For the Win (3 page)

Chapter 5

The number from Chicago registers twice more over the next 24 hours. I don’t pick up either time. Whatever they want will open a can of worms I’ve firmly shut.

The next time my phone rings I’ve just gotten out of the shower at the Rec Center. This time, though, it’s my mother’s kooky ring tone. I pick it up once I tug on a pair of shorts.

“Hey, Ma.” My voice echoes through the empty locker room. “How are you?”

“Everything’s fine up here. How about you?”

“Good. Just working with the kids. You guys should come down and see this team sometime—they’re getting better.”

“How’s their goalie?” she asks.

“He’s coming around. We’ve got some gaps in the defense so that makes him work harder than he’d like.” I chuckle, thinking of Jeremy.

“How’s your blood sugar?”

“Just tested—my sugar was a little low today. Nothing unusual though.”

“Keep an eye on it.”

“I will, Ma.” I roll my eyes in the foggy mirror. When she starts detailing her upcoming week — and what she needs to do before Allie leaves the country — I put the phone on speaker so I can finish getting dressed. Combing my hands through my long, shaggy hair I smile, thinking about how much my mom hates it. Sure enough, I’m walking out the door when she says, “Have you cut your hair yet?”

“Not yet.”

I wait for the other questions. Are you sleeping okay? Yes. Are you taking your vitamins? Yes. Have you been drinking? No. Are you seeing anyone?
Sigh
. No.

I walk down the hallway from the locker room to the back entrance—the one Edgar lets me use to access my van. Stepping outside into the bright North Carolina sunlight, I shield my eyes with my hand. There, right beside my van, is a flash of Carolina light blue. I blink, almost stopping.

Mom’s in mid-sentence, lamenting my choice of hairstyle, when I cut her off. “Crap, Ma, did you know about this?”

“About what?” she asks, her voice betraying nothing.

I stare at the pale blue VW bug and the two figures sitting inside. “I gotta go. Talk to you later.”

“Julian? What’s going on?”

“Love you,” I say, disconnecting.

Before anything else, I take a breath and toss my stuff in the van. I grab an elastic from the door knob and twist it into my hair, securing it at the back of my head.

“Jules.” I hear from the car.

Something in me twists when I hear Allie’s voice. It’s the feeling of home. Comfort. We’ve always been this way, but I also know in my gut that her arrival today is not just about us.

It’s about those phone calls.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, taking her in. She looks good. Healthy. Tan skin and sun-streaked hair. I notice a bandaged wrapped around her ankle, the one that she had surgery on two years ago. The doctor gave her the OK to play, but the bandage makes me nervous.

 Her light blue eyes, identical to mine, skim over me as well, her nose wrinkling when she gets to the beard and hair.

“Just wanted to see you before all the craziness starts.”

The craziness. Also known as the fucking Olympics. Just that.

“Thought maybe we’d drive down to the beach and relax for a day or two,” she continues.

I look past her, through the dark windshield, to see the person inside lift her hand in a hesitant wave.

“Who’s we?” On cue the door opens, and a familiar head of dark brown hair appears. The feeling in my stomach ratchets up a notch. “Melina?”

“Hey, Julian.”

I feel for the van behind me and lower myself on the edge to sit. I haven’t seen Melina since sophomore year, when Berry came up to play Clemson. I haven’t seen that hair, or her smile, or her long, strong legs. I haven’t heard her laugh or seen the face she makes when she’s angry at me. It’s been years, but seeing her now I realize nothing’s changed. Not for me, anyway. Not the way I feel.

I left her behind just like everything else. On purpose...although leaving Melina wasn’t my call. It was hers.

Not that I blame her.

Reporter
: What’s it like being a twin?

Julian
: Lame.

Allie
: Exhausting.

Reporter
: Really, do you not get along?

Allie
: We shared a womb, we have to get along.

Julian
: *
wraps a large hand around Allie’s neck and pretends to throttle her
* We’re best friends.

Reporter
: Have you always gotten along?

Julian
: *
doesn’t respond but lifts an eyebrow
*

Allie
: We’ve always supported one another.

Reporter
: Always?

Chapter 6

(2005)

We went back to the fields every day, rain or shine. Once we even went in the snow. Allie sat on the sidelines…chasing balls, hoping for an in, but the men ignored her much as they had since day one. Females didn’t play the game—not where they came from, and not here. The girlfriends and wives and daughters walked around the track surrounding the field, chatting while pushing babies in strollers or playing tag by themselves.

