For the Win (20 page)

Chapter 43

August 20

(Men’s
final
)

The hallway leading to the field is quiet. Nothing but the sound of our cleats echoing off the cement floor and the occasional murmur, most likely a prayer. The building hums around us with the vibrations from outside where the fans and announcers are waiting for us to appear.

Bright light glares from the end of the hallway, taking us to an outdoor tunnel. The first thing I hear is the screaming. The first thing I see is an American flag, and as we step into the open arena a sea of red, white and blue engulfs my senses.

I’d thought the other games had an indescribable level of energy, but it’s likely nothing will ever compare to this moment in my life.  Flags hang from over railings and wave in the air. Posters and signs bounce through the suffocating crowd. The atmosphere is one of a party—a tense event waiting to explode at any moment.

Music plays in the background—people chant. Tiny ball-boys hover around the edge of the field, eyes wide with awe. The big-screen flashes on interviews, Olympic news and profiles of each player. We enter the field down a tunnel, acclimating ourselves to the flashing cameras and roar of the crowd. Girls scream our names. Horns blare in excitement. I blink and breathe, pushing all of it out of my head. It takes a minute but eventually I manage to block out the noise and the people and the drama of the past couple of days.

After the national anthem, we huddle on the side of the field. I test my blood one last time and boost my insulin, and then I unhook the pump and hand it over to Brent.

“You ready?” Brent asks, wrinkles next to his eyes. He’s definitely freaking out.

“No choice but to be, right?”

He slaps me on the back of the head and whispers last minute advice in my ear. I tug my gloves on and wiggle my fingers.

“I know, dude. I know.”

“I know you know, but we’re here, man. We’re here. I gotta say it or I’ll kick myself in the ass later.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll kick your ass for you if you want.”

“Shut up.” He pushes me on the field.

*

We score fast, Rory taking an amazing shot from the outside. The goalie fumbles the ball, leaving it loose with Mendez waiting in the middle of the box like his fairy-fucking-godmother.

The Germans take it in stride, their emotions in check, but it’s easy to see they’re not backing down. I find myself defending the goal from a series of well-placed shots.

I slide across the turf, feet first, knocking an attempt to the side. A German player runs over me, his knee plowing into my head. My teeth knock together, and I curse through the jarring pain. Pollard comes back and helps me off the ground. “Good save.”

“Even though they look like robots,” I say, glaring at the forward that just rammed me, “they’re pissed. Get them out of here.”

He nods and we position for the corner kick.

“Behind you,” I say to Johnson, my eyes scanning for openings.

The ball sails high and accurate, landing in the middle of the box. Along with everyone else I dive for it and manage to gain possession. High on adrenaline I shout, “Move out!” and punt the ball down field, giving myself a second to breathe.

Mendez carries the ball down field, passing to Gonzales. Rory lines up for another shot and takes it, going high, and it flies over the top bar. The crowd rumbles into a mixture of cheers and boos. The clock ticks down, marking the longest/fastest forty minutes of my life.

We go into the second half 1-0, but the score doesn’t hold. The Germans break free, their forward chasing the ball toward the box. Pollard races toward him and goes for a tackle. The German passes to another player also barreling in my direction. A full slate of players are in the box—the ball bouncing around like a pinball. I find my chance and dive, landing mouth first against a sharp knee. I grunt in pain, searching for the ball, but the forward gets away from me, scoring quick while I’m on the ground.

“Fuck.” I spit blood on the grass.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“You alright?” Pollard asks, staring at my busted lip.

I spit again. “Yeah.”

“It’s okay, man. Tough play.” Johnson says, hand on my shoulder.

“It’s not.”

“Make it okay. We have twenty minutes left.”

I nod and wipe my face.

The score stalls, the ball mostly trapped in midfield. I fight off two rogue attempts, both in my comfort zone. They’re beating us to the ball though—fast under the façade of calm. I can see from my position at the back of the pitch that Mendez and Gonzales are getting frustrated. Rory takes a hit outside the box and blood drips down his knee.

