For the Win

by Rochelle Allison

  “Fucking Germans,” someone mutters.

  “Anderson’s right,” Johnson says. “We’ve got this. Now. In the next five minutes. I don’t want to go to overtime. I want to go back to the hotel and find some celebrities willing to put out for a gold medalist.” Everyone laughs nervously as the whistle blows. I lay my hand in the middle of the huddle and each player puts theirs on top. We shake on victory.

  *

  In the end I’m the one that decides the game. It comes down to me and a German forward named Lars. Number nine. He’s blond and has scored more goals than any other German player under the age of twenty-five.

  After a call that will be discussed, argued and fought over beer for the next decade, I find myself face to face with him as he prepares for a penalty kick with forty seconds left in the match. He’s tall and slim, but his shoulders are wide and ramrod straight. I watched him eat four plates of chicken two days ago, fuel for this very moment. Standing before me, he rubs his hands on his thighs and takes a deep breath. We both have to push out the deafening crowd, the worry and panic.

  Players from both teams line the sides of the box, ready to run at an instant. The ref blows his whistle and Lars lines up the shot. Even over the crowd I hear the sound of leather meeting leather. It triggers a reflex in my brain and I dive, body air born. The shot flies over my head, over my hand, to the small, open, triangle at the top of the net.

  *

  Within seconds after the loss I’m dragged downfield toward family and friends for the medal ceremony in a haze of loss and defeat. The feeling is fleeting. They don’t want to give us time to get angry or for the fans to revolt. There’s no time to cry out the pain of defeat. Like all aspects of the Games, presentation and sportsmanship is more important than anything else, so within minutes we’re shaking the hands of the winners and then huddled together, placed on the second tier, and given our prize. Despite the sickening feeling in my chest, a second, different emotion wells to the surface. Second place wins silver—there are worse games to lose. The German national anthem plays, and I wrap my arm around Rory who’s standing to my left and hug him tight. Johnson, who’s on my right does the same.

  I’ve played a lot of games, blocked and missed so many goals I’ve lost count, but there’s something about this that puts everything into a greater context.

  “You did your best,” my mother says, giving me a hug despite being a sweaty mess. She’s offered me this condolence many times. It’s all she’s ever asked for from me or my sister. Our best. “I’m so proud of you, Julian.”

  The medal hangs around my neck, and despite my upset, the weight feels good. Solid. “I just misjudged it.”

  “No. It was a good shot. No one could have saved it.”

  Would they? Would he? Would Dominic have been able to catch that ball? Brent says no. Mitchell shook my hand and rattled off the stats on defending penalty kicks. The numbers, as I’m well aware, were not in my favor. The team is no more upset with me than they are with themselves. There’s no ‘I’ in team after all.

  “I don’t know, ma. What if coming here was a huge mistake? Allie wouldn’t need surgery again. Dominic wouldn’t have felt so much pressure. I wouldn’t have opened all the old wounds with Melina.” I inhale, feeling overcome with emotion. “I’m not sure it was worth it.”

  She frowns and takes my hand. “Allie is fine—she makes her own decisions whether you believe it or not. Dominic was obviously under intense stress—you can’t blame yourself for that. And Melina? It was time you two dealt with your relationship head on, when neither of you could run away.”

  I wipe my eyes and feel the weight of the medal, heavy on my chest. “How are you always so optimistic?”

  She squeezes my arm. “Things took on a new perspective when I saw my little boy in the ICU fighting for his life. Nothing else is that important and everything else will work out. You won that battle, Julian. I have no doubt you’ll win the rest too.”

  I look over my mother’s shoulder and see my sister, leaning into Mendez.

  “Can you tell me what that’s all about?”

  “From what I can tell, they like each other.” I make a face and she adds, “Sometimes an aimless man just needs the right woman.”

  I’m about to suggest that Mendez may not be the one without aim, but the coaches wave us over, directing us off the field. I kiss and hug my mother goodbye, promising I’ll see her tomorrow.

  “Hey, man.” Rory walks up. “That was a tough match.”

  “Killer,” I say, walking toward the bus. “Awesome goal, though. You’re one of the few that can boast they made a goal in the Olympic finals.”

  He smiles. “It was a pleasure playing with you, Julian.”

  “Same. You’ve been a great teammate.”

  We step into the hallway, going the reverse from a few hours before. “What’s the plan for tonight?” he asks.

  “Tonight?” I clap him on the back. “We party like Olympians.”

  Chapter 44

  The Village cranks up to a ten that night. The games are over—all but the closing ceremonies—and I can feel the levity in every corner of the compound. Celebrities swarm the parties, which are everywhere: in the suites, the pool, near the athletic fields and in every quiet (or not so quiet) corner people can find.

  Everyone wants a piece of the Olympians. Most of the athletes are willing to take a risk on a once-in-a-lifetime experience, especially if they can say they banged an Oscar winner or the person that won Big Brother 16.

  Rory and I are headed toward the pool—rumor has it the beach volleyball girls are still around—when Tyson Rickman emerges like the Greek God of Aquatics from one of the nearby buildings.

  “Hey man,” he says. “Great game today.”

