It was their turn. All eyes were on them now.
The Mayor stood and held a hand. She placed a trembling hand in his and rose, embarrassed by the sweat on her palms. The Mayor gave no indication that he noticed and instead, led her over to the stairs. Anxiety pummeled the muscles in her thighs and she prayed her legs wouldn’t give way. They climbed up the stage and walked to the podium and Sydney forgot everything she was supposed to say. The folded note in her pocket held a few points to hit, but nothing she could read. Nothing that would sound coherent!
Beneath the flood of white light, the smoke thick within its beam, she couldn’t see past the stage. But they could see her. She dared not look at the screen behind them. She didn’t want to know just how well, how large an image she presented. The Mayor assumed the podium first and introduced the two of them before he expounded upon the virtues of the Special Olympics organization, what a pleasure it’s been working with them over the past two years as they planned for this very day and how he hoped the athletes and their families would enjoy their time in his beautiful city.
Sydney’s heart beat so hard, she feared she might have a heart attack—right here, in front of thousands of spectators! Her mouth felt plugged by cotton. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. What if she couldn’t speak?
She heard the words “volleyball champion” and the tops of her ears burned. He was introducing her. Introducing her.
Mayor Cortez placed his hand in the small of her back and exchanged places with her, pushing her toward the microphone. Her shoulders knotted. Visions of her high school commencement speech careened and crashed to the forefront of her mind. It had been five minutes on stage. Five minutes that felt like yesterday, five minutes that ended in laughter. Laughter that still rang in her ears. Her gaze darted out over the crowd. Even her parents were embarrassed, ashamed she had looked the fool, because it cast a poor reflection on them.
Sydney fumbled for the notes in her front pocket and set them on the podium top. She stared out into the crowded arena and smoothed out the folds from the paper, knees threatening to crumble beneath her. She tried to smile. She tried to think about all the tips she ever learned about public speaking...visualize people in their underwear...imagine you’re only talking to one person or a friend in the audience...
But none of them helped. She’d been here before and knew what came next. Humiliation. She leaned forward and her throat nearly swelled closed. “Hello,” she croaked, mortified by the horrific break in her voice. She tried to clear her throat with a swallow but the rock-hard lump wedged higher and tighter, vocal chords felt severed, ripped. “I’m glad you came today.”
Damn it—she sounded like a dying bird! But she had everyone’s attention now. The room had gone quiet. She blinked. Dead quiet. Overhead the lights were too bright. The smoke too heavy. The arena too big. “Miami is a great place...” she continued, hating that tears burned behind her eyes as her voice quivered. “You’ll have a great time here.”
Sydney wished someone would step in and save her, wished she could stop and apologize for her embarrassing display. She was completely unworthy for this position. She was a nobody. She wasn’t a public speaker. She wasn’t a VIP. She shouldn’t be here!
Clutching tightly to her notes, her hands began to cramp. “I look forward to the events, seeing everyone...” Unable to remember a single thing she wrote, she faltered. “I hope you have a good time.”
She felt the Mayor push in beside her. Relief mixed with shame as he practically yanked the microphone away from her—probably couldn’t get her off the stage fast enough! Yielding the podium, he said, “Thank you, Sydney,” followed by a few words that escaped her.
Sydney’s heart sank. She could only imagine how foolish she looked—to Clay, the famous pilot, the Mayor...even Sam. She cast a hot watery gaze to the floor. She should never have agreed to this charade, should never have pretended she could do something she could not. She wasn’t a public speaker. She didn’t like getting up in front of people. Didn’t anyone get that?
Music began to play and the Mayor clasped her by the elbow, propelling her offstage. The clench to her arm grew stronger as he commandeered the stairs, strong enough that his fingers dug into her skin and began to hurt. Once off the stage, Mayor Cortez let go and asked, “Are you alright, Sydney? Can I get you something to drink?”
She shook her head. Where she could use the water, she didn’t want to feed the pity in his voice. “I’m fine.” She dropped to her seat.
“Are you sure?” He craned his head as though looking deeper would reveal the truth.
“Yes,” she murmured, fighting the urge to cry.
Video streamed across the screen as Mr. Shriver took the podium and spoke about his mother and the amazing athletes in attendance tonight. The Mayor settled back into the seat next to her, but she could tell he was not happy. No longer allowing his thigh to touch hers, he angled his body away as if to sever their connection entirely. She’d made him look bad, embarrassed him. She was a smudge on his reputation.
Sydney crossed her arms and pushed against the rigid plastic back of her seat. Well too bad. He’d get no sympathy from her. The only reason she was here was because he wanted to use her. If she’d done well, who knows? He may have taken that as his cue to push himself on her even more than he had over lunch! She wasn’t naïve. His reputation as a womanizer was well-known and probably well-deserved.
Startled by the tap on her shoulder, she whipped around and came face-to-face with a plump little girl. The youngster smiled broadly behind pink metal-rimmed glasses, the corners adorned with butterflies. “Don’t wurry,”she said with thick-tongued speech. “You did yur best.”
Tears pushed into Sydney’s eyes.
The girl patted her shoulder and said, “Happens to me sometimes, too.”
Rendered mute by the gesture, she could only nod as tears caught in her lashes, spilled onto her cheeks. Even this child knew she made a fool of herself. Sydney turned back to face the stage as Mr. Shriver extolled the virtues of thousands upon thousands of volunteers across the country, their images splayed across the screen behind him. She wiped the back of her hand against her cheeks and watched the images roll by. The pressure in her chest subsided. Her breathing returned to normal as she watched athletes of all sizes, ages and shapes celebrated life, victory, camaraderie and the simple pleasure of being a part of the games.
White strips of light zipped over the stadium seating as the tradition of law enforcement carrying the flame cross-country was described, raising money and awareness for the events and how they had come through a total of seventy different communities in this state alone before arriving here tonight as part of the final leg of the Law Enforcement Torch Run. “The Guardians of the Flame...”
Sydney shrank further into her seat as videos played overhead on the big screens while spotlights whipped through the crowd, then landed on the athletes and officers as they jogged the heavy-looking metal torch into the arena and around the stage. Camera flashes exploded across the faceless sea of onlookers. Held high in the air, Sydney stared at the flame through the dim light. She learned in her prep for this event that this was longstanding tradition; the result of fundraising efforts by law enforcement groups on behalf of the Special Olympics—because they wanted to give back to their community.
Everyone cheered, the music grew somber. One man took possession, stepped up the steel platform and lit the Olympic cauldron representing the National Games. The flame licked and danced within the enormous shallow metal bowl. “Let the games begin!”
The energy in the room swelled to a crescendo matched only by the orchestra music ramping the crowd into a frenzy of celebration. She could hear the young girl behind her chanting, Florida! Florida! While others did the same for their home states. Wanting no part in the festivities, Sydney counted the minutes until she could politely excuse herself and leave. Get as far as possible from this fiasco and hope no one remembered her. Luckily, Mayor Cortez s
eemed to have lost interest in her and quickly excused himself abruptly. Probably looking for brighter more brilliant females, ones that could speak on stage, further enhance his image, perhaps even warm his bed.
Whatever. Sydney pushed out of her seat and headed for the exit. She didn’t care. This wasn’t her career track. She planned events, she didn’t speak at them. She angled her shoulders and picked up her pace, sidling past the throng of people. She made good time until she hit a group of Nebraska athletes trying to wedge their mass of bodies through a narrow hallway. Despite rationalizing this wasn’t her career, it wasn’t her thing, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling of “loser.” She made a fool of herself. No, make that ass. Tasked with the simple duty of saying something nice about her hometown, she couldn’t manage a simple hello. Couldn’t utter more than a croak.
“Sydney!”
