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Standing alone, anticipation mixed with nerves as Clay watched for his son’s plane. With a hand held to shade his eyes, he searched the horizon and wondered if Q was nervous about landing in such a small plane. Not that these jets were anything to sneeze at, but his boy had only flown twice in his life and commercial planes were three times the size of these. In fact, he could barely make them out against the glare of the sun.
“There he is, coming in on final.” Clay turned at the sound of her voice, a surge of pleasure coursing through him. Sydney pointed toward the sky. “I think that’s him.”
“You have good eyes.”
She shrugged it off. “I’ve been watching for specs in the sky all day.” She tipped a smile his way. “You start to get the hang of it after a while.”
He knew she did a lot more than watch for planes, but one thing he had learned about Sydney, the woman didn’t take compliments very well. “You’re too modest.”
She swiped him with a sideways glance. “Hardly.”
“How was lunch?”
“It was food.”
“That bad?”
“It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t good—it just was,” she emphasized the last word as though signaling it was time to end the conversation.
“Unexciting,” he defined and hoped she’d agree.
“Business.”
“Ah...” Clay bet it meant more to the Mayor than business. Usually did when lunch involved a beautiful young woman. But considering she seemed a bit uptight about the whole thing, he decided to let it go, content with the fact she had returned to stand watch with him. Within a few minutes, his son’s plane hit the runway, tires spinning smoke as they hit pavement.
“Touch down,” he said quietly and forced himself to relax. The closer the games came to becoming reality, the more looming the sensation he felt over what they meant. Q was a natural for the gold. His times were unbeatable which meant after winning the nationals, he moved onto eligibility for the World Games, scheduled for Brazil. There were no guarantees he’d get in, what with the quota system in place. Hundreds of athletes were interested in going, but the Special Olympics only had so many spots. It was a random draw, but one he wanted Q to partake in.
“Safe and sound,” she commented.
Clay expelled a sigh. “Safe and sound.”
She smiled at his concern. “I bet you’re a good dad.”
“I try to be.” And he liked it when others noticed his effort. After Trish left, he wasn’t sure how he would fare in life much less the whole parenting thing. He had a full-time job, a business to manage, but when she walked out he lost his position. It had to happen. He accepted the fact. Resentment rolled through his gut. But one thing became stone-cold certain after the divorce. He wouldn’t stroll out of Q’s life just because it was uncomfortable. Unlike his mother.
“Can’t be easy being a single parent.”
“Q makes it easy,” he said, his heart pumping harder as his son’s plane drew near.
“What colors does South Carolina wear?”
“Red and white.” He pulled at his shirt, eyes fixed on the sleek, white jet as it taxied to a stop.
Sydney didn’t say anything else, content to wait with him while the plane door opened and the first team members filed out.
“There.” He pointed, angst turning to thrill. “That’s Q.”
Poised at the top of the stairs, the boy spotted Clay immediately and waved.
Clay waved back, pride spilling from his seams. Q was here and looked good.
“He’s tall, isn’t he?”
“My father’s six three,” Clay told her, but his gaze remained fixed on his son. Q handled the stairs with ease and raced through the welcoming line, straight for his dad. Clay absorbed the hit as he lunged. He pulled his boy into a powerful hug, his gangly body warm and angled within his embrace. “Hey, buddy!”
“We’re in Miami!” he exclaimed, his voice exuding a sluggish texture.
“That we are, ace.” He released his son. “You ready to rock?”
The boy grinned and nodded vigorously. “Ready to rock...”
“Hey, there’s someone I want you to meet.” Clay turned to Sydney and felt an uncharacteristic zip of nerves as he said, “This is my friend Sydney. Sydney Flores.”
Q nodded to her, but didn’t face her.
“She’s an athlete,” Clay prodded. “She plays volleyball and she’s pretty good.”
“Hi Q.”
“Hi,” he returned shyly, but still refused to look at her.
“Nice to meet you.”
