For the Win

by Rochelle Allison

  Grinning back at Melina, I slung my backpack over my shoulder as we started to walk.

  Chapter 10

  The team jogs over and plops on to the ground, faces eager and expectant. Hesitating, I kick my toe in the dirt. Why did I think this would be so hard?

  I shared the news with Edgar this morning. His eyes had widened, a huge smile appearing on his face. I thought maybe he’d be disappointed I was leaving him in a lurch, but he just shook my hand and offered me hearty congratulations. That was when I realized a whole different group of people were counting on me to succeed besides the two women waiting on the edge of the field.

  Fourteen of those people are sitting on the grass right now with dirty knees and sweat beading on their foreheads. “So guys, I wanted to—“

  “Who is that?” Sam interrupts, nodding over my shoulder.

  I glance back. Allie waves.

  “My sister. So listen—“

  “Who’s the other girl?”

  “She’s hot.”

  “They’re both hot.”

  “Dibs on the blonde.”

  “No way, I saw her first.”

  “Hey!” I shout, over their fighting. “Get over it. You’re jailbait and even so, none of you are remotely in their league. Anyway—“

  “Is that your girlfriend—not your sister, the other one?” Harrison asks.

  Sighing, I rest my hands on my hips and steal another peek from the corner of my eye. I can’t help but wonder if Melina heard and what she thinks about that. An idea flares in my head and I say, “You know what? Forget what I was trying to say. Let’s invite them over.”

  I wave to them and Allie grins bigger, always wanting a peek into my world. She jogs over, dragging Melina with her. The boy’s eyes widen as they get closer.

  “This is my sister Allie and her friend Melina. They play on the US Women’s team.”

  A couple of snickers roll through the group, but most of the others seem genuinely impressed. Of course they are also probably just ogling them, so who knows what’s going on in their knuckle-headed brains.

  “Allie plays midfield. Melina forward.” I don’t announce that she’s the highest scoring forward on the team. No need to give away how closely I’ve followed her career. “No seriously, and if you don’t watch out I’ll send you out there with them and watch them kick your butts.”

  “No way,” Harrison mumbles.

  “As if,” another knucklehead chimes in from the back.

  “You up for it?” I ask, pointing to the girls.

  “Yep,” Allie agrees. Melina hesitates but finally nods, unsure of the whole thing. She’s been quiet ever since she found out I was coaching kids. Girl thinks I have nothing but ulterior motives.

  “Two teams.” I start tapping heads, sending the boys to opposite sides of the field. I point to the bag of practice jerseys and Melina starts handing them out. When she reaches Sam he lifts the hem of his shirt, revealing his skinny, pale stomach.

  “Are you on my team? Because I’ll take skins.”

  Her eyes flick to me like this is somehow my fault, and she shoves the green mesh shirt into his chest. “I’m going to enjoy taking you down a notch,” she says, eyeing him.

  Sam’s smile falters, and he runs to the others already on the field.

  “Cute kids,” she says, tossing me the empty bag.

  “You should have seen them before I got here,” I reply, flashing a grin.

  “I can only imagine the nonsense you’ve filled their brains with.”

  The boys get smoked, stumbling over their feet, running around aimless and confused, but I’m proud of them. Scrimmage turns fun once they man up and realize they could really learn something.

  A different kind of pride washes over me as I watch Allie and Melina play, though. It’s been ages since I’ve seen either woman on the field, at least not streaming on my laptop, and they’ve both developed into amazing, strong players.

  Edgar walks up behind me and I glance over. “Tell them yet?” he asks.

  Melina runs to the top of the box, her long muscular legs quick and skilled. She takes the shot at Shawn. I nearly cover my eyes, but his fingers manage to graze the ball—although not enough to stop it from blasting into the back of the net. Still, he scrambles to his feet like I taught him. Melina jogs over, giving him a fist bump for effort, and a wide grin cracks his face.

