by Beth Bolden
Jemma regretted her hasty decision. She wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but the tram was absolutely packed, and she’d ended up shoe-horned in between Gabe and a whole group of Japanese tourists.
At first, Jemma didn’t realize she was growing lightheaded and short of breath, but to her surprise, the moment she did, it was because Gabe was there. Curling around her, a protective shield between her and the rest of the tram. A dam holding back a river.
He had pushed her against the wall, and it might have been too much, but she was able to see his face. It wasn’t just her bubble, it was their bubble.
As they jostled their way toward the venue, she was acutely aware of her body against his, and he must have as well, because he leaned down, his breath tickling her ear. “You keep that up,” he murmured, an unspoken promise in his words. Jemma shuddered, gripping the metal pole keeping her upright harder, ’til her knuckles were practically white. She’d been excited about the swimming events that night, and yet a part of her wished they could go back to the hotel instead and spend the evening in bed.
She wasn’t there for Gabe; he was a tiny part of the whole, once-in-a-lifetime experience of the Olympic Games, and yet sometimes it felt like he took up all the space in her brain until just an innocent brush of his hand on her arm could make her all thoughts fuzz into static.
Thankfully the trip over was short, and they were finally able to exit the tram and pour onto the sidewalk. Literally, it felt like, because Jemma’s knees felt a bit more jellified than she was comfortable admitting to anyone, including herself.
Gabe’s hand found hers, and her surprised glance must have been obvious because he gave a determinedly casual shrug as they joined the other thousands of attendees streaming toward the giant entrance doors of the Olympic Aquatics Stadium. “Don’t want to get separated,” he said. She could have teased him some more and asked if he’d intended to hold Nick’s hand as they attended events together, but she couldn’t quite work up the nerve. If he wanted to pretend that all there was between them was temporary and convenient, then so be it. She had a feeling it could very easily develop into so much more.
By the time they found their seats, Gabe found himself having difficulty in not getting swept up in the same excitement that practically vibrated from the sold-out crowd. Even when he told himself that he wasn’t there for any other reason than to protect Jemma, even when he told himself that he shouldn’t find the anticipation and enthusiasm in Jemma’s face so infectious, it turned out that even his reserve could be overwhelmed sometimes.
Nick might have been a trifle underwhelmed by the whole spectacle, and he had a habit of being annoyingly cynical about sporting events—having been to nearly every major event in the last five years—but Jemma’s eyes were big, and watching her get caught up in the excitement was something he was glad he got to see. Even at the expense of his friend.
“First is the men's 400 meter freestyle final,” Jemma said eagerly, pulling out a notepad and making notations at the top of the page.
“Paper?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking. “I thought all of you bloggers were enamored with techy gadgets.”
Jemma shot him a heated look from her hazel eyes. It read as amused frustration with an edge of “Let’s leave and find the nearest private, horizontal surface.”
Or maybe that was just him. Having her curvy body pressed up against him in the tram hadn’t been good for his self-control, and even though he was trying not to let his desire overwhelm anything else, it wasn’t easy. All afternoon, he’d tried to read coursework for one of his classes, but her facial expressions as she wrote were so fascinating that he’d gotten barely any reading done. Instead, he’d just covertly stared at her face as the sun and about a thousand different opens flitted across it. Staring at her like some sort of stalker wasn’t one of his finest moments, but in his defense, the simmering sexual tension between them at least seemed to indicate that she was just as attracted to him.
Gabe forced himself to focus on the spectacle emerging at the pool far below the stands. He’d watched plenty of Olympic coverage on TV before, and as a result, had expected to be vaguely interested. However, witnessing it live was an entirely different animal. It was practically electric in the stadium as the different athletes were announced, each country's’ representatives showing loud appreciation and encouragement as the athletes took their places on the blocks. He could see the tension radiating off their bodies, the intense focus and determination written on their faces as they pulled their goggles down.
He even felt his own muscles tensing, as if he were about to jump into the water himself, as they readied for their dives. And finally, watching on TV could never have prepared him for that split second, hushed pause, tight with anticipation, as the swimmers poised on the edges of their blocks, all perfectly suspended and still until the gun rang out and a collective splash ripped the tension apart.
Gabe wouldn’t have even really considered himself an American, though he was and had been for a number of years, but when one of the members of the US team pulled up at the end, winning by a hair over his Japanese competitor, Gabe let out of a ferocious yell of triumph that he didn’t even recognize.
Sheepishly lowering himself into his seat again, he glanced over and found Jemma staring at him, wide-eyed with her own excitement and also no doubt, with surprise at his.
“I didn’t think you were particularly into swimming,” she said, as the pool was re-set for the next event.
“I didn’t think I was,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, enjoying her triumphant smile in return. “Turns out it’s a lot more exciting than I realized.”
“Watching it on TV has nothing on being here live, for sure,” Jemma agreed.
“What’s the next race?” he asked, like he was some sort of junkie and couldn’t wait to experience the rush again. Which might not be all that far from the truth.
Jemma consulted her schedule and he was just as fascinated by play of the lights across her face as he was by her words. “Semifinal of the women's’ 100 meter butterfly,” she said, glancing up.
