled back.

  “Anderson!” Shit. Coach was gonna make me pay, but it would be worth it.

  Chapter 17

  Mitchell doesn’t give me time to apologize or meet and greet with the other players. He points me in the direction of the practice goal where Brent Dawson, the goalie coach, waits for me with a stack of white and red balls.

  “Warm up,” he says, moving his finger in a circle over his head. I take off around the field, spotting Dominic a couple of yards ahead. Dominic Hadley is twenty-five and was second in the last Olympics as well as on the USNT for the World Cup. He’s been to Brazil already, and has the experience I’m lacking. He’s a bit shorter than I am, but he’s broader and incredibly fast.

  I jog behind him at an average pace, but Dom’s dragging just enough that I can tell he’s waiting for me to catch up. I pick up the pace, falling into step beside him.

  “Hey, man,” I say.

  “Heard you got in yesterday.”

  “Yeah, spent the day in medical.”

  “You got the all clear?”

  “Yep. I’m ready. How’s it been going?” I ask.

  “The team is looking tight. Everyone panicked when Saxon destroyed his ankle. But I think they feel a little better now.”

  “You’re just as capable as Saxon. They’ll fall in line.”

  He nods. “I think so. Mendes and Bryant have some sort of rivalry going on at midfield. I’ve got no idea what it’s about but I’m hoping it’ll smooth over.”

  We jog around the first goal, passing a group of forwards taking shots. At midfield he lifts his chin to Rory. “That kid is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “We’re rooming together. Seems like a nice guy, but yeah, I’ve played against him before. He’s gotten a couple past me.”

  “Me too. I’m just glad we’re on the same team right now.”

  We trot past the second goal and make our way over to the separate goal that we use for practice. Right before we get there Dominic lays a hand on my arm, bringing us both to a stop. “I’ve heard a lot of shit about you over the last year. Enough that I’m surprised Mitchell and McDowell let you on the team. It’s got me wondering what this is really about, because I did not work my ass off for the last five years to get bumped because of you.”

  I knew this was coming. Taking a deep breath, I hold my hands up. “I’m not here to bump anyone. I’m here to back you up.”

  His face hardens, and it’s clear he doesn’t believe me. “Mitchell made me and Johnson captains, and we plan on taking the role seriously. The US men’s team has never taken gold—we haven’t medaled in over a century. I plan on changing that up this year. Do you understand?”

  “You want to win. I get it.”

  “Don’t undermine me out here, Anderson. I will fuck you up.”

  I rest my hands on my hips and think about how I want to punch the smug look right off his face. Gritting my teeth, I say, “I deserve whatever you want to throw at me. I know that, but I’m here to let everyone know I’ve changed. Whatever you’re worried about will not be a problem. I’m solid.”

  He looks me up and down, assessing my sincerity—or maybe looking for a weak spot. God knows. Finally he shakes his head and offers me his hand. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

  Gripping his hand, I nod in agreement. “Let’s make history.”

  *

  We’re working on lateral squats when Veronica shows up on the field. James follows closely, a camera attached to his shoulder. I spot them through the guys running up and down the field, Veronica’s hand shading her eyes from the sun. She’s changed from her blouse and skirt into something a little less out of place; jeans and a shirt, clean white sneakers.

  “Who’s that?” Brent asks as they come closer. “Press? Out here?”

  Dominic stops mid squat, ball in his hands. “McDowell?”

  I clear my throat and say, “It’s for one of those documentary things—between the games that they like to show on TV.”

  Dom frowns, wiping the sweat off his forehead. He shaves his head leaving nowhere for the sweat to go but in his eyes. “For you?”

  “And my sister. The twin angle. It’s no big deal.”

  “Fucking McDowell,” Dominic mutters. “Always looking to capitalize on everyone. I’m shocked they’re making space for one of us though. It’s usually the—“

  “Swimmers,” I chime in. “I know. Or the—“

  “Gymnasts,” Brent says, eliciting a smile from both of us. God, the gymnasts with their crazy coaches and overbearing parents. It would be more annoying if they weren’t so young.

  Veronica and James make it over just as Brent suggests we get some water. The temperature of Colorado Springs is cool enough, but the sun unforgivable.

  “Hey guys,” Veronica says, stepping over sweat-soaked gloves and the shirts Dominic and I threw off an hour ago. She thrusts a hand at Dominic. “You must be Dominic Hadley. I’ve seen you play. That overtime save during the qualifiers against Mexico was outstanding.”

  “Thanks,” he says, puffing up his chest.

  “I’m Brent Dawson.”

  “Goalie coach, right?” she asks.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “How do you feel about these guys backing up the team?”

  “No offense, but I’ll be leading the team. Not backing it up,” Dominic interjects. “Anderson, he’ll back me up, if the time comes.”

  Veronica appraises his towering stance, wide shoulders and thighs the size of tree trunks, probably wishing he was her topic instead of me and my sister.

  “Break over,” Brent says, waving us back on the field.

