For the Win

by Rochelle Allison

  “He wants to cover up the real reason Dom is out and play up the whole, comeback kid angle.” She doesn’t look any happier than I feel about this.

  “I don’t know. Don’t they have enough material? What about interviewing Allie after that win today?”

  “The women’s team was expected to win. It’s their fifth gold medal. Losing would have been a headline. You guys are the real story here and you know it. This is the first time in decades the men’s team has made it to the finals. You’ll be heroes if you bring home that gold, and you’ll be the biggest one of all.”

  “Yeah, but what if we don’t win?”

  “Then it’s my job to make that a compelling story and turn it into a different kind of win.”

  A group of women walk toward the clinic. I spot Melina and Becky, along with other members of the team. One girl carries a bunch of flowers—the others a pastry box. They must be here to see Allie, which is not how they had planned spending their victory night. As Melina passes she looks between me and Veronica, an aloof mask covering her emotions.

  “What do we say about Dominic then? How do we handle that?”

  She blinks, and I think I spot tears in her eyes. “Dominic isn’t going to come out the hero in this, Julian.”

  I crack my knuckles. I don’t like exploiting his issues any more than I like exploiting mine. “Are you asking me to do the interview or are you telling me?”

  “What do you think?”

  The pressure rises in my chest, a feeling of anxiety that I haven’t had in a long time. I need to eat, and I need to get somewhere quiet. “Whatever. You know how to find me.”

  “I promise you’ll look good. Don’t worry about that.”

  “It doesn’t help if I look good and other people are hurt in the process,” I say, thinking of Dominic and Allie and everyone else who’s been dragged into this PR machine.

  I walk off, planning to return to my room, but then I turn and follow the group of women that just entered the clinic. Catching up to Melina, I grab her by the arm and pull her away from the others. Time is running out on our agreement; this may be my last chance to be with her. I can’t pass that up because my head’s a mess.

  “What’s going on?” Melina asks, her lips turned in a frown.

  “Can you—can you come outside?”

  She nods and follows me. I lead her around the side of the building to a hidden spot.

  Her eyebrows furrow. “What is it?”

  I dip my head and catch her lips with mine, kissing her hard. She’s caught off guard initially and fumbles, but then matches me kiss for kiss, fingers clenching in my shirt.

  My mind is going in a dozen directions. The game. Dominic. Allie and holy fuck, Mendez. The interview tomorrow. All I want is a little peace—some security. I need to get my head together and to focus or all of this will be for nothing.

  Melina pushes my head away from hers, cradling my face with her palms. “What’s going on?”

  “I just need you, okay?”

  She stares at me, dark-eyed and curious, like she’s trying to look past my words. I think she’s going to tell me no—that what I want goes beyond our agreement, but she nods.

  “I’m here for you,” she tells me, wrapping her hand in mine. She leads me down the brightly lit pathways of The Village, taking me to the one place we can be together and alone.

  *

  Melina shuts the suite door behind her and lays the keycard on the table. I ate most of my dinner in the elevator, preemptively fighting off any low blood sugar problems. That’s what my life is like—always thinking, always doing.

  I toss the container in the kitchen bin as Mel closes the distance between us. I feel the light touch of her fingers down the hard muscle of my arm, then she’s pushing up on her toes, her mouth warm on mine.

  She’s lighter after the win—all the stress of the games having vanished. I’m the opposite, all nerves, frayed and worn at the edges.

  I disengage from the kiss, and she frowns. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I just never got the chance to congratulate you on today’s win.”

  A smile flickers across her lips. “It felt good being out there with Allie again.”

  “Some things are like that,” I say. “Good together.”

  We kiss again and heated want builds beneath the surface. She touches me below the waist and finds me hard, her eyebrow rises.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, mouth pressed against her skin. “I’m a little wound up.”

  “I noticed.”

  She seems willing to placate me, or maybe she wants it just as much herself. I lift her off the ground and deposit her on the counter, pushing between her thighs. Her chest juts forward, and I plant kisses on her skin. I touch her and find she’s just as ready as I am. Or at least I think so until my eyes land on her face.

  Her cheeks flush and she looks away. “Last night was…”

  “Awesome? Weird? Fantastic? Unbelievable? Strange?”

  “A little of all of those.” She laughs softly. “I’m glad it happened though. It feels like a missing piece of the puzzle.”

  My phone chimes on the table next to her hip, and like the stupid fool I am, I check it. It’s Veronica, confirming our interview time. I send the phone clattering across the table and groan in frustration.

  “What? Is it Allie?”

  “No. Veronica.” Mel’s lips set in a line. I try to kiss it back into the shy smile from a moment before but it’s firm and unyielding. I curse and explain, “I have an interview before the game.”

  “Again? Now? Isn’t it a bit late for that?” There’s suspicion in her tone and the rapid-fire beat of my heart shifts from want to distress.

  “Tomorrow.”

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Melina.”

  Her arms cross over her chest, the very chest I was just planning on defiling, and just like that spectres of our past loom between us.

  “Hey,” I say, softer now. “There is nothing going on with us, if that’s what you think.”

  Her mouth opens and closes before she finally speaks. “I’m not thinking anything—other than this chick seems super interested in you and has been for weeks.”

  I inhale and check her expression. Okay, sex is definitely off the table. Resigned, I lean against the counter opposite of Mel. “Trust me, it’s strictly professional. She’s doing her job and I’m doing mine.”

  “And there’s enough ‘work’ to be done this late at night?”