Q nodded, indicating that he heard, and Clay hugged him to his side and released. While his son wasn’t overly sensitive to touch, he did have his limits.
“I hear you’re a great swimmer,” Sydney offered.
His cheeks flushed bright red and he kicked at the ground. “Thanks.”
“I’m looking forward to watching you swim this week.”
“I’m pretty fast,” he said, tapping his gaze to hers before quickly shoving it back toward the ground.
She laughed. “That’s what I understand!”
“I can swim fifty meters in thirty-eight point two seconds,” he stated plainly.
She let out a low whistle and glanced at Clay. He nodded it was true. “That’s impressive.”
Though Q wouldn’t make eye contact with Sydney, Clay knew his son was pleased by the recognition of his abilities. As a father, it was one of the things he liked best about swimming competitively with the Special Olympics. It had really drawn Q out of his shell. He’d developed friendships with some of his teammates and where he used to avoid talking to strangers altogether, they could at least engage him in talk of swimming. Not shy in the least when it came to discussing his times, either. Clay hugged him again. The boy was a true Rutledge, through and through. Racing was in their blood. “Listen, she’s working at the events, so you’ll probably see her around a lot, okay?”
He nodded again.
“Q!” The coach waved him over for pictures.
Clay patted him on the back. “Better get going, big guy. They’re waiting for you.”
The prospect of his teammates waiting for him for a photo shoot electrified him. “See you later, Dad!” He dashed off to be with his fellow athletes, pulling a tiny bit of Clay with him.
“He’s great, Clay.”
“Thanks.”
“I can see why you’re so proud of him.”
Clay felt a pride so full it was near impossible to explain. It was hard for anyone to understand how deeply he felt about his son’s swimming and the progress he’d made, unless they went through it themselves. The trauma, the triumph, the whole new world that now belonged to him. It was hard to quantify. Hard to put into words where she could fully understand. “I am,” he replied and left it at that.
After the brief stint with pictures, the group headed for the terminal, Clay and Sydney more tagalongs than members of the South Carolina delegation. But he didn’t mind. He liked hanging with Sydney. She was a nice blend of casual and competence, innocence and sass. She didn’t miss a beat when it came to business, but she also knew when to take it easy. Made his time in Miami all the sweeter. He stole a glance of her backside and corrected himself. Sweeter? Make that hotter. He leaned toward her and hushed his tone, “So how about that dinner?”
She angled her head toward him, but kept her eyes on the team. “What about Q?”
“We’re about to send him off to the dorms, then I’m free as a bird.”
She looked at him and the dark flutter of her lashes nearly unleashed him. “Doesn’t he want you to ride with him?”
“Look at him,” he said, wanting nothing more than to reach for her hand, her arm, lay a wet kiss on her lips. “You tell me. What do you think?”
Sydney peered at the boy surrounded by his friends and fellow athletes.
“What do you say?”
She stopped and Clay stopped with her. “Clay—”
“Do you have a boyfriend you’re not telling me about?”
She practically scoffed at the notion. “I don’t have time for a boyfriend.”
“Do you have time for dinner? Around seven?”
“Listen, I don’t mean to be rude. I’d like to but I’m going to be an escort for Team Florida tomorrow and I really think it’s best if I get some sleep.”
“Sleep to walk into the stadium?”
Sydney left the question hanging between them. With a lackluster wave, she bid him goodbye. “I’ll see you around?”
Chapter Eight
“Please welcome, from right here in the Sunshine State, Team Florida!”
Sydney’s pulse thumped between her ears as she trailed alongside the athletes, their arrival heralded by lively trumpets blasting through the sound system. Decked out in orange T-shirts and white shorts, waving aqua flags overhead, Sydney could feel the kids’ excitement as they bounded in to thunderous applause, the theme song to Rocky pulsating in the background. Da da-da da da-da da da-da daaaa...
The packed arena, the loaded anticipation, she could almost see Rocky Balboa traipsing in alongside them, his fat boxing gloves pumping in the air. Overhead, the announcer singled them out, “Team Florida will be competing in softball, tennis, swimming, basketball and soccer and are being escorted by the Governor of this great state, John Simmons and his wife, First Lady Claire Simmons.” Each was called out by name, as though alerting the crowd to the importance of those in attendance for the events. “Florida’s Senator to the United States Congress, the honorable Michael Woodley!” A few whistles pierced through the applause. “And the Mayor of our host city, Manuel Cortez!”
Spotlights swept over him. Looking tanned and relaxed, he greeted the audience with a gleaming mouthful of teeth and open-palm wave, as though he were a member of royalty addressing his subjects.
“World renowned Latina pop star, Gloria Jimenez.” The crowd exploded at the mention of her name. Several feet ahead of Sydney on the opposite side of their group, the singer smiled and waved to her fans, appearing as comfortable as if she were walking into of a party of her closest friends.
“Miami’s own resident athlete and two-time volleyball champion, Sydney Flores!” Sydney’s hand automatically shot into the air and waved. People responded with cheer as though she, too were some sort of celebrity which was silly. She was here for one reason and one reason only: the Mayor wanted a young woman by his side. Cursing the shake to her arm, she pulled it down to her side.
“Three thousand athletes are in attendance for the games, along with four hundred and thirty-one coaches. These athletes will compete in fifty-nine competitions, including track and field, basketball, swimming...” the speaker ran through the entire list of events.
As streams of light swung across the crowd, Sydney could make out blocks of state colors through the haze, special effects smoke dotted by the flash of cameras. To their left, a woman strolled around center stage, microphone in hand, waving and blowing kisses as people passed by. Sydney didn’t recognize her, but assumed she must be some local performer. Announcements continued with facts about the events while music competed in the background.
Following the team as they filed up the stairs and down the rows to their respective seats, Sydney saw the Mayor pat the back of the chair next to his. This one’s for you. They were sitting on the floor, right next to the stage. Cymbals crashed and the orchestra increased its tempo, music sweeping the arena with grand flourish, escalating the angst flooding her midsection. As directed, she stopped next to the Mayor as the team continued up the stairs behind them.
“Sydney, this seat is yours,” he said with an eager smile. Next to me, Mayor of host city to the prestigious Special Olympics National Games.
But rather than a position of honor, she felt trapped within his claws. Over lunch yesterday, the man did everything short of make a pass at her. I’m looking forward to our time together tomorrow. This is a wonderful chance for us to get to know one another. I’ve heard so many good things about you. She lowered into the seat. This event will really set your career on fire. “Thank you,” she replied, her chest tight, her mind on guard.
Hurling her gaze around the indoor stadium, the enormity of opening ceremonies suddenly hit her. Giant screens hung from each corner of the arena, magnifying the stage and its participants, dignitaries, athletes, the top brass of the Special Olympics. Big names were scheduled to perform this evening, not to mention the arrival of the torch. She looked around and noticed the arena staff was clearing the corridors below the seating signaling the events were about to get underway.
Mayor Cortez took his seat and belted her with a smile. “Very exciting, no?” His gaze darted to her legs and she swore he was about to pat her thigh. She gritted her teeth. Don’t even think about it. All she needed was an excuse and she’d be out of here. Embarrassing both herself and the Mayor, yes, but she’d be damned if she’d let him take advantage of her like that. It was bad enough she had to sit here with him. She didn’t have to let him touch her.
She wondered where Clay and Q were sitting, Sam and the kids. At the moment, lost in a sea of sound and sights, seats slanting up toward the ceiling, a blur of color and flash, her mind was too numb to recall where the visitors section was located, where South Carolina was to be situated. Then the lights went black, leaving only the flicker of cameras. Heavy spotlights cut through the darkness and lit up a dozen or so men as they entered the stage from one of the underground hallways. Held above their heads, they carried the American flag in a grand procession, walked it up onto the stage, hooked it in place, and then hoisted it high above. From here, despite their uniforms, they didn’t appear to be officers. They looked like they were athletes. The audience rose to their feet and the woman with the microphone began to sing an utterly soulful rendition of the National Anthem. Sydney placed her right hand over her heart—beating hard beneath her fingertips—and sang along quietly.