She’d caught him staring, and he knew it because she flushed.
It reminded him of all the other spots on her pale skin she flushed when she was excited, and he had to reign in his mind from going too far down into the gutter because they were in a public place, surrounded by about 50,000 other people, and he had no idea how long it would be before they’d be able to get back to the hotel.
Gabe had always prided himself on his iron self-control, but it had never been harder than it was right now.
“Are there any Americans in the race?” he asked, more to distract himself than an actual desire to know. After all, they’d find out very shortly as the competitors were announced.
“Two,” Jemma said, her voice taking on a hint of strangeness that he couldn’t identify. Nerves, maybe? But that didn’t make any sense, because she hadn’t been nervous at all for the first race. “Kimber Holloway and Dana Verdant.”
Neither name sounded particularly familiar to him, but he filed them both away just in case either came up again. He considered asking her, but the competitors were being announced.
The race started and ended so quickly—mere seconds it felt like, even though it was nearly a minute—that his heart seemed permanently lodged in his throat and he couldn’t even breathe during it. Jemma was even more nervous than him, literally sliding to the edge of her seat and hanging onto it with white-knuckled fingers.
But whoever it was that had made Jemma so nervous, she appeared to be really pleased and relieved when both Kimber and Dana made it through to the final the next day.
“Too bad we don’t have tickets,” Jemma said, clearly disappointed. “We’re headed to a volleyball match tomorrow night.”
“Well, I didn’t think swimming would be this cool,” Gabe admitted, “so maybe volleyball will be equally cool.”
Jemma raised a dubious eyebrow, but didn’t say an
ything, and they moved onto the next race.
Two hours later, they walked out of the Aquatics Center and Jemma let out a gusting breath. “I feel like I swam a marathon,” she admitted with a laugh. “That was really fun, but super stressful.”
Gabe considered asking her what she’d found so stressful about the evening. It had been exciting and tense at moments, sure, but since he wasn’t particularly invested in any of the outcomes, he hadn’t been worried about who would win.
“Are you worried there won’t be any good material for your stories if American athletes don’t win?” he asked as they walked toward the tram.
Jemma gave a distracted shake of her head and eyed the growing line outside the tram headed to their hotel. “What’s around here?” she asked. “Maybe we could grab some food and . . . wait for the crowds to clear?”
“Not a fan of repeating the ride here?” he asked, smiling.
She shot him a rather dirty look, full of heat. “Well . . .” she hesitated, “maybe parts of it?”
She asked it like it was a question, like it might not be something he’d be 100% into repeating. Over and over again. As many times as possible. She made his blood simmer with just one shy but undeniably sly glance in his direction. He might be embarrassed at how much he wanted her, if she didn’t seem equally eager.
“We could even take a taxi back,” Gabe said casually, like he had only passing interest in reaching the hotel quicker after dinner.
She pondered, like it was even a question. “I’m pretty hungry.”
“We could grab dinner near the hotel if you wanted,” he said before he could stop himself. He drifted closer, their fingers tangling back together, even though the crowds had already begun to disperse.
She flushed again, her eyes flashing at him, filled to the brim with delight. “That’s an interesting idea,” she said, the corners of her mouth quirking up at him, like she couldn’t help herself.
“Is interesting also an affirmative?” He wasn’t a particular fan of begging, but he might beg tonight if she didn’t take pity on him.
Her warm gaze made a long, lazy perusal of his body, up and down, and then back again. She smiled knowingly. “No.” He bit back a groan. “It’s called delayed gratification, Gabriel,” she teased. “Now, let’s find some dinner.”
The next few days passed in an incredibly hectic blur of activity. They went to two, sometimes even three, events per day, Jemma trying to take advantage of as many events as she could to give her the most possible material for her articles.
In the evenings, they always ended up in Jemma’s bed, ending the day satisfactorily sated after what often felt like a full day of teasing foreplay. Gabe continued to stay the nights, and on the fourth morning as she lay next to him, his larger body curled around hers, breath steady and even as he dozed, Jemma couldn’t help but wonder if he’d come to her bed with or without the sex.
There was a long session at the Olympics Aquatic Center that night and they’d be back quite late, after spending the whole day out and about, trying to fit in a basketball game and an archery final. She’d been corresponding over email with one of the archery coaches after witnessing a thrilling preliminary bout a few days ago.
There would be little time for sex, not with all the events of the day and the late night, and the looming deadline for her first bigger story. She hoped that however the day’s archery final turned out, she’d have a dynamite hook for her story.
“I can hear you thinking,” Gabe murmured into her shoulder, voice lazy with sleep. “Why can’t you just sleep like a normal person?”
“Too much to do today for sleep,” Jemma said—or sex, she mentally added, hoping despite her more realistic expectations that he might find his way her direction tonight even without any sexual temptation.
“What is it today?” he groaned. Like he’d been doing something much more exhausting than spending the last few days having a blast in Rio, watching athletes at the top of their game.
“It’s the basketball game today, and that archery final. Plus,” Jemma said, trying to will away the tremble in her voice at the thought of another final Kimber was competing in, “swimming tonight.”