  “Not yet,” I say, shaking my head. “Needed to teach them one more lesson first.”

  Chapter 11

  I insist on driving Sally to the training facility in Colorado Springs. It’s a two day journey, with minimal stops. I’d have more time to settle in if I took a plane like Allie and Melina, but I need the alone time to get my head back in the game. Literally.

  It’s been over a year since I stepped foot on an actual pitch, playing competitively with other guys. Most of the men on this team are older and more experienced than I am, too. I know a couple of them; I’ve been called up to play with the National Team, once against Mexico and another with Bulgaria. Under the care of the MNT trainers I’ve never had a problem with my insulin levels or keeping on track.

  College, though...that had been my undoing. Parties. Women. More parties. I’d gone from a sheltered high school kid that happened to be good at sports to a popular, in-demand athlete. What was the point of being the biggest soccer star on campus, with some of the greatest prospects, if I couldn’t leverage it a little?

  In high school I treated my body like a temple. We didn’t have the money for me to get sick, and besides Melina, playing was the only thing that kept me sane. On the field I could forget our shitty, small apartment and the sounds of my neighbors fighting. I was able to focus on perfecting my sport, with small breaks to socialize with other players and flirt with Melina. Terrified of showing any weakness, I pretended the diabetes didn’t exist and did my best to hide it from my teammates. I worked hard, determined to prove to myself that I was stronger than any disease. My mother tracked my blood sugar levels like a hawk tracks a mouse and everything was fine.

  Well, it was fine until I was on my own. Somewhere between high school and college I’d begun thinking that not only was my body a temple, but that I was a god.

  News flash: God doesn’t like it when you play God.

  The sun’s going down now, painting the landscape with orange and gold. I stare out the window at the rising hills surrounding the Ozark Mountains, trying not to berate myself for the many, many crappy decisions I’ve made.

  Part 2

  Colorado Springs/US Olympic Training Camp

  Chapter 12

  The US Training Center is a state of the art, multi-sport facility boasting everything from weight rooms, to medical staff, to residence halls nicer than my dorm in college. After checking in and locating my room, I report to the physician.

  They make me piss in a cup, then the assistant checks my vitals: weight and blood pressure. They plug my pump into the computer, scanning the data for the last three months, and I don’t blink when they withdraw blood and they step aside and let me prick my own finger. Per their request, my doctor sent my records ahead of time, so these people probably know more about my body in twenty minutes than I have in my whole life.

  I spend the next hour plugged into a treadmill, popping Sweet-Tarts, while having my blood monitored as they conduct a thorough examination of my entire physique. By the time I’m instructed to change my clothes and take a seat in the waiting room, I’m dripping of sweat.

  “What’s next?” I joke to the assistant as we walk down a hallway of offices. “Sign over my first born?”

  “You’ll meet with Dr. Archer and Robin, who is the head PT for your team.” A quick glance in the room alerts me to a third person, a guy in his mid-thirties, glasses on his nose but definite athletic build.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Dr. McNair. He’s the sports psychologist.”

  “Psychologist?”

  “Everyone has to see him,” she say
s, looking down at my chart. “But for you it’s especially mandatory.”

  Realizing these are the real gatekeepers to my future, I step into the room and close the door.

  Looks like my past might be catching up to me.

  *

  “Well,” Allie says, dropping her tray on the table. Sitting in the seat across from me, she unwraps a pat of butter. “How did it go?”

  I finish chewing and search for her shadow, but there’s no sign of Melina in the cafeteria. “It was okay. I’m in good condition—great really. I think they were surprised, especially after hearing about my living conditions for the last year.”

  “I’m sure. Living in a van and maintaining the body of an Olympian doesn’t really make sense.”

  I shrug. “I had a gym, food, a bed and a soccer ball. Not much different from here except air conditioning.”

  She lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. “So you’re cleared to play then?”