  “Julian,” Veronica calls. I walk over, tugging back on my sticky gloves.

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll be filming you off and on during the next couple of weeks. We’ll get footage of your field training, and maybe around the facility. Obviously we’ll go to the women’s field, too.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll talk to your coaches about setting up an actual interview schedule so we’re not interfering.”

  I wrap the Velcro tight around my wrist. “Good idea.”

  She turns to confirm with James while I glance over at the other guys. “Look,” I say, approaching her, “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but things are a little tense between me and my new teammates. It would help me out if you did this without a lot of disruption.”

  “We’ll blend in the background,” she says. “No worries.”

  “Thanks.”

  True to her word, they fade into the hustle around the field. They aren’t the only media out there, anyway. Meanwhile, Brent seems determined to keep us focused and busy. By lunch my quads and shoulders are burning; I haven’t had a workout like that in months.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, pouring half of my water over my head. “I’m out of shape.”

  “Nah, just…well a little.” Brent laughs. “You’ll be sore tomorrow for sure.”

  I will be, but it’ll be the good kind of sore—the one you get from pushing yourself hard, harder than nearly any other athlete on the planet. I’ve missed that feeling, the feeling of risk with the ultimate goal of reward.

  And I’ve missed being part of a team. Despi
te the shit talking, and the awkward exchanges with players I’m only now meeting, there’s a kind of chemistry on the field that can’t be replicated anywhere else. Reminds me that this is where I was meant to be.

  Reporter: Your brother seems wary of being the center of attention.

  Allie: Ha. Wait, you’re serious?

  Reporter: Yes.

  Allie: I think you have him confused with someone else.

  Reporter *shuffles through notes*: He seemed determined to get me off the field the other day.

  Allie: Hmm, well, Julian sort of thrives on being the center of attention. I think he has to be like that to play keeper. All eyes are on him when he’s in that box. If the ball gets through, he’ll get the blame, so with that level of accountability there has to be an extra layer of ego to protect himself from failure. Does that make sense?

  Reporter: Yes.

  Allie: It’s hard to manage an ego like that. Confidence is key in this sport—just like any other elite activity. If your confidence shatters so does your game. You’ll lose. So will the rest of the team, but on the flip side that confidence can come across as arrogant and unfeeling. If he pushed back about you being out there yesterday it’s not because he doesn’t want the attention, it’s because he knows there will be fallout from the other ten guys on the field. It’s like they say, there’s no “I” in team.

  Reporter: Except…

  Allie: Right. Except there is. And that’s what makes it so difficult to balance.

  Chapter 17

  I swat a ball out of the air, chasing it down to the edge of the goal box. Landing hard, I feel Mendez’s toe stab into my rib.

  “Fuck,” I mutter, gritting my teeth. Lifting myself up quickly, I back into the goal.

  The next shot is higher and I push it over the top bar. Another comes in low, and I kick it to the side. Shot after shot fires in my direction and I lunge, kick, jump and pounce on them all. After twenty straight minutes Brent calls me off the field and I head to the water cooler, gulping down a massive amount.

  “Damn,” I say, peeling off my gloves. “I’m dying out there.”

  “Not nearly as much as you should be,” he says. I grimace and he reaches for my shirt, lifting up the fabric to reveal a nice-sized bruise forming.

  “Mendez?” he asks.

  “Yeah. It was an accident.” Maybe. Whatever.

  That night, when Rory leaves to watch movies with the other residents, I pass out in bed with an ice pack against my ribs.

  The next day is more of the same, with an added dose of weight training. Dominic and I team up for the circuits Brent designed with us in mind. I lift a fifty pound weight over my head, fighting back a scream from the burn. My muscles stretch and strain while sweat pours down my face.

  “You’ve got this,” Dom says in encouragement.

  I heft the weight off my chest and over my head for a second rep.

  The next couple of days are rough, with half the team seemingly determined to prove I’m an out of shape has-been. I try to keep a low profile, checking my sugar discretely, but it’s hard with Veronica and James following me around. Mendez and Bryant keep the muttering just out of range, but their cleats have come too close to my face, too many times, for it to be accidental.

  But I don’t fight back. I take it.

  “You sure you don’t want to come?” Rory tries again one night. Everyone is tired but bored, and they’ve settled into hanging out after dinner. Two years ago I would have been in the middle of it all.

  I’m sitting on my bed, picking pieces of dirt from my knee when I hear her voice. Melina walks by a minute later, smiling up at Gonzalez, our center midfielder. She glances in the open door and her smile drops, eyes skimming over me.

  “Hey,” I say partly out of habit—partly because I want to hear her voice.

  “Hi.”

  She keeps walking, Gonzales giving me a quick nod.

  During my time away, it was easier to subdue my competitive nature. Working with the kids helped. That wasn’t about me, and everything I did needed to be exemplary. But on the field I’ve never been one to half-ass my skills. Keeping goal is what I do. It’s as natural to me as eating, sleeping, and jerking off. Really, they’re all the same thing—something I have to do, like breathing.