“Real swimming, right?” he teased quietly.
“I’d like to see you try synchronized swimming,” she retorted, settling closer into the warm cocoon he made. “But yes.”
Kimber had swum in two finals now and won gold in both of them, and even though a triumphant first Olympics seemed assured, each race only seemed to ratchet the tension tighter inside of Jemma. It was so hard to watch her on the screen, a tense, lithe figure standing next to the pool, and remember what it had looked like when she’d genuinely smiled at Christ the Redeemer. Despite her gold medal haul, Jemma had yet to see that smile on her face in any interview she’d done so far. And even more concerning, her mother never seemed to be very far away, closer than any other parent or even any other coach, that Jemma could see. Mostly the athletes seemed to be insular—divided from the chaos around them, left alone on purpose.
But Julia was never more than half a step away from Kimber’s side, except when she was actually on deck to swim.
Jemma had told herself a thousand times that it didn’t matter; that it absolutely wasn’t her business. But with every tight, pinched fake smile that never reached Kimber’s eyes, Jemma asked herself if it wasn’t her business, then whose business was it?
Who was there for Kimber?
“You’re so tense,” Gabe murmured, lips just brushing the skin of her shoulder. Jemma instantly knew what he was doing, and what he’d likely attempt to calm her down. But there wasn’t time this morning, and the thought of Kimber’s perplexing problem and the lack of solutions hadn’t exactly put Jemma in the mood. So she quietly pulled away and slid out of bed, wrapping the hotel robe around her naked body as she headed toward the shower.
The basketball game was fun, a rollicking affair as the US men’s team soundly thrashed the Brazilian team. Gabe was sporting a rather annoyed pout as they made their way out of the venue and toward the transportation that would take them to the archery final held at the Sambódromo, which normally hosted Rio’s famous Carnival parades. She’d been fascinated to learn that the annual event was so important that the Brazilian government had literally built an entire stadium for it. She had every intention of coming back someday to watch it; Gabe had told her it was a spectacle not to be missed. What she hadn’t told him was that she already intended to bring him back with her.
“Where to next?” Gabe asked as they slid into seats in the tram. Unsurprisingly, not many people were flocking to the archery events, and the tram was only half-full.
“Archery,” Jemma said and Gabriel let out a loud groan.
“Not that again,” he said. “Jemma, that was worse than watching paint dry, and I already know from today’s schedule that you won’t be able to give me the same kind of reward you did last time.”
“I think it could be interesting, a really fascinating event to write about,” Jemma insisted, ignoring the shot of heat up her spine as well as his reminder about what she’d whispered into his ear last time they’d gone to the archery event and had later fulfilled, enthusiastically, in her bed. He was right. There wasn’t time for that today. Maybe she should appeal to his better nature rather than his baser one.
“It wasn’t interesting the first time.”
Jemma pulled out her notes. “What about Michael Chandler? He’s one of the US’ greatest hopes for a medal in archery in the last twenty years. That’s something worth writing about.”
“Michael Chandler?” Gabe asked in disbelief. “The same Michael Chandler that is currently sitting ten spots down on the leaderboard?”
She really hated his ability to remember even the minutest detail about an event.
“He could still win!” she exclaimed.
“I guess if we manage to witness a miracle today, you’ll have a great story about how Michael Chandler overcame all od
ds—and I mean all odds, including everyone standing between 9th and 3rd—to secure a medal for the US.”
Jemma crossed her arms stubbornly across her chest. “It could happen,” she insisted again.
“What are you going to write if Michael Chandler doesn’t manage a miracle today?” he asked.
“I could write about how we need to put more resources into archery,” she challenged.
He rolled his eyes. “Be serious.”
“I am serious!” she said. “We aren’t practicing what we’re preaching! All the little boys love Hawkeye and the girls all want to be the Mockingjay but nobody actually wants to take archery lessons. That’s why we’re not winning medals!”
“Calm down, Katniss,” he quipped, “I get it. I do. But the reason why nobody wants to take up archery isn’t because they aren’t properly inspired, it’s because it’s boring.”
She sniffed, pointedly turning her attention to the sights of Rio flashing by her window.
“Why don’t you do a feature on swimming?” he asked. “You seem to really be stuck on the coverage. Always wanting to watch the medal ceremonies on the TV and all the interviews with the swimmers.”
Of course he’d noticed. Jemma didn’t know why she was even surprised. She thought she’d been so clever, deliberately trying to obscure her keen interest behind a clearly unconvincing casual attitude.
“Everyone wants to write about swimming,” Jemma said stiffly, still not wanting to tell him about her run-in with Kimber and her subsequent moral conundrum. At least not quite yet.
“For good reason,” he muttered.
Uneasy silence fell between them as the tram headed closer to the Sambódromo. They’d never argued like this before, not even their first day, and Jemma didn’t like it. Gabe, while a bit prickly, was actually quite easy to get along with. He had an easy, charming manner, peppered with just the right amount of laidback sarcastic humor, and she’d enjoyed his company—so much that she’d developed a strong crush on him in just a few days. Of course, the matter of them very satisfyingly sharing a bed at night probably didn’t help either.