For the Win (15 page)

Chapter 35

August 9

(Game Day Women/Men Rest)

I’m up at six, whether I like it or not. The rest of my suite is asleep, so I slip on my shoes and pull on my team jacket before heading out into the Village. It’s early and the temperature is cool, but the grounds are quieter than they’ve been since we arrived.

The dining hall is nearly empty, and I decide to eat while there’s no crowd. With my tray and one of Rory’s magazines in hand, I find a table in the corner.

I’m nearly done when a shadow hovers over the table, blocking the glare of the overhead light. I glance up, expecting a teammate. Instead I find Tyson Rickman with his hulking shoulders and genetically defying wing-span.

“Hey,” I say, folding the magazine. “Tyson, right?”

“Right. You’re Julian Anderson. We’ve never been formally introduced.”

He’s holding a tray, piled high with a variety of food. I nod at the seat across from me. “You want to sit?”

“Thanks.”

He tucks into his meal and I’m curious about his sudden appearance, although I have an inkling what this may be about. That’s his issue to bring up so I just ask, “Do you have an event today?”

“Three,” he says, between mouthfuls of food. “Individual events. I’m not supposed to be here.”

I frown. “Where?”

“In the dining area. My coach likes us to eat in the room. Less distraction, but I get tired of being cooped up.”

“You have a pretty rigorous schedule.”

“It’s brutal.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Although I’m sure yours isn’t a cakewalk.”

“No. Team sports are just different I guess.” But I have no idea. I’ve never participated in anything other than soccer.  I stack my plates on the tray. “Well, good luck today.”

“Thanks,” he says, but holds up a finger and I pause. “I wanted to ask you about someone.”

Ah.

“Melina Diaz?”

“What about her?”

“I’ve heard you’re friends—like you grew up together. You and your sister and her.”

“We did. I’ve known Melina for a long time.” I don’t know where this is going, so I wait.

He leans back in his seat, his physique imposing. “I’ve tried to get to know her a little but she’s tough. I thought maybe you could put in a good word.”

“Well.” I cross my arms over my chest and mimic his relaxed pose. “Melina takes the games very seriously. She’s incredibly dedicated.”

“I know. It’s one of the reasons I’m attracted to her. I mean, everyone here is a professional, but there’s something about her that I like.”

“Right.” Fuck. I mean, I can still remember the way her mouth felt on mine last night. I’m definitely not in the position to give him advice on how to win her over. “Look, Melina and I have a bit of a rocky past. If you really want to find out how get close to her, I suggest asking my sister. She’s your way in.”

I can’t believe I just told him that.

“Do you think she’d help me out?”

“Allie? Definitely.” Not a chance. I’ll kill her.

He breaks into a wide, model-worthy smile. “I know this may sound kind of dumb,” he confesses, “but I have a hard time connecting with women sometimes. She and I just sort of hit it off at the training camp, but since we got here she’s been a lot more aloof.”

I laugh and pretend like I don’t know why. “Yeah, I’m telling you, she’s amazing. Like, the best, but it takes a lot to earn her friendship. Trust me, I learned that the hard way.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Sure,” I say and he reaches one of those ridiculous arms over the table and offers me his hand. We shake, one of those complicated bro kinds, and I feel a little queasy to my stomach.

*

“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 there 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.”