  “I start tomorrow.” An unexpected current of anticipation prickles through me. Despite my sketchy involvement, I’m looking forward to getting back on the field.

  Allie attacks her own food, hungry from a full day of training. Spearing broccoli on a fork she asks, “Have you see the team? Dominic?”

  “Not yet, but I think they were working out when I got in. I spent the rest of the day in the med center.” None of my teammates are in the cafeteria yet either, but it’s early. So far there’s just a handful of swimmers and a table of weight lifters. I’m pretty sure the gaggle of fourteen-year-old girls in the corner are gymnasts.

  “How do you think it will go?”

  I push my empty tray away. “We’re a team. It won’t be the first time I’ve played with guys that don’t like me.”

  “Yeah,” she agrees, her eyes meeting mine. “But this is the first time they don’t trust you and there’s a difference.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  Brat.

  Like she can see the word in my head, she flashes me a grin. “I’ve missed you.”

  I grab her head and rub hard to mess up her hair. “Same.”

  Reporter: We’ve talked about your health issues before, Julian, but you’re an inspiration to so many people, especially kids diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes. For the most part you’ve managed to really control your disease and perform at the highest level possible. Do you want to tell us more about the time you had to stop playing?

  Julian: *holds up a hand* Stop recording.

  Reporter: Okay. What’s the problem?

  Julian: I’m not sure the story of my epic downfall is going to make good material for documentary.

  Reporter: People love a comeback. It will inspire them.

  Julian: I don’t think so. I look like a total dick and to be honest, it’s not the G-rated television the IOC likes to show. There’s also the chance it will make Allie look bad and that’s a deal breaker.

  Reporter: You were a dumb kid; everyone can relate to that to a degree.

  Julian: Maybe. I’m just not ready to talk about it.

  Reporter: I don’t want to take it off the table. Think about it.

  Julian: *pauses, taps fingers on knee* Fine. But not today.

  Chapter 13

  My roommate is sprawled across his bed when I get back to the room. He hops up, dropping the motorcycle magazine he’s reading when I enter. An ice pack slides to the floor, revealing his noticeably bruised calf, visible even with his dark skin. He quickly offers me a hand and says with a slight English accent, “Hey man. Good to see you.”

  “Rory, right?” I ask, shaking his hand. Rory Vickers is a legendary defender. We’ve never played on a team together but we have crossed paths during the youth divisions and summer leagues.

  “Yeah.” He’s tall, at least six-foot-three to my six-foot-one. Tiny dreadlocks cover his head, sticking out in all directions. The bio I read said his father played college basketball, and his mother is a physicist from England. He grew up with her overseas until returning to the states for college. All it takes is for one parent to be a US citizen to be able to qualify for the team.

  On a personal note, he’s known as one of the friendliest guys in the game. I don’t think it’s a coincidence we’re roommates.

  “They told us you were coming in today,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed with his ice pack. “Everything go okay with medical?”

  He might be asking in general—everyone was given the same extensive physical when they arrived—but somehow I doubt it. Granted, every player needs to be cleared, but most of these guys play professionally and have had regular checkups for months.

  “Cleared for tomorrow,” I say, unzipping my bag. There are two dressers. One already has a couple of framed photos, three empty water bottles and a large wooden cross propped against the wall. Claiming the unoccupied one, I unpack my clothing, settling in for the four weeks we’ll be here leading up to the games.

  “Everyone was a little shook up after Saxon’s injury. They said he’ll be out for at least 6 months,” Rory says. “Dom’s stepped up though—and everyone agrees you’ll be a good second.”

  Ah, so they have talked about me. Not a surprise; most men’s locker rooms are the gossip equivalent of a teenage girl’s bedroom. “I’m excited to be here. The line-up, from what I’ve seen, looks great.” I nod down to his leg. “You better keep that on ice.”

  “Yeah. Took a cleat today in the box. Hurts like hell.” He eases back in the bed and lays the pack back over the bruise.