  The first few days the guys on the team put up a wall. They don’t trust me. I understand that, so I keep my head down and work hard. The problem with keeping my head down is that it’s impossible to do my best. Goalies work better under pressure, with all of the attention focused on them. We love being the stars of the game. Taking a backseat to Dominic feels wrong.

  I do it anyway.

  Reporter: When did you realize you may be more than just an average player?

  Julian: In the 10th grade. My coach helped me get a scholarship to a soccer camp at the University of Georgia. It’s about an hour outside of Atlanta. I’d never been away from home before or really anywhere without my sister and it was equal parts terrifying and liberating. We lived and breathed soccer twenty-four-seven and God, it was so freaking hot. Like the temperature--high nineties every day. I loved it anyway and being in that environment brought out my inner competitor. Something just clicked—probably puberty—and everything changed. I went from an okay goalie to something more. I could tell by the reactions of the coaches and older players that my skills had improved. It really built my confidence. Proved I could handle an arena bigger than the crappy field behind my middle school.

  Reporter: So at sixteen you knew what you wanted to do with your life?

  Julian: There was never a huge plan. Well, Allie and Melina may have had plans. I just knew what I wanted to do right then.

  Reporter: Melina Diaz?

  Julian: Melina was always so focused. Get of the Lexington Acres, go to school, play high level soccer. I think they always knew the Olympics were an attainable goal. She was a perfect match for Allie. I was never that determined—not then, at least.

  Reporter: Why not?

  Julian: *scratches head and pauses* I think…I think because for a long time I thought my disease was bigger than me. That it controlled me instead of the other way around. They had plans for the future. I wasn’t sure I had a future. That year, at camp, I flipped it around. I started to take control of my health and things fell into place.

  Reporter: You seem different now. Not so fly by the seat-of-your-pants.

  Julian: Playing at the next level isn’t easy. It takes a lot of time, money and dedication. I had two out of three. I had to figure out the other one, and that meant proving myself to the Powers That Be in the form of qualifying for scholarships. To get to college and the NCAA I had to step up everything.

  Reporter: You had to ensure that you were a good candidate.

  Julian: Recruiting players is always a gamble. Add in my health concerns and it was a massive risk.

  Reporter: How did you convince them—besides skill?

  Julian: Confidence. It all comes down to confidence.

  Reporter: And you have this?

  Julian: I did. In spades.

  Chapter 19

  (2010)

  Our first kiss went down behind the supply shed before the last practice of the year. Summer was all we had left; my acceptance letter from Clemson was carefully folded in the backpack I’d tossed next to the chain-link fence, and Melina had already signed with Berry. The clock was ticking and I would have been a fool not to make a move.

  FYI: I was a fool. She kissed me first.

  It happened fast. One second we were talking lunch and the next her fingers were tugging at the fabric of my jersey as she pressed her lips to mine. She tasted like the oranges she’d been snacking on. Unsure of what to do with my hands, I clenched them at my side and tried to keep up. But then her hair blew against my cheek, the sensation somehow kickstarting my shocked heart. Taking a step forward, I pushed her up against the wall and kissed her back.

  *

  We had our second kiss just outside the
locker room at the stadium, before the championship. I’d just stepped outside when I felt Melina’s smaller hand slip into mine. The girls’ season was already over, but she always wore my team hoodie—I loved seeing #15 imprinted over her chest.

  Her mouth was warm as she whispered, “Good luck,” against my ear.

  It took me ten minutes to shake it off and calm my blood, to refocus on the game.

  Melina Diaz was luck, all right. Complete shut out. We took State.

  That night, while everyone else was out celebrating with pizza and beer, we took to the backseat of my mother’s aging Toyota. I took initiative this time, grabbing Melina as she climbed in my lap and kissing her until her lips were puffy and swollen. My dick pressed aggressively against her thigh but she didn’t seem to mind. If anything, I was more self-conscious about her fingers brushing the cannula attached to my abdomen. I shouldn’t have been, though. Not with her.

  “Does it hurt?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you hate me asking about it?” The tips of her fingers touched the fine hair near my belly button and I didn’t hate anything at the moment.

  “You can ask me anything.” But she didn’t and changed the subject.

  “State champs, eh?” She laughed, wiggling in my lap.

  I grabbed her hips, caught between needing her to do that again and to stay still. Through a tight jaw I replied, “Crazy, huh?”

  “I never thought any different. You’re going to be epic in college. I have no doubt.”

  “Me? You and Allie at Berry together? Watch out NCAA.”

  Her smile faded. “I’ll miss you.”

  I nodded, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “We have two months.”

  Her eyes shone, and she looked away. Outside, in a huge house at the top of the hill, the party raged on. One of my teammates, whose dad was on the school board, was throwing it. They were a soccer family through and through—his sister had gotten a full scholarship last year to play in Florida. Not exactly needing the money, she’d gotten the scholarship for skill. It was all about the bragging rights.