“Pick it up,” Pollard shouts, his voice raw. He’s noticed the fluctuation in speed. Johnson elbows one of the German midfielders and gets a penalty. I take a breath and get the official’s attention. “Time!”

Eyes swing my direction, including Mitchell on the side of the field. The big screen zooms in on my face. I ignore it all and call everyone to a huddle in the back of the field. We have less than five minutes, but we have got to get our shit together.

“You okay?” Rory asks, worry on his face.

“I’m fine.” Several players do not look happy that I’ve called them over. How dare I? But I think back to those kids in Ocean Beach, how they didn’t want to listen to what I had to say but sometimes I had to do it anyway. “I’m not saying anything you don’t know, but we have five minutes and we’re not holding tight. Each step of the way we’re stumbling. From the back to the front. They’re beating us to the ball. They’re machines, calibrated to be one step ahead.”

“Fucking Germans,” someone mutters.

“Anderson’s right,” Johnson says. “We’ve got this. Now. In the next five minutes. I don’t want to go to overtime. I want to go back to the hotel and find some celebrities willing to put out for a gold medalist.” Everyone laughs nervously as the whistle blows. I lay my hand in the middle of the huddle and each player puts theirs on top. We shake on victory.

*

In the end I’m the one that decides the game. It comes down to me and a German forward named Lars. Number nine. He’s blond and has scored more goals than any other German player under the age of twenty-five.

After a call that will be discussed, argued and fought over beer for the next decade, I find myself face to face with him as he prepares for a penalty kick with forty seconds left in the match. He’s tall and slim, but his shoulders are wide and ramrod straight. I watched him eat four plates of chicken two days ago, fuel for this very moment.  Standing before me, he rubs his hands on his thighs and takes a deep breath. We both have to push out the deafening crowd, the worry and panic.

Players from both teams line the sides of the box, ready to run at an instant. The ref blows his whistle and Lars lines up the shot. Even over the crowd I hear the sound of leather meeting leather. It triggers a reflex in my brain and I dive, body air born. The shot flies over my head, over my hand, to the small, open, triangle at the top of the net.

*

Within seconds after the loss I’m dragged downfield toward family and friends for the medal ceremony in a haze of loss and defeat. The feeling is fleeting. They don’t want to give us time to get angry or for the fans to revolt. There’s no time to cry out the pain of defeat. Like all aspects of the Games, presentation and sportsmanship is more important than anything else, so within minutes we’re shaking the hands of the winners and then huddled together, placed on the second tier, and given our prize. Despite the sickening feeling in my chest, a second, different emotion wells to the surface. Second place wins silver—there are worse games to lose. The German national anthem plays, and I wrap my arm around Rory who’s standing to my left and hug him tight. Johnson, who’s on my right does the same.

I’ve played a lot of games, blocked and missed so many goals I’ve lost count, but there’s something about this that puts everything into a greater context.

“You did your best,” my mother says, giving me a hug despite being a sweaty mess. She’s offered me this condolence many times. It’s all she’s ever asked for from me or my sister. Our best. “I’m so proud of you, Julian.”

The medal hangs around my neck, and despite my upset, the weight feels good. Solid. “I just misjudged it.”

“No. It was a good shot. No one could have saved it.”

Would they? Would he? Would Dominic have been able to catch that ball? Brent says no. Mitchell shook my hand and rattled off the stats on defending penalty kicks. The numbers, as I’m well aware, were not in my favor. The team is no more upset with me than they are with themselves. There’s no ‘I’ in team after all.

“I don’t know, ma. What if coming here was a huge mistake? Allie wouldn’t need surgery again. Dominic wouldn’t have felt so much pressure. I wouldn’t have opened all the old wounds with Melina.” I inhale, feeling overcome with emotion. “I’m not sure it was worth it.”

She frowns and takes my hand. “Allie is fine—she makes her own decisions whether you believe it or not. Dominic was obviously under intense stress—you can’t blame yourself for that. And Melina? It was time you two dealt with your relationship head on, when neither of you could run away.”

I wipe my eyes and feel the weight of the medal, heavy on my chest. “How are you always so optimistic?”