I tried my best, but I had no leverage — the men only let me play because I was willing to take a beating in goal. I thought I’d hate it, but day after day I showed up, getting in position. At some point it felt natural — it felt good. I felt stronger, faster. Less afraid. It was the first time since my diagnosis that I felt like my body worked for me instead of against me.

“Bend your knees,” they would say.

“Dive for the ball.”

“Ah, you’re bleeding. Good, good.”

As time went on, I began recognizing some of the faces from the field elsewhere — like back at our apartments. One was a lanky high school boy named Marcus, with dark black skin and an afro. Every day we traversed between home and the fields, Allie beside us, kicking a ball.

“Do you play on a team?” I asked one day, keeping an eye on the sky. A heavy smudge of thunderclouds had rolled in, putting an end to the afternoon’s game. We wanted to be inside before the rain started.

“On the school team.” He gestured back toward the middle school. I was surprised. He seemed older than that. Bigger. “You should try out.”

I laughed, amused. “I don’t play.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Sure you do. You’re not bad.”

“Not bad isn’t good.” I pointed to Allie, who was bouncing the ball on her knees as she walked. “She’s the one with skills.”

“She can join the girls’ team. They could use some help.” This time he laughed.

“Oh, I’m trying out,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “And you can address me directly. I’m right here.”

“Okay then,” Marcus replied, a small smile on his face.

I thought maybe Marcus could help get Allie into a game, but he didn’t carry any weight either. So we continued playing on the field while Allie worked on her skills alone, and afterward, Marcus and I would stay back to play a little with her.

One particularly cold afternoon I took a ball to the face. The hit landed against my chapped skin like a slap, making my eyes water. My nose stung too, running and freezing as the frigid air hit it. Fighting back tears, I stumbled to the sidelines for a drink out of my plastic bottle. I looked around for my sister but she wasn’t in her typical spot—ready and waiting for her shot on the field.

But then I heard her laughter. Spinning around, I spotted Allie with a skinny girl about our age passing the ball back and forth near the baseball field.

“Jay! You okay?” one of the guys called from the field. They didn’t want to be left without protection. Tugging my wool cap over my head, I wiped my eyes before heading back to the goal.

After the game, Marcus and I walked over to Allie and the new girl. She had long, black, curly hair and creamy, light brown skin, the apples of her cheeks red with cold. Her eyes were brown too, like a deer’s, with thick lashes. She looked like she was freezing, in just sweatpants and a big, blue hoodie.

“This is my brother Julian,” Allie said. “And our friend Marcus.”

“Hi,” the doe said. “I’m Melina.”

Chapter 7

Melina’s eyes, still brown and thoughtful, are no longer the innocent doe eyes they were when we were kids.  There’s wariness and skepticism, not warmth and trust, and it’s probably my fault. We watch each other for a moment.

Okay, it’s definitely my fault.

“What’s with the mountain man look?” she asks, gaze skittering over me.

My hand shoots reflexively to my beard, but before I can speak my sister replies, “Hipster.”

“Wow,” Melina says, eyes widening.

“I’m not a hipster,” I say, scoffing.

Allie nods, wide eyed and teasing. “Sure.”

“So, okay. You guys drove all the way down here, four days before training, to hang out with me at the beach.” I glance from Allie to Melina, who averts her eyes pretty much immediately. God, she’s even prettier than she was in college. “With no notice.”

“To be fair, I tried calling you,” Allie says. “Twice.”

Okay, that’s true. “I’ve been busy.”

“Hanging out in your van?” Melina asks, glancing at Sally.

I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Why are you two here?”

“Kevin McDowell sent us,” Melina blurts. Allie hits her on the arm, but she just rolls her eyes. “He’s not an idiot. He knows why we’re here. Right?”

“I had a feeling.”

“Saxon Thrasher shredded his Achilles. He’s out,” Allie explains. “They’re pulling Dominic up but they need a second. They want you.”

I shook my head. “No they don’t.”

“Don’t be a dumbass,” Allie says. “In an alternate universe you’d be the one replacing Saxon, not Dom. He’s put in his time and is ready, but they’ve got to have backup.”

“So...they broke down and called me. I can’t be the only one on the list.” But I know the list of Olympic level goalies in the qualifying age range is slim, and if they need the best I would be on it, despite my year off. “I haven’t been training.”

My sister walks over and lifts up the hem of my shirt, revealing my lower stomach and the evidence of hard work. Melina’s eyebrows rise despite the firm line of her lips. “Please, you’re in better shape than your entire senior year at Clemson.”

I laugh and mutter, “That’s not saying much.”

Allie drops my shirt but doesn’t move away. She rests a hand on my shoulder and says in a low voice, “You know you want this. You know it’s the right thing for the team and for yourself. You’ve punished yourself enough.”