Her heart tripped at the sound of Clay’s voice. “Great,” she muttered under her breath. Pretend you didn’t hear him.
“Sydney!” he called out again, this time louder—closer.
He was the last person she wanted to see right now.
“Wait up!”
She could persist in her exit but the exodus of attendees trying to do the same would prevent her escape. Clay would catch up with her making the confrontation inevitable. No sense adding to her humiliation by making it obvious she was trying to avoid him. Sydney turned, stepped aside, and waited for him.
Within seconds, they were face-to-face. “Hey, thanks for waiting,” he said breathlessly.
“No problem,” she quipped. Pushing loose strands of hair behind an ear, she glanced around. “What’s up?”
Confusion swirled in the blue of his eyes, overwhelming his previous elation. Yet he smiled just the same. “I just wanted to say hello.”
“Hi.” She linked her arms across her chest and checked the hall progress.
Taking note, he asked, “You in a hurry?”
“Kinda.”
“Oh...well, don’t let me keep you.”
If Clay was put off by her curt replies, he hid it well. She chucked a gaze around the crowd and said, “I’m going nowhere fast. What’s up?”
“Q will be competing tomorrow morning. I thought maybe you’d like to stop by.”
“Maybe,” she said, shifting her weight from heel to heel. “Depends on my schedule.”
“Pretty busy, are you?”
Handing out toilet paper and fielding phone calls? Oh, yeah. Busy, busy, busy. But Clay didn’t know she was nothing more than a Girl Friday. “Yes. You know how these things go. Something unexpected always comes up, last minute.” She rolled her eyes. “Venue needs help and I’m it.”
“I do,” he replied quietly, his gaze closing in around her. He understood perfectly.
“Okay, well...tell him good luck and I’ll see you around.”
“Sure thing,” he said.
Sydney turned and headed out, but she could feel the sting of her rejection, jabbed in him like a needle to the heart. She was being a bitch and she knew it. They both knew it. But she didn’t care. A man like Clay couldn’t understand what she was going through. He had no fear—certainly not over silly things like saying a few words to a crowd. His life was composed of serious demands like a child who needed him, with special needs that required special attention. His challenges made hers look childish. Trying to explain the same would only reveal her for the lightweight she was. Sydney slipped between and around athletes and bumped into a heavyset man. Without stopping, she mumbled an apology, “Sorry.”
“No worries!” he called back good-naturedly.
She waved a hand that she heard and made a fast track for the parking lot, putting as much space as possible between herself and the arena—Clay, her embarrassing failure... So much for volleyball celebrity-extraordinaire. Could she look any worse? She shoved open a door. Doubtful. So much for the flirtatious game of pursuit she was beginning to enjoy with him. No man in his right mind would want to be with her at this point. Sydney heaved a sigh. Not one worthy of entertaining, anyway. Question was, how did she avoid him for the next ten days?
Chapter Nine
As Sydney turned into the parking lot for the pool, her pulse scattered and tripped. It was her first scheduled rounds, and undoubtedly she would run into Clay—the last man she wanted to see. Okay, that was a lie. She wanted to see him. She just didn’t want to face him. Not after her debacle last night and subsequent brush-off. What had possessed her to do that to him? It only made matters worse.
Rolling through rows of cars, tall, skinny palm trees swayed along the perimeter, their fronds brilliant and green as they swayed lazily against the blue sky, she searched for a spot. Her first stop this morning had been the family center where she checked to make sure the info packets were stocked and stuffed filled with things to do and see in Miami. Despite Lisa’s assertions to the affirmative, Sydney wanted to see for herself. Once satisfied All American had corrected their errors, she moved on to the soccer fields, the basketball courts. With events scheduled from seven forty-five in the morning to five-thirty in the evening, it was likely she’d be cruising venues all day.
Sydney parked the Mustang and rose from her car, glad for the breeze. Hair tied back, the wind cooled the sheen of humidity on her neck, eased the growing moisture beneath her shirt. While June in Miami wasn’t horribly hot, it was warm enough to demand shorts and short-sleeves for the job. Notebook in hand, she headed for the pool house entrance.
