For the Win (14 page)

Chapter 33

Although no one is making out next to my building this evening, the party atmosphere in the Village has intensified. Medals swing proudly from chests, their shine outmatched only by the winner’s smiles. With every passing day, more athletes join the ranks of those who have competed and the energy from that is palpable. Some people are out to celebrate their win, others to soothe their loss. I understand the temptation a bit more after our match today. It’s been a long time since I mixed the adrenaline of competition with this brand of sensory overload, the last time being a deadly reminder of my physical limitations.

It’s a precarious place to be, making me feel more vulnerable than I care to admit.

On the way back to my room I pass the enormous, sparkling community pool. According to the brochures left in our rooms, it’s heated, making the pool a prime destination for those hanging around for closing ceremonies.

“Sorry,” a girl says, bumping into me. She and her friend, a nearly identical blonde, dissolve into giggles. They’re sporting the Australian flag, wearing tiny shorts over muscular, long legs. A small volleyball is stitched onto the collar of their shirts. God. Volleyball players.

“No problem.” Matching silver medals nestle on their chests, propped by generous cleavage. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” The girl’s accent is charming. She narrows her vivid green eyes at me, like I’m a bit too fuzzy to see. “Hey, aren’t you that guy…the one from the video?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

The other girl’s eyes pop wide as she nods at her teammate. “Yes! The futbol player! The twin!”

“Right!” She looks around, the liquid in her drink sloshing. After licking her hand she says, “Where is she? Your sister?”

“Not sure,” I admit. “Knowing her, probably over at that party.”

“Are you coming?” Green Eyes asks.

“Ah, haven’t finished our matches so...no celebrating for me. Yet.”

She wraps her hand firmly around my arm. “You don’t have to drink, just come hang out—at least with our team. We’ve been talking about you all day. You’re really an inspiration.”

I waver. I really do. My feet beg my brain to let them move, to take a dip in the water, but two blonde beach volleyball players will not be my undoing. Not yet at least.

“How about I catch up with you at the closing ceremonies?”

Green Eyes pouts, but the other gives me a fast thumbs up. I doubt they’ll even remember this conversation tomorrow, but they might. Anything can happen.

I dodge other party goers, plus a couple of other athletes that look as miserable as I am: heads down, focused, bunches of bananas in their hands.

Stopping to get an icepack for my hip, I eventually make my way back to the suite. It’s blessedly quiet. An envelope sits on the floor, just inside the doorway. My name is scribbled across the front in familiar handwriting. Situating myself on the bed, I unfold the single sheet of paper inside. It’s a handwritten list in Melina’s tight script; no details or heading, just a neatly printed one-through-five.

1.     
No strings means no strings. This isn’t a relationship. It’s a partnership between two athletes.

2.     Complete secrecy. From everyone. Including Allie.

3.     Complete honesty. No shady stuff.

4.     Either one of us can break it off at any time over the next 15 days.

5.     What happens at The Village, stays at The Village.

Jesus
, I think, instantly caught between hopping up and tracking Melina down, and wondering if this is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. Rory walks in a minute later, texting. Slowly folding the ‘agreement’, I tuck it into my back pocket.

“Did you see that party out there?” Rory asks, tossing his phone aside.

“Yeah, it’s pretty insane.”

“There were like, four naked chicks in the pool.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah—plus some dudes. It was getting a little rowdy.”

“You didn’t want to go?”

“Hell no. I just left my parents over at the visitor’s center. They would kill me if I blew all this on a party.” He shoots me a smile. “Next time you’ve got to come with me to meet them. I think my mom has a crush on you.”

“Dude, shut up.”

“You think I’m kidding.” He sits on the bed and kicks off his shoes. “We watched the video of you and Allie. I had no idea that’s what Veronica was working on all this time.”

“She’s talented.”

“My mom started crying.”

I laugh. “Yeah, mine too.”

“I bet. Really tugged the heartstrings with that one.”

“Yeah, now you see why Mitchell put me in. McDowell probably called him mid-game.”

“You made it worth it. That was an amazing save.” He jerks his chin at me. “How’s your hip?”

I lift up my shorts, showing him the purpling bruise. He grimaces in sympathy, but I see the scrape down his thigh. We’re all a little banged up. “I’ve had worse.”

“So did Dom say anything to you after the game?”