  “Thanks. Were you there?”

  “Yeah,” he nods. “Melina scrounged up a ticket. I sat with her family. Her dad is hilarious.”

  Perfect. Of course Mr. Diaz loves Tyson. Who wouldn’t want their grandchildren to have the genetic superiority of an eight-time gold medal winner? I recall our conversation in the dining hall when we first got here.

  “I guess you and Melina can give things a shot now that the games are over?” Every word a stab in the gut.

  He shakes his head. “I tried, man. I really did, but she seems less interested now than before. Maybe I just misread the situation.”

  “She’s probably sick of athletes. She’ll find some quiet, introverted librarian or something.” I clap him on back, having a glimmer that just maybe I haven’t lost her for good.

  Then again, The Games are over. Our agreement no longer means anything.

  “Heading to the pool?” Tyson asks.

  “Yeah. You?”

  He nods, stripping off his T-shirt. His muscles ripple and damn—even Rory, who’s been standing next to me the whole time, gapes. “Maybe I didn’t get the girl, but I suspect I can find a replacement easy enough.”

  “Okay then,” I say to his back as he enters the fray. I’m about to follow him in when Veronica intercepts my path. My first reaction is to hold up my hands and say, “No more interviews. Ever.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re done. I promise.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “Are you kidding? This is the place to be.” She says it with a smile, but her eyes don’t match.

  Rory scratches his head and jerks his thumb toward the pool. “I’ll meet you later, okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there in a minute.”

  He walks through the gate and a loud cheer erupts. He’s a superstar.

  “You’re proud of him,” Veronica says, giving me a curious look.

  “Yeah, he’s a great guy. He’ll be amazing in the pros one day.”

  “And what about you?”

  I shake my head. “I thought this wasn’t an interview.”

  “Nope. Just one friend to another.” The way she says the word ‘friend’ makes me pause and I check her out, not for the first ti
me, wondering how she’d feel about traveling across the states in a beat up van. My eyes land on her expensive, brown leather sandals and shiny red toenails. Yeah, ‘friends’ is probably for the best.

  “I haven’t figured out what comes next.” Music cranks up from somewhere nearby, followed by shouts of laughter. “Have you seen Dom?”

  “Yeah. I talked to him. I think he’ll be okay.”

  “Good.”

  She takes a small step forward and says, “It was good getting to know you, Julian. Thank you for sharing your story with me. I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

  “Thank you for treating me well,” I reply. “Even though I wasn’t always nice about it.”

  “You were a pleasure to work with. Seriously.”

  “Maybe. On the outside. On the inside I was being a super jerk.”

  She laughs, and to my surprise, engulfs me a hug. I squeeze her back, glad I’ve made a couple of new friends during this adventure. That’s something I didn’t expect.

  I gesture toward the pool party. “What are you looking for? Athlete? Celebrity? Skeevy reality TV show star?”

  “I guess I’ll have to see where the night takes me.”

  An hour later the night takes me into a conversation with a very drunk Haley Caldwell. I assume she finally came to her senses and kicked Johnson to the curb. When she finds me she exclaims, “Julian Anderson! I’ve been looking to get you alone for two weeks.”

  “Is that so?”

  She jabs my chest with her finger. “Yep. You’re hard to track down.”

  “I’m not much on the party scene. Plus, you know, I still had matches.” I search over her head and finally lay eyes on my sister. Mendez is at her side. Melina is nowhere to be found...not that I’m looking for her or anything.

  “So,” Haley’s hand moves to my arm, squeezing gently, “I had some things I wanted to talk to you about. In private?”

  Allie spots me and waves. We haven’t really had a chance to talk since the match today. Since I found out about her relationship. Since Melina…

  I glance down at Haley. “Sure, but my sister looks like she may need some help. She was injured yesterday. I should probably go.”

  “But…can I at least get your number?”

  Famous actress wants my number? Yeah, I’m game. I’m about to say yes when Johnson appears from the crowd and wraps his arms around her waist. He gives me a wolfish grin. I literally have no idea what’s going on.

  “Finally getting Julian’s number,” she says, fumbling with her phone.

  “I’ll forward you the contact,” he says, looking at me for approval. I nod, completely confused.

  She twists and gives him a kiss.

  “Later, Anderson.” And like that, they’re done with me.

  Whatever.

  I make my way over to Allie, who shoves her crutches at Mendez when I’m close enough to lunge at for a hug. I catch her in my arms, worried about her foot. “Great game, bro.”

  I inhale, trying to accept the compliment. “Thanks. I guess there are worse things than second place.”

  “I wouldn’t know.” The smile on her face is worth her besting me.

  Mendez stands behind us, looking decidedly less awkward than I think he should. “So is this an actual thing, or is it a What Happens in the Village, Stays in the Village thing?” Allie’s cheeks redden, giving her away. “Fuck. Really? Of all the people…”

  “Well Tyson Rickman was occupied so I had to go for the second best bad-boy around. Like you said, there are worse things than second.”

  “Seriously. Shut up.”

  “He’s not so bad.”

  “Yeah, he’s a winner alright.” I swallow hating to be the one to tell her. “He was in the sex room the other night. I saw his stupid green shoes outside the door.”

  I wait for the freak out. Instead she shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “You’re such a dumbass,” she mutters. “I was in the room with him. Where do you think Melina got the key?”

  “Oh God. See? No. This is too much information. I know we’re twins but I just don’t want to know.”

  “Then stay out of my business, Julian. I’m a big girl and can pick my own boyfriend.”

  “Boyfriend?” I look around her shoulder and make eye contact with my teammate.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, pinching my arm as I make for her boyfriend.

  “He and I need to have a talk.”

  “No. No you don’t.”

  I give her a smile, the same smile I gave her when we were ten and I told Mom when she spilled sugar on the kitchen floor and swept it back in the jar. That smile.

  “Jules.”

  “I’ll be nice. I promise.”

  “If you do this then I’m telling Melina.”

  I freeze, but try to play it nonchalant. “Tell her what?”

  “That you love her.”

  Allie and I stand across from one another, truths laid bare. No one knows me better than my sister. “It doesn’t matter what you say to her. She doesn’t love me back.”

  “But you two—Melina doesn’t just hook up, Julian. That’s not who she is.”

  “People change. I told you, before all of this started, that I’d prove I’d changed, and I think I have.” I shrug, sliding my hands into my pockets. “But maybe I’m not the only one that has, you know?”

  I kiss her on the forehead, waving Mendez over. He and I can talk later, assuming he shows his face when we get back to the states. My sister is all grown up. I trust her.

  “Julian—don’t give up like this. Not again,” she says, safely back in Mendez’s arms.

  “I’m not giving up, Al. I’m moving on.”

  Chapter 45

  August 21

  Closing Ceremony

  The men and women are given matching track suits for the closing event. They’re blue with red accents, the flag embroidered on the sleeve. Everyone has already left the suite, ready to pre-game with thousands of other athletes before boarding the bus. It’s a little known fact that most of the athletes are fall-down drunk at the closing ceremonies. Since that’s not my scene, I’m taking a few minutes to sort my things, because the second the ceremony is over I’m heading to the airport. It’s time to say goodbye to Brazil.

  The suite door opens and shuts. “What’d you forget?” I shout, waiting for Rory or Johnson to reply. When there’s no response, I peek into the living room, stopping cold when I see Melina.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hi.”

  “Nice outfit.”

  She looks me up and down. “You too.”

  We match, of course, at least on the outside. Inside, my heart is pounding like a freight train and my brain is flashing warning signs. Turn back! Run! Abort!

  She comes closer. I watch her lips as she speaks; I hear her apologize. She tells me she’s sorry for her words the other day. I wait for the final blow.

  “I was scared,” she says, like that explains everything.

  “Scared of what?” I ask, folding my arms. “Wasn’t the agreement supposed to protect us from all that?”

  “Scared of you. Of my feelings for you. I thought I could compartmentalize it—keep the sex separate from the emotions.” She shakes her head. “I thought I was playing it safe, that my anger for you would tamper anything else. I thought maybe for once I’d have the upper hand in our relationship.”

  Something dissolves in my chest. “Babe, you’ve always had the upper hand.”

  “It never felt that way.”

  I lean against the door to my bedroom, thinking back to how we used to be. I can’t remember the exact moment I fell for her, but it was way before the chilly, fall day she finally agreed to wear my hoodie. “That’s because we were young and stupid.”

  She shakes her head, like she knows it was more than that, but was it? “Maybe that’s what love does to a person. It makes things great. Like totally happy and fun but it’s also scary and unsure.”

  “Maybe,”
I agree.

  “Before you told me about McDowell,” she says, “I had no idea you sacrificed so much by coming here.”

  I shrug. “Just a little privacy and pride.” And my sister’s future with the national team, just that.

  “It was more than that and I was wrong about you. Really, really wrong. You’ve changed, Julian, or at the very least grown up. You put everything on the line for the team and for Allie, and I never thought you could do that. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Remember what I just said about the upper hand?” I lift an eyebrow in question. “I’ll forgive you if you’ll forgive me for all the wrongs in the past. I know we can’t forget it all, but we can heal.”

  Melina pauses, her eyes searching mine. “I missed you,” she says, surprising me.

  “I missed you, too.”

  Those three words carry a lot of weight, but to what end? I’m trying to figure that out when Melina steps toward me, eyes on my chest, ears tinted red. You’d think we’d be past this point after all the fooling around we’ve been doing, but she’s hesitating again, so I make an instinctive move by grabbing her. Our bodies collide and mine reacts immediately, desperate and aroused. She looks up at me with those big, doe eyes and those full, pink lips and there is nothing I want more than to kiss her, but my heart can’t handle much more.

  “You know that saying,” she begins, touching the bruise on my lip, “the one our coaches told us over and over?”

  “Which one is that?” I touch one of her curls, rubbing it gently between my fingers.

  “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take.”

  “Ah, that one.” I smirk. “As a goalie, I kind of hate that one.”

  She pinches my stomach, hard. “I’m ready to take my shot, Julian Anderson.”