Another group paraded in, their expressions solemn as they marched up onto the stage, now lit up by magnificent sparkle and color and did the same with the Special Olympics flag. The singer immediately launched into another tune, this one more country and homeland and celebratory of the events and she heard the excited whispers of the athletes behind her as the VIPs were escorted on stage and took their given seats. Camera flashes became a sheet of glittering crystals across the crowd. She knew one of the Shrivers was on hand to give final remarks before the arrival of the torch.
“Amazing presentation, no?” the Mayor commented, leaning close so that his shoulder connected with hers. The ensuing whiff of his cologne smelled like he dumped the entire bottle on his chest.
Sydney merely nodded. She could barely hear him over the noise of the crowd and preferred to keep it that way. Her gaze traveled up the elevated stage that swallowed one end of the arena, the podium placed front and center before a line of chairs arranged for guests—for speakers. She gulped. A sick knot formed in her stomach. They would be expected to perform their part in a few minutes.
Short and sweet, she reminded herself. Keep it simple stupid.
Waiting for her cue from the Mayor, Sydney sat with her legs locked crossed together. She rehearsed her few words and was ready for it to be over. Peering at the steps leading up to the stage, she had the horrible thought she might fall. The muscles in her legs already felt weak and shuddery. Could she make it up the steps without making a fool of herself?
Mayor Cortez leaned over and whispered, “We’ll go on after the Governor.”
Nerves tore her stomach to shreds. Breathe in, breathe out. She breathed in deeply and felt her mouth go dry. Water. She glanced around. Why didn’t she think to bring water!
On second thought, probably better she didn’t have a bottle of water. By the tremble in her hands, lifting a drink to her lips would reveal her for the coward she was. Sydney squeezed her hands together and forced them into her lap. Ten minutes passed like a lifetime
as she suffered through music and announcements, mentally running through her appearance, her presentation—
Presentation—hell! The Mayor didn’t need her to say a few words to the crowd. He could boast about his city just fine. She was here for eye candy. Through her peripheral vision, she considered the man beside her. She hated that he seemed so content, so easy and confident. She resented being put into this position. She resented him for his presumptuous behavior in demanding she be here. She resented Javier for going along, but worst of all; she hated herself for caving to the pressure.
She could have said no.
Frozen in place like a jagged rock, unable to move, unable to rise, she fantasized about refusing, right this very minute. What if she didn’t go up? She hardened. Would he force her? Make a scene? She released her focus from him and sank further inward. No, he wouldn’t. But neither would she. Sydney would endure the event and do as she was asked. Do as she was told. Because she wasn’t a scene-maker. She was a job-doer. The Florida pilot from yesterday breezed past and gave her a wink before he sailed up onto the stage. Did he recognize her from the airport?
Or was he simply flirting with a young woman? Her spirits lurched. It was all about her looks. Everything. From exploiting those with them to defending those without them, appearance lay at the core of everything. Within minutes he had the audience silenced as he shared how blessed he felt being a part of the airlift, how his family was intimately familiar with the challenge of living with special needs children and finally how important this event was to not only him and his family, but people he spoke with around the world in the course of his travels.
But Sydney could barely hear him. With each approaching minute, pressure built in her chest, in her ears. The Governor approached the podium, which meant they were next. They were next. Out of nowhere, her heart began to pound painfully against her ribs—so hard—she swore the Mayor could see it!
As the Governor hailed the marvelous benefits of hosting the Special Olympics in the Sunshine State, Sydney realized she could hardly hear, like a vacuum had sucked up every cell in her brain. She could see, but she couldn’t hear. The Governor’s image was projected on the screen behind him and she knew every person here tonight could see him plain as if he were feet away from them. When he glanced toward her and the Mayor, Sydney froze.
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