“No. Did he say something to you?”

“Not specifically. I just…”

I shift the ice pack. “What?”

“Things are going really well with the team. Our energy and the way we’re playing—better than ever before—could get us into the finals.”

“And you don’t want me to piss Dom off and mess that up.”

“Honestly? No.”

He has no idea that me being here wasn’t even my decision, much less my playing time. “Going in wasn’t my choice, Rory.”

“I know. Mitchell makes the final call.”

I twist my neck, stretching the muscles. “I hear what you’re saying, and I’m not a fan of how all of this is going down either. The promotion and the play today make it seem like I’m fame-whoring and for those of you that’ve played with me before, that hits a little too close to home.” Wincing, I lie back with the ice pack. “Trust me when I say I’m in this with the rest of you. I’m totally down with the team, with my role as second string. I’m not here to replace Dom...that’s never been my objective. But if Mitchell or McDowell want to play me there’s nothing I can do.”

Rory rubs his forehead, the tiny braids shifting with the movement. “I know.”

“You doing anything tomorrow?” I ask, needing to change the subject. Rory’s a good guy, and I know he’s coming from the right place, but bullshit like this pisses me off.

“Just a little sight-seeing.”

“Maybe we can meet up. My mom needs someone to hang around with during the games.”

“Sounds good.” He disappears into the bathroom only to come back seconds later in shorts and a T-shirt.

Yanking my sneakers on, I stand up.

“Where are you off to?” Rory asks.

“Uh, I’m just going to go check on Allie before curfew. I’ll be back soon.”

“You’re not mad, are you? I’m not trying to make things worse.”

“I know, man.” I offer him my balled up fist, and he knocks his against mine. “We’re good. You’re one of the reasons the team is so strong this year.”

I pat him on the shoulder and feel the paper in my back pocket, leaving the room to go for something I thought was out of my reach.

*

I wait for Melina on a bench behind building seven, housing primarily for track and field. Most of these athletes tend to keep to themselves, even more tense and focused than the swimmers. They track every calorie, every second and every hair on their body like it’s a religion.

It’s a quiet place to meet, away from prying eyes. Like our building, there’s a small patio off the back. This building’s is hidden by a manicured hedge, though, dimly lit by the small lamps lining the walkway.

She arrives with a wary look, eyes darting around. Once she sees I’m here though, and alone, her shoulders sag in relief. And then she spots the ‘contract’, open and flat on my lap.

Yeah, there’s no going back.

Without speaking she sits beside me on the bench, a wide gap between us. I hold up the paper. “You’re serious about this?”

She hesitates. When she does finally answer me, her voice is low. “Yes.”

“I’m not gonna lie...I wasn’t sure about this yesterday, Mel.” I stretch my legs in front of me, working through the ache in my muscles. “I didn’t really get your motivation. But it clicked after our win today.”

She glances up from her hands. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. One thing, though.” Smoothing the paper over my knee, I pull a pen out of my pocket. Under the final condition I add, in my less than perfect handwriting,

#6.
Exclusivity.

“You want us to be exclusive?”

“During the rest of the games. No hook ups with anyone else.”
No swimmers,
I feel like adding.

I’m expecting a snarky comment about what happened back in college, but all she says is, “I sort of thought that was implied.”

“Then we have a deal?” I ask, offering her my hand.

We shake and then she’s next to me, leg pressed against mine. Her hands rush against the stubble on my cheeks and, with a quick glimpse into my eyes, she kisses me.

There’s little hesitation, just the hard, breathless release of pent up energy. It’s a little much, mentally, but physically I’m all in, touching her for the first time in years. I slide my hands over her thighs, and then her waist, re-discovering dips and curves. She’s different now, somehow both softer and firmer than the last time we were this close.

I’d like to think I’ve improved my technique over the last couple of years, but Melina’s impulsiveness has thrown me for a loop. The Rules completely evaporate when she climbs into my lap, her knees bracketing my thighs, my dick no doubt poking her through the thin material of my shorts. What are the standards, here? Same as back in the day? Over the shirt? Under? Her teeth tug on my bottom lip; I chase her tongue with mine.

And then her knee hits the bruise on my hip. I grunt in pain.

“Oh God,” she says, pulling back. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

I am
anything
but fine—I’m close to exploding. Desire rolls over me in all-consuming waves. Pushing my fingers into her hair, I tug her close again, exploring her mouth.

