For the Win (13 page)

Chapter 31

August 6

(Women Play/Men Rest)

It’s dusk and I’m on my way back from the med center. With the travel and change in altitude, the team doctors want to keep an eye on my levels. A muffled grunt snags my attention, and I look over at the grassy area next to my dorm. And then I look again, because what looked like two bears wrestling in the shadowy light reveals itself to be a man and a woman. And they’re wrestling, all right.

Okay, they’re having sex. Outside. I try not to see what flags are embroidered on the jackets tossed to the side. I don’t want to know.

I’m still mentally scrubbing my brain when I come face to face with Allie and Melina on the walkway.

“Jules!” Allie shouts, louder than necessary. “Where have you been?”

“Hey,” I start, but my greeting is crushed under her weight as she throws her arms around my neck. Her breath reeks of alcohol. I hike an eyebrow over her shoulder at Melina, but she just shakes her head. The frown on her lips tells me everything I need to know.

“What’s going on?” I ask, removing myself from Allie’s grip.

“Letting loose post win, you know,” she says, sighing happily. “Experiencing The Village.”

“You’ve still got matches coming up.”

She shrugs. “No, we’ve got two rest days coming up...and it’s not like I’m getting any playing time.”

“You may,” Melina interjects.

Allie makes a face at her best friend. “Remember that time we all went out before the Southeastern Conference game and got smashed and still won the next day?”

“I remember you puking in our hotel room at 3 AM.”

“Lighten up, Mel. We’re only going to get one chance to experience this and I, for one, am not wasting it.” She throws up a peace sign and walks backwards. “I’ll be over at high-rise thirteen. They’re having a party.”

Melina and I are left alone on the walkway. Music pulses nearby, seeping from the walls of yet another party. Relieved the wrestling bears are tucked away out of sight, I fall into step with Melina, heading in the direction of building thirteen.

“Feels a little bit like Lexington Acres, right?” I say. I’ve had the strangest sense of familiarity since we’d arrived. The variety of languages and skin tones remind me of home.

“A little bit,” she agrees.

A breeze ruffles her hair, and I catch the scent of that damn shampoo again...or maybe it’s her perfume... or maybe it’s just her laundry detergent. Suddenly, I have little interest in spending another night alone in my room.

“Now that your wing-girl left you, what are your plans for the night?”

Her eyes don’t connect with mine. “I was headed over to twenty-three.”

Twenty-three is the building closest to The Village practice pools. The swimmer dorm.

“Oh.”

“Tyson offered me a couple tickets for the meet tomorrow morning. Relays. They’re nearly impossible to get.”

“Yeah, I heard that. Everyone loves those events.”

“I’m giving my dad the other ticket…” Her voice fades. I’m not sure why this is awkward, other than the fact maybe there’s a reason it should be awkward. Is she actually into Tyson? I wouldn’t blame her. He’ll be on the cover of a dozen magazine covers by the end of the week. “But after that I’ll probably just head to bed and try to ignore the fact Allie is off making a fool of herself.”

I give her a weak smile. “Same.”

Another group of athletes passes us, laughing and headed in the direction of thirteen. A couple wearing two different flags kiss passionately, and I can only assume it’s another random hook-up.

“Sometimes I wish I could relax like that, you know?”

There’s an almost wistful quality to Melina’s voice. I glance down at her, noticing how the fading daylight darkens her eyes. “What’s that?”

“I’m just not that person—the one that can party while I’m focused on an important series like this. How do they do that? Separate the two?”

I laugh darkly. “I’m clearly not the one to ask. I was a miserable failure at balancing partying successfully with games.”

We walk without speaking then, and it’s fine until Melina sighs, nodding toward another building. “I’m gonna go on in. Tyson will probably be in bed by nine...their coach sets an early curfew.”

I don’t really want to think of Tyson, the Adonis-like swimmer, in bed. “Let me know if you need any help with Al tonight, okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. I’m sure she’ll be fine. She just needs to blow off some steam. She’s frustrated.”

“For what it’s worth, you played a great game.” I smile, wishing it was normal for me to give her a hug. “I’m glad you’re doing so well.”

“Thanks, Jules.”

The old nickname kindles something warm in me. She turns, walking briskly toward the swimmer dorm, and I watch her go.

*

I’m in the middle of my third set of push-ups when I hear a soft knock at my door. Pollard holed up in his room hours ago to Skype with his very pregnant wife, and Rory and Johnson are both out, having gone to meet their families for dinner. Left on my own, and still humming from the events of the day, I finally caved and poured my excess energy into a late night workout.

Hopping off the ground, I grab a protein bar. Half of it’s already shoved in my mouth when I swing open the door and find Melina on the other side. I chew and swallow, looking around for anyone else, but the hallway is empty and quiet.

“Hey. Everything okay? Allie?”

“She’s fine, or so she said in her text ten minutes ago. Said she’d be back in the room by curfew.” Different teams have different rules. The gymnastic and swimming coaches are hard core, as are track and field. Mitchell wants us back in our rooms by midnight, but no one is keeping track. The women’s coach has similar expectations.

I glance at my watch; it’s nearing eleven.

“Good, that’s good.” I nod, waiting, but Melina just stands in the doorway, hands shoved in her back pockets. It’s kind of uncharacteristic of her. “Did you need something?”

She swallows, looking like she may walk off without ever saying anything, but then in a strained voice asks, “Can I, uh, come in?”

“Oh.” I step aside, gesturing. “Sure.”

She brushes past me and I close the door. The four of us share a small two bedroom, one bath. There’s a kitchenette with a tiny living room, complete with two uncomfortable chairs and a small love seat. A gift basket on the countertop is filled with local treats as well as brochures on the Village, health information about the Zika crisis. There were a ton of condoms, too, most of which are already scattered across the hard surface of the counter. Stopping at the mini-fridge, I grab a bottle of water and offer her one.

She shakes her head. “I’m okay.”

I join her in the living room, watching as she looks around.

“Our suite is the same but just flipped.” She points to the other side of the room. “The kitchen is over there.” I nod, following her gaze. And then her eyes slide over me, like she’s seeing me for the first time since she walked in. “Were you working out?”

“Yeah—just some extra energy.”

She nods, understanding. “It’s so hard to channel it. The games, the adrenaline, the…” She gestures, searching for a word. “All the stuff going on around The Village.”

“Definitely.”

The silence stretches between us. Melina’s hands clench together, so hard I’m afraid they’ll crack. She still hasn’t said why she’s here, so I wait, feeling my heartbeat slow from the pushups. I’m about to ask her what the hell’s going on when she coughs and says, “I’m tired of holding it together, Jules.”

I set my bottle on the edge of the couch.

“Everyone is out there having the time of their lives, and I’m walking around like some kind of room-mother, checking on the players, making sure everyone is safe.”

“Is that why you’re here? To check on me? Because I promise I’m doing everything—“

“No.” She cuts me off. “Believe it or not you’re the only one I felt like I could come to. You’ve been really steady this whole time.”

“I’m trying. Push-ups help.” I laugh but she doesn’t join in. “What can I do to make this easier on you? I can talk to Allie if you want—I know she’s a little out of sorts. Riding the bench, the fear over her injury...she’s blowing off steam, but I can try to rein her in a little.”

“Thanks, but Allie’s not really the problem.” Her teeth press into her bottom lip. “It would be nice to have someone, you know, to lean on.”

“Lean on?”

Her cheeks flush. “Like, no strings attached.”

I blink and cross my arms over my chest, trying to determine if I heard right. No strings attached means one thing and one thing only. It’s generally not a concept I’d ever assign to Melina.  

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 forward. 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.