  “Looks like it.” I unpack the rest of my belongings; journal, iPod, books. Grabbing the bag with my pump kit, dozens of needles and the blood sugar tester, I shove it in the drawer next to the bed. Rory eyes it, but doesn’t say anything. I don’t say anything either. If he asks I’ll tell him, but I don’t advertise my health issues.

  “So,” he says slowly, and I just know there’s a question or twenty coming. “Did you really spend the last year sleeping in a van?”

  I can’t help but smile. “Yeah.”

  “Seriously?” The look on his face is nothing but incredulous.

  “Seriously.” Pulling my phone out, I find a picture. “That’s Sally.”

  He shakes his head. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  The bedsprings squeak as I sit on the bed. “So I’ve heard.”

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you really used to go out with Melina Diaz?”

  “Ah.” With a short, bitter laugh I swing my legs on top of the bed. 6 AM will be here before I know it. “That’s not an easy question to answer.”

  I wait for Rory to say something else, like how awesome Melina is on the field or—God help him—how beautiful she is, but he just nods and goes back to his magazine.

  Shutting my eyes, I roll to the wall, adjusting to the fact I’m sleeping on an actual bed in an actual building for the first time in months.

  “This light gonna bother you?” Rory asks after a second, magazine crinkling.

  But I’m already half-asleep.

  Chapter 14

  (2009)

  By the summer before junior year we all had to work and playing time on the field was more sporadic. Allie worked at a summer camp and I found a job with a landscaping crew, both of us scraping together money for soccer camp in late July. Melina’s mother needed her to watch the younger kids and keep them out of trouble and Marcus worked at the crappy theater down at the mall. Allie wanted to practice on her own, but neither me nor Marcus felt like it was safe; the fields were too male-dominated. Not that they’d have let her play, anyway. To get any real practice one of us had to go with her, so she waited each day like a caged tiger dying to get outside.

  “What the hell, Jules?” she cried one afternoon. “Let’s go!”

  I’d just gotten home from a nine hour day. One of the mowers broke, and it was 97 degrees outside with a humidity of 105. I was beat. All I wanted was to crawl into the shower and
sleep. In the actual shower. Just put my pillow in the bathtub. Unfortunately I’d promised Allie I would take her to the field tonight. It had been a week and she’d threatened to go alone.

  “If Melina was coming you’d be down there already.”

  Fair enough.

  I grabbed a snack and my bag. She tossed the ball at my head the second I exited the apartment but my reflexes were quick and I caught it with one hand.

  “It’s like you’re trying to get me to stay home.”

  “I’m trying to get you to lighten up.”

  We walked down the busy, four-lane road and waited for the light to change to cross the street. “I’m tired as fuck, Al.”

  “You think I’m not? I chased twenty-five rug-rats all day. I never want to see another kid again.”

  The crosswalk sign flipped and we headed over the steamy street. “Then why are we out here?”

  “Why? Are you kidding me?”

  “Don’t start with this.” Now that we’d passed into the neighborhood surrounding the school, I dropped the ball to the grass next to the sidewalk and dribbled it down the hill.

  “This isn’t a joke to me, Julian. I’m working my ass off to get out of this dump, with or without you.”

  It was such a long-shot; getting an offer to play on a college team, much less the money that goes along with it. Scholarships for soccer didn’t flow like other, bigger sports. Regardless, my mother encouraged her. She encouraged both of us, actually, but one of us had to be the reality check.

  “I’m glad you’re so hopeful, Al. For real. One of us has to be.”

  She ignored me the rest of the way to the field, only stopping when she got to the top of the stairs that overlooked the game being played below.

  “You see those men,” she said, pointing to the guys on the field. “The one’s that won’t let me play?”

  “Yeah, they’re dicks.”

  “I’m not putting up with their crap anymore. I’m ten times better than they are.” She gave me a look. “Better than you.”