Would she see Clay? And if she did, would he now blow her off?
Wouldn’t blame him if he did, not after the way she treated him last night. She’d deserve it if he completely ignored her. Isn’t that what she tried to do to him?
She blew out a heavy sigh. She had been unnecessarily rude and at minimum, her behavior warranted an apology. Being ill-mannered wasn’t her style. Whether he’d accept it or not was something else.
Sydney nodded hello to the pair of medics hanging outside the entrance. Each tipped their head in her direction as she passed and smiled hello. She returned the same. While she appreciated their presence, the sight of them bothered her. It made her uncomfortable to think they may actually be needed.
Sydney swung open the glass door and was hit by the distinct scent of chlorine, the air marked by a heavy humidity. It was wholly different than what she felt outside and with no breeze, the interior held a sense of wetness that almost coated her skin. People milled about the foyer, the reception desk. They perused pictures of the university swim team that lined the wall, the ribbons and trophies that filled glass cases—some of which probably dated back to the days when diver Greg Louganis attended school here. By the time he arrived in Miami, he’d already had an Olympic silver medal to his name, then transferred back to California and won the gold in the Summer Olympics, 1984. Although neither medal was earned during his stint at the University of Miami, it didn’t stop the school from inducting him into their Sports Hall of Fame.
“May I help you?
Sydney looked to the young brunette behind the counter, her hair combed back into a perfect French braid and said, “I’m Sydney Flores with JL Conventions.” A fact reinforced by the logo emblazoned on her cream-colored Polo. “I’m here to assist with the events?” she prompted, raising her credentials for the girl’s inspection. “The Special Olympics people are expecting me.”
“Oh, yes.” The coed smiled brightly and gestured with her hand. “They’re set up down that hall. You can check in there, if you’d like.”
“Thanks.” Sydney headed for the staff room, one eye darting inside the pool area for a quick glimpse. She could hear shouting and cheering indicative of a contest in progress. Her heart kicked. Was it Q’s race? Were they in there? She envisioned Clay rooting for his son, urging him on to the win. She pulled her gaze away. But of course they were here. These events were the reason they came to Miami. Turning away, she switched gears and clutched notebook to breast. This was not a pleasure trip. She was here o
n business. She cleared her throat, refocused her thoughts and entered the staff room. The group welcomed her in.
Ten minutes later she strolled out with a list of requests. They needed everything from more water to extra toilet paper. Nothing she couldn’t handle, but it meant she’d be making a second trip here today. Should she peek in and look for Q now, or wait? Circling back through the foyer she asked, “Where is the schedule of events posted?” Every venue had one. Races were organized by event number, including start time and athlete’s name. She’d just look him up and see if it was an option.
The same girl looked up from her paperback, opened about in half and directed, “It’s inside, just around the corner. They’re posted on the wall.”
Sydney glanced in the direction she pointed. Inside the pool area. “Thank you.” Ambling toward the pool, she smiled absently at a man wearing an “I’m a volunteer” shirt as he went toward the front door. Venturing further inside, she heard the announcer calling out names for the next event. Unable to determine which red shirts belonged to South Carolina, her gaze roamed the area. Spectators assembled in clusters around the pool, found their seats in the tiered metal benches and moseyed about the premises. Athletes sporting wet heads and towels wrapped at their waist strolled around in pool sandals, most smiling, several laughing. A few had gathered along the wall to her right.
Upon closer inspection, she realized they were checking the schedule. With a cursory glance around the pool area, she joined them to look for Q’s name. Nudging in as two teenage boys departed, she slid her index finger down the list, scanning the small print in search of Rutledge. Finding it, she glanced at her watch. One o’clock. Damn. Missed it. Sydney continued her search until she found another. Q was set to race again at four. Doubt peppered her chest. Would they be here now?
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