She squeezes my arm. “Things took on a new perspective when I saw my little boy in the ICU fighting for his life. Nothing else is that important and everything else will work out. You won that battle, Julian. I have no doubt you’ll win the rest too.”

I look over my mother’s shoulder and see my sister, leaning into Mendez.

“Can you tell me what that’s all about?”

“From what I can tell, they like each other.” I make a face and she adds, “Sometimes an aimless man just needs the right woman.”

I’m about to suggest that Mendez may not be the one without aim, but the coaches wave us over, directing us off the field. I kiss and hug my mother goodbye, promising I’ll see her tomorrow.

“Hey, man.” Rory walks up. “That was a tough match.”

“Killer,” I say, walking toward the bus. “Awesome goal, though. You’re one of the few that can boast they made a goal in the Olympic finals.”

He smiles. “It was a pleasure playing with you, Julian.”

“Same. You’ve been a great teammate.”

We step into the hallway, going the reverse from a few hours before. “What’s the plan for tonight?” he asks.

“Tonight?” I clap him on the back. “We party like Olympians.”

Chapter 44

The Village cranks up to a ten that night. The games are over—all but the closing ceremonies—and I can feel the levity in every corner of the compound. Celebrities swarm the parties, which are everywhere: in the suites, the pool, near the athletic fields and in every quiet (or not so quiet) corner people can find.

Everyone wants a piece of the Olympians. Most of the athletes are willing to take a risk on a once-in-a-lifetime experience, especially if they can say they banged an Oscar winner or the person that won Big Brother 16.

Rory and I are headed toward the pool—rumor has it the beach volleyball girls are still around—when Tyson Rickman emerges like the Greek God of Aquatics from one of the nearby buildings.

“Hey man,” he says. “Great game today.”

“Thanks. Were you there?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Melina scrounged up a ticket. I sat with her family. Her dad is hilarious.”

Perfect. Of course Mr. Diaz loves Tyson. Who wouldn’t want their grandchildren to have the genetic superiority of an eight-time gold medal winner? I recall our conversation in the dining hall when we first got here.

“I guess you and Melina can give things a shot now that the games are over?” Every word a stab in the gut.

He shakes his head. “I tried, man. I really did, but she seems less interested now than before. Maybe I just misread the situation.”

“She’s probably sick of athletes. She’ll find some quiet, introverted librarian or something.” I clap him on back, having a glimmer that just maybe I haven’t lost her for good.

Then again, The Games are over. Our agreement no longer means anything.

“Heading to the pool?” Tyson asks.

“Yeah. You?”

He nods, stripping off his T-shirt. His muscles ripple and damn—even Rory, who’s been standing next to me the whole time, gapes. “Maybe I didn’t get the girl, but I suspect I can find a replacement easy enough.”

“Okay then,” I say to his back as he enters the fray. I’m about to follow him in when Veronica intercepts my path. My first reaction is to hold up my hands and say, “No more interviews. Ever.”

“Don’t worry. We’re done. I promise.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Are you kidding? This is
the
place to be.” She says it with a smile, but her eyes don’t match.

Rory scratches his head and jerks his thumb toward the pool. “I’ll meet you later, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

He walks through the gate and a loud cheer erupts. He’s a superstar.

“You’re proud of him,” Veronica says, giving me a curious look.

“Yeah, he’s a great guy. He’ll be amazing in the pros one day.”

“And what about you?”

I shake my head. “I thought this wasn’t an interview.”

“Nope. Just one friend to another.” The way she says the word ‘friend’ makes me pause and I check her out, not for the first time, wondering how she’d feel about traveling across the states in a beat up van. My eyes land on her expensive, brown leather sandals and shiny red toenails. Yeah, ‘friends’ is probably for the best.

“I haven’t figured out what comes next.” Music cranks up from somewhere nearby, followed by shouts of laughter. “Have you seen Dom?”

“Yeah. I talked to him. I think he’ll be okay.”

“Good.”

She takes a small step forward and says, “It was good getting to know you, Julian. Thank you for sharing your story with me. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

“Thank you for treating me well,” I reply. “Even though I wasn’t always nice about it.”

“You were a pleasure to work with. Seriously.”