Melina is onto something here, something that went dormant during my year of celibacy. My sex drive, much like my competitiveness on the field, has kicked into gear. It’s gone from a want to a need.

And in a matter of seconds, I shift from wanting Melina to
needing
her.

She kisses my neck, breath hot, her hands twisted in the fabric of my shirt. There’s no way she can’t feel me hard beneath her, and she reacts by bearing down. My hands hover near her butt, sure she’ll run the second I commit.

Laughter peels from behind the hedge, followed by whispers for quiet. Soft footsteps echo off the walls. Melina stiffens, and, just as quickly as it was cast, the spell between us is broken.

“Well, that escalated quickly,” I say, staring at Melina’s puffy, red mouth as she touches it. She extracts herself from my lap, banging into my bruise once more. I flinch.

“Where is it?”

I shift, acutely aware of my tented shorts, and pull the fabric up on the side.

“Ouch,” she says, gently pressing the back of her fingers to the hot, swollen spot. “I saw you stick that landing. Knew you’d pay for it later.”

“It’s just sore. Not like I’ll be getting a lot of playing time in the next couple of days, anyway.”

Laughing, she shakes her head. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nothing’s changed. Coach just threw me a bone because the documentary went over so well.”

She offers me her hand, and I let her pull me off the bench.

“You keep telling yourself that, Jules. The next week is going to be wild—mark my words.”

She disappears into the night, and when I emerge from the hiding spot, pants adjusted, heart beating wildly, she’s nowhere to be found. If that make-out session and the last twelve hours are any indication Melina may be right: things are about to get wild.

Chapter 34

August 8

 
Rest Men/women

Melina, and our little arrangement, is on my mind from the moment I wake up. I’m used to being a lone wolf, so it’s weird having romantic entanglements again— if that’s what this even is. After breakfast with Rory at the dining hall, I head back toward the room. As I come around the corner I spy Melina coming my way with a group of her teammates. They’re close-knit and chatting, voices rising in laughter at something. Seeing her unexpectedly does things to my insides, but I keep my face straight. I realize have no fucking clue how to proceed after last night.

I do know, however, if you want to make out with a girl again, or potentially ever see her naked, it’s best not to be a dick to her. I’ve learned this the hard way over the years, so as we pass I make eye contact, saying, “Good morning.”

Maria, the women’s goalie, smiles and greets me back, followed a chorus of “hellos” from the others. Melina stares at me stonily before looking away all together, blowing a wave of ice in my direction.

Fuck.

*

I track Melina down outside the gym later that morning, after her workout.

“What was that all about?” I ask, skipping the pleasantries. Since, you know, we seem to be operating that way.

“All of what?”

“The cold shoulder this morning? I mean, I know we agreed to keep things quiet but…”

“But what, Julian?” She wipes sweat from her face with a towel.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m not sure how to navigate all of this.”

“Well,” she rests her hands on her hips, “maybe you should think about how you handled random hook-ups at school. I’m sure you had some awkward moments on campus after that.”

Melina’s always been tough, but this is something else. Her tone is harsh, and hard lines settle around her mouth. I see now that she still harbors a lot of resentment toward me, no matter how much fun we had last night. The switch in her mood throws me off, leaving me unsettled. I feel like I don’t know this version of Melina. Not really.

We stare at one another, the years of silence having created a wall between us. Finally, I sigh. “Why’d you approach me if you have such a low opinion of me?” I ask quietly, slipping my hands into my pockets.

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t push it. We do this my way or not at all. You agreed to that—suggested it even.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

She bears down on her lip, looking away.

I know I should just walk, that Melina is too angry for this to go well. With everything else going on I certainly don’t need the hassle. But then I remember the weight of her on my lap, the taste of her mouth against mine. She’s ignited a fire in me, and I doubt I could put the flames out even if I wanted to. And I don’t. I don’t want to, even though I know damn well I should.

“Fine,” I say, giving her a short nod. We go our separate ways and I wonder if I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life.