  “Yeah, there’s a bit of damage control McDowell wants to take care of.”

  “Damage control?”

  “Dom’s out. He’s not playing tomorrow.”

  Her frown wavers into a semi-grin as she slides off the counter top. “He’s out? That means…”

  “I’m starting.”

  “Holy crap, Julian. This is huge.”

  “It’s a big day for me and a shitty one for Dom.”

  “The biggest,” she agrees, reaching out to me. I flinch and twist away. “What?”

  “I didn’t do anything to deserve this, Mel. I’m only playing because Dom is struggling and I’ve been a good boy as far as the IOC is concerned.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.” She glares and I know there’s no quick escape. “Remember back at the beach when you told me to say no to the offer to play on the team? Well, I did say no. I said hell no, and it didn’t make a difference.”

  “Julian…”

  “I told McDowell I wouldn’t play—that I wasn’t a good bet. He gave me a choice; play or Allie gets cut.” Melina’s eyes widen. “If you want to know why I spend so much time with Veronica it’s because I don’t have a choice. I had to join the team, basically whore myself and my family out to the press and play up the redeemed bad boy angle for the viewers. The only reason I’m getting to play today is they want to complete that story. There’s no point redeeming a loser. I’ve got to take the field and win.”

 
“I don’t understand. You earned your spot on the team, Julian. You’re an amazing player.”

  “My being here tipped Dominic over the edge. Tipped him right-the-fuck-over. He smelled this a mile away, and it got into his head and he just cracked. McDowell probably knew that would happen from the start.”

  “No.” Melina comes closer, looking me in the eye. “Dominic’s problems started way before you got involved. Everyone knows that.”

  “I didn’t earn my way onto this team, Melina. They wanted me because I make a good story. Me and my condition. Me and Allie.” I tense my jaw. “Me and you. What do you think Veronica would do to find out we’ve been hooking up like this?”

  “Why would she care what we’re doing?”

  “Are you kidding? She’d probably sell her fucking soul. McDowell would weep into his ratings chart. I know, maybe if I win the gold today you can walk out to the podium and you can give me a big, fat, winner’s kiss. Right there for the whole world to see.” Melina stares at me, caught between confusion and horror. “I can see the tag line now, ‘Julian Anderson wins the gold and the girl of his dreams. An Olympic Miracle.’”

  “What?” Her cheeks flush.

  “Everything about all of this is complicated, Melina. Everything is for up for sale. Dominic’s mental health. Allie’s spot on the team. My relationship with you…”

  There’s a subtle, but instant, shift on her face as the pieces click into place. “Is that what this is about? Last night? Was that fodder for your stupid documentary?”

  “What? No. Are you kidding me? You’re the one that approached me with the whole ‘no strings attached’ arrangement.”

  “You jumped at the chance!”

  I laugh, loud and genuine. “If you think I was going to pass up a chance to be with you in any way, shape or form you don’t know me as well as I thought you did.”

  Her jaw tightens and her fists clench, and I think for a second that she may just haul out and punch me. I brace myself for the hit but instead she says, “There’s nothing going on between us. Nothing. You can tell her that if the nosy bitch asks.”

  Her words slam into me harder than a punch. “Right,” I force out. “I’ll be sure to let her know how you feel.”

  The air thickens between us as she realizes what she said, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve wondered where I stood with her, where I would stand when all of this was over and it’s good to know I’ve been nothing but a physical distraction. I can live with it. Maybe I even deserve it; who knows.

  “I’ve got to go.” I cross the room, grabbing the backpack I left by the door.

  “Julian, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  I leave her in the suite without another glance back. Nothing going on between us? I can’t bear for Melina to walk away from me a second time, so this time I make sure to do it first.

  Reporter: When we met for the first time you didn’t think you’d get much playing time, correct?

  Julian: No, I really didn’t.

  Reporter: But here we are at the final match and you’re starting.

  Julian: Yes, that’s the plan.

  Reporter: Do you have anything to say about the sudden decision?

  Julian: I’m just glad Dominic was in the earlier matches. I’ve learned a lot watching him play. He’s magnificent.

  Reporter: There are reports that he’s not well…

  Julian: I don’t know anything about that. I just go where I’m told.

  Reporter: Your sister won a gold medal yesterday, that had to mean a lot to you and your mom.

  Julian: She did. And an assist on the winning goal. Neither of us are surprised. We knew this day would come.

  Reporter: I saw the match. It was outstanding. She, too, didn’t expect to get much playing time due to a past injury. The coaches and trainers felt it was too soon for her to get back on the field and unfortunately she was injured in that pivotal play. How is she now?

  Julian: She tore her Achilles tendon for the second time. She’ll have surgery when we get back to the states.

  Reporter: That’s terrible. How will this affect her future for playing on the women’s national team?

  Julian: I’m hoping for the best.

  Reporter: One final question before we wrap up our interviews with the famous Julian Anderson. Melina Diaz has had a fantastic showing at the games. She won a gold medal yesterday with your sister and you’ve been seen with her out and about in Rio. Your fans are dying to know, is there any change in your status?

  Julian: Melina is a fantastic woman and player. She will go on to do many amazing things with her life. I wish her the best.

  Reporter: And what about you, what do you plan on doing with your life when the games are over?

  Julian: Right now my future feels like everything is hanging in the balance. Like everything will be determined if I win or lose.

  Reporter: The game?

  Julian: *blinks* Sure, the game.

  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 i
n 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.”