“Maybe. On the outside. On the inside I was being a super jerk.”

She laughs, and to my surprise, engulfs me a hug. I squeeze her back, glad I’ve made a couple of new friends during this adventure. That’s something I didn’t expect.

I gesture toward the pool party. “What are you looking for? Athlete? Celebrity? Skeevy reality TV show star?”

“I guess I’ll have to see where the night takes me.”

An hour later the night takes
me
into a conversation with a very drunk Haley Caldwell.  I assume she finally came to her senses and kicked Johnson to the curb. When she finds me she exclaims, “Julian Anderson! I’ve been looking to get you alone for two weeks.”

“Is that so?”

She jabs my chest with her finger. “Yep. You’re hard to track down.”

“I’m not much on the party scene. Plus, you know, I still had matches.” I search over her head and finally lay eyes on my sister. Mendez is at her side. Melina is nowhere to be found...not that I’m looking for her or anything.

“So,” Haley’s hand moves to my arm, squeezing gently, “I had some things I wanted to talk to you about. In private?”

Allie spots me and waves. We haven’t really had a chance to talk since the match today. Since I found out about her relationship. Since Melina…

I glance down at Haley. “Sure, but my sister looks like she may need some help. She was injured yesterday. I should probably go.”

“But…can I at least get your number?”

Famous actress wants my number? Yeah, I’m game. I’m about to say yes when Johnson appears from the crowd and wraps his arms around her waist. He gives me a wolfish grin. I literally have no idea what’s going on.

“Finally getting Julian’s number,” she says, fumbling with her phone.

“I’ll forward you the contact,” he says, looking at me for approval. I nod, completely confused.

She twists and gives him a kiss.

“Later, Anderson.” And like that, they’re done with me.

Whatever.

I make my way over to Allie, who shoves her crutches at Mendez when I’m close enough to lunge at for a hug. I catch her in my arms, worried about her foot. “Great game, bro.”

I inhale, trying to accept the compliment. “Thanks. I guess there are worse things than second place.”

“I wouldn’t know.” The smile on her face is worth her besting me.

Mendez stands behind us, looking decidedly less awkward than I think he should. “So is this an actual thing, or is it a What Happens in the Village, Stays in the Village thing?” Allie’s cheeks redden, giving her away. “Fuck. Really? Of all the people…”

“Well Tyson Rickman was occupied so I had to go for the second best bad-boy around. Like you said, there are worse things than second.”

“Seriously. Shut up.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, he’s a winner alright.” I swallow hating to be the one to tell her. “He was in the sex room the other night. I saw his stupid green shoes outside the door.”

I wait for the freak out. Instead she shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “You’re such a dumbass,” she mutters. “I was in the room with him. Where do you think Melina got the key?”

“Oh God. See? No.  This is too much information. I know we’re twins but I just don’t want to know.”

“Then stay out of my business, Julian. I’m a big girl and can pick my own boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” I look around her shoulder and make eye contact with my teammate.

“What are you doing?” she asks, pinching my arm as I make for her boyfriend.

“He and I need to have a talk.”

“No. No you don’t.”

I give her a smile, the same smile I gave her when we were ten and I told Mom when she spilled sugar on the kitchen floor and swept it back in the jar. That smile.

“Jules.”

“I’ll be nice. I promise.”

“If you do this then I’m telling Melina.”

I freeze, but try to play it nonchalant. “Tell her what?”

“That you love her.”

Allie and I stand across from one another, truths laid bare. No one knows me better than my sister. “It doesn’t matter what you say to her. She doesn’t love me back.”

“But you two—Melina doesn’t just hook up, Julian. That’s not who she is.”

“People change. I told you, before all of this started, that I’d prove I’d changed, and I think I have.” I shrug, sliding my hands into my pockets. “But maybe I’m not the only one that has, you know?”

I kiss her on the forehead, waving Mendez over. He and I can talk later, assuming he shows his face when we get back to the states. My sister is all grown up. I trust her.

“Julian—don’t give up like this. Not again,” she says, safely back in Mendez’s arms.

“I’m not giving up, Al. I’m moving on.”