I look over her shoulder, past Melina to the field where my team will gather to play later in the day. I think about what I would say to them in this situation. It’s a no-brainer. Only a fool would pass it up.

I drop my eyes to the ground. “The other guys don’t want me there. There’s no way they’d approve.”

“Bullshit. They want to win and you’ll help them get there. I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but you just have to prove to them that you’ve changed.”

My sister’s blue eyes cut through me like a knife.
Do I want this? Hell yes. Do I deserve it? Fuck no.

“Just talk to McDowell,” she says. “At least do that.”

I nod. “I can talk to him.”

“Good.” With a satisfied nod, Allie plucks her phone from her pocket. I glance at Melina, wondering what she’s got to say about all of this. If her troubled eyes are any clue, she’s just as apprehensive as me.

*

I call McDowell from the privacy of Edgar’s office, thanking him for the offer. And then I tell him that no, I can’t play for the US National Team. Not now, and probably not ever.

There’s a brief pause. I assume we’re finished, but then in his firm, Midwestern accent McDowell says, “I’m sorry to hear that, son, but there’s more to my offer than you understand. I’d like you to hear me out.”

“Okay,” I say, leaning back in Edgar’s chair. Photos of his kids and wife line the desk. I pick one up, studying the smile on the boy with his arms around his sister.

“The IOC is always looking for angles to promote and market the games. In the last decade, personal stories have become one of the biggest sellers. Viewers want to get to know the athletes they are cheering on, and as important as it is to have a winning team, it’s also important for us to have a marketable product.”

Frowning, I put the frame back on the desk and lean forward. The idea that the International Olympic Committee is aware I exist is pretty overwhelming. “What are you trying to say, sir?”

“You and your sister are one of the biggest feel-good stories coming out of the US this year. They’ve had twins before but not a brother and sister pair and never playing the same sport! Add the struggles of your childhood, your diabetes, and the fact you’re coming off a sabbatical finding yourself journey, it’s ratings gold.”

Closing my eyes, I shake my head. I can’t believe McDowell is actually pushing this agenda.

“We need you on the team, not just to back up Dominic, but to be the face of the Men’s National Team.”

Fuck. No.

“Sir, as grateful as I am for the opportunity I’m not sure how the other guys are going to feel about me being the face of the team. Not after last year and, you know…how I left Clemson.”

“Don’t worry about that. Coach Mitchell and I will deal with any attitude issues.” He isn’t getting it.

I try again. “Mr. McDowell, I spent the last year fighting for my life and rebuilding my body. I dug deep into my head to try to figure out why I’d allow myself to let down my team, my family and myself. I’ve finally worked it out and am enjoying the life I’ve settled into. So as much as I will probably kick myself when this is all over, I have to say no.”

The other end of the line falls quiet again, and for a minute I think the call dropped. I look at the screen of my phone, but no — we’re still connected.

“Hello?”

“Son, I didn’t want it to come to this but there’s another part of this deal I need to explain to you.”

I sigh and rub my forehead. McDowell certainly is persistent. “And what’s that?”

“Allie’s position on the women’s team is conditional on your return.”

And there it is. I jerk up, my back ramrod straight. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m afraid not. There’s no doubt she’s an outstanding player, skilled with the heart of an Olympian. But she’s got a risky Achilles, Julian, and our medics aren’t sure it’ll last the games. There are four other players lined up and ready to take her spot—all injury free.”

Years of Allie and me on the field blur by in a flash.  “You can’t take this away from her.” I clench my jaw and wish for one second he was in front of me.

“I can, and I will, if we don’t reach an agreement. Her playing time is already limited—which she is aware of, but removing her completely isn’t out of the question.”

“You’ll actually kick her off the team if I don’t agree to your demands?” I don’t even ask about my own playing time. There’s little chance I’ll make it past the practice field, and frankly, I don’t care. We’ll both be there as media pawns.

“Yes.”

“Does she know about this?”

“No. No one knows about this but me, you and Mitchell. We had a feeling you may be a tough sell.”

Mitchell coached me on the Men’s National Team—twice. He’s a good guy, and a legend on the field. We got along well and he even made an effort to get me back on track senior year, but I blew him off, convinced I knew better. For that fact alone, I’m a little surprised he wants me back under these circumstances. They must have him by the balls, too.

“If I do this, you’ll never tell her?” I ask. Allie can’t know. She’s worked too hard, and confidence is too important in this game.

“No. We’ll never breathe a word.”

“Dammit,” I mutter.

“Should I take that as a yes?”

My eyes catch the photograph of Edgar’s kids.
What am I doing?

“Yes.”