*

Melina’s father orders for the table. He’s fluent in Spanish, and although they speak Portuguese in Brazil, he and the waiter come up with some sort of hybrid.  Other than the party—back home, the night before we left for the games—I haven’t seen him in years. I’ve been too chicken to approach him. He warned me clearly not to break his daughter’s heart, and I failed spectacularly to keep that promise. I don’t even want to imagine how he’d react to the agreement she and I made last night or the fact I’m a little hard right now sitting two seats away, just thinking about the way her nipples hardened against my chest last night.

I haven’t seen Melina since our argument earlier today. In fact, I tried to beg out of dinner but my mother insisted, making me feel like an even bigger douche for trying to avoid everyone. Beyond a perfunctory “hello”, Melina hasn’t acknowledged me since I sat down at the table. I don’t know if this is because of her father or because she sort of hates me. Maybe I’m blowing everything out of proportion. We agreed, after all, to keep this on the down-lowest of all down-lows.

Allie’s the buffer between us. My mother sits on my other side, and beside her sit Mr. and Mrs. Diaz, with Rory and his parents rounding out the group. Plates of meat are piled on the table—an athlete’s dream. Rory and I should probably be embarrassed by the amount we’re eating, but we’re not. Even our ‘days off’ consist of running and training in the weight room.

“That was amazing,” Rory says with a contented smile. He leans back, patting his extended belly.

“Sit up straight,” his mother chides, knocking him on the shoulder.

“Thank you for suggesting this, Alvaro.” Mom smiles at Melina’s parents. They’ve always gotten along well because of Allie and Melina’s closeness; I pretend not to notice the displeased glint in Mr. Diaz’s eyes when he looks across the table at me.  “I can see why it’s mandatory that all visitors try Fogo Chao.”

“Ugh,” Allie says, looking a little ill. “I think I overdid it.”

“You think?” I ask. I swear, she tried to out-eat the whole table.

“Shut up.”

“Make me,” I taunt. She’s so easy.

“Good to see some things never change,” Mrs. Diaz says to our mother. She looks at me then, eyes going dewy. “Julian, the documentary has been wonderful. I’m proud of you for doing it. Educating others about your condition is commendable.”

Mom squeezes my arm. “Me too.”

I fight a grimace. The documentary is popular. Incredibly popular. A teaser for part two aired this morning—the full video comes out right before Allie’s match tomorrow. Rory’s mother spoke to me at length about my diabetes, sharing that her cousin suffers as well. The attention and discussion about my life is wearing on me—especially after my year of peace and solitude.

“Thank you,” I manage, before excusing myself from the table. Allie picks up right where I left off, happy to talk about the newfound fame.

“Looking for an escape route?” Melina’s voice carries down the hall just before I reach the restroom.

I turn and face her. “How’d you guess?”

“My dad has been giving you the evil eye for two hours. I figured you’d had enough.”

I run my hand through my hair. “I’m not used to being around so many people anymore, even family.”

“Your mom is excited. They all are. Your little documentary is tugging on all their heartstrings.”

I smile at her tone. Of course Melina, tough as nails, isn’t swayed by my redemption story. That doesn’t keep me from pushing it a little. I mean, why not? She’s made it clear playing nice won’t win me any favors. “I’ve always been pretty hard to resist. Add in a life-threatening condition and a reformed bad-boy reputation...they never had a chance.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, but her eyes stay soft, at least more than earlier today. “You’re ridiculous.”

I look her up and down, letting my eyes linger in certain places. “I think, maybe, you like me that way.”

We stare at one another. Her mouth’s already forming a sharp retort, but all I hear are the clanking of dishes, the lilt of laughter, the cooks talking in the kitchen.  The ambient noise is loud enough to cover the sound of my heart, which is pounding like a drum in my chest.  Who am I kidding, pretending like I would walk away from this?

She moves to pass by me for the women’s room door but I stop her short. “Don’t forget; you started this. You asked me to do this for—no with—you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I initiate the kiss this time, sure she’ll resist but she’s all in the instant my mouth meets hers. She presses against the wall, fingers tugging at the hem of my shirt. Her mouth is almost smoky, her tongue sweet from the pineapple served with dinner.

Our make out session doesn’t last long—way too risky—but it’s better than last night. I’m calmer, for one thing. We split apart, and I smooth her hair over her shoulder as she straightens my shirt.

“Feel better?” she asks.

“Actually I do.”

“Good. Because after you left my mom suggested we all hang out at the Village Visitor Center for a while.”

I lean against the wall and groan. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She grins.