by Jesse Gordon
It started innocently enough: Monica and the rest of the team situated themselves at the table, with Tracie as the centerpiece (Monica and Lisa to her left, Kristen and Alana to her right, and Linda waiting offstage). The first question was from a bespectacled, slick-haired reporter named Dan Goodberg.
“Hello, Monica,” Dan said, smiling in a disarming fashion.
“Hello,” replied Monica, smiling back.
“You’re going to be fourteen in a few months, correct?”
“In April, yes.”
“That makes you the oldest member of the U.S. Patriot team.”
Monica shrugged. “It’s not too much of a big deal. I used to serve as ‘Big Sister’ at my club back home. I know what it’s like to be the old woman.”
Polite laughter reverberated throughout the assembly room.
Another of the reporters stood, introduced herself, and asked, “Monica, how does it feel to be on the Patriot team, and as the team captain, no less?”
Monica said, “Oh, it’s exciting—it’s just about the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Another question from Dan (who’d remained standing): “I would think so, what with your meeting Darren Hades and all.”
“Well, actually, I haven’t met him just yet—”
Tracie cleared her throat, cutting Monica off. “Mr. Hades is currently occupied elsewhere.”
“I can see that,” muttered Dan, smirking.
In her peripheral vision, Monica saw Tracie’s demeanor darken a notch or two.
A third reporter stood, stepped slightly forward. Addressing Monica, she asked, “You recently came out of retirement, yes?”
“Yeah,” Monica replied tentatively (Tracie had started to lean forward, and looked like she had something to say, though she kept her silence).
“Do you feel you’re ready to jump back into the sport as a Patriot elite?”
Tracie appropriated the nearest microphone. “Monica has signed a one-year contract, as have all our girls. Mr. Hades and myself are confident she will see her term through.”
The reporter smiled. “I don’t question Monica’s—or any of the other girls’—commitment. I was referring to her physical state.”
Tracie moved to deliver another rebuttal, but not before Monica (hoping to diffuse a potential P.R. bomb) answered, “I’ve never stopped training. I have a small gym at home where I’ve been doing all my conditioning, usually between four and six o’clock, after school.”
Tracie’s expression softened just a little.
Thankfully, the next reporter decided to address one of the other girls—namely Alana (who looked least prepared to answer to a room full of strangers):
“Will you be upgrading your Tsukahara vault, as alluded to by your former coach during the National Convention?”
“I’m not sure,” Alana said, her voice tiny, fairy-like. She looked to Tracie for guidance. “I guess it would be up to my new coaches.”
Dan Goodberg, still standing, his list of questions at the ready: “You haven’t met Mr. Hades either?”
“No.”
“Tell us, Alana, dear: How confident are you going into the new competitive season without a game plan, without having met your to-be coach and savior of the NAU’s ailing national rank?”
“It’s only our first day,” Monica offered, noting poor Alana’s “Help me!” expression. “We haven’t even seen the training room yet—”
“Er, what Monica means to say,” said Tracie, cutting in again, “is that Mr. Hades prefers to spend his time focusing on his athletes, in the gym, instead of giving superfluous interviews such as this—”
“Yet,” pushed Dan, “he seems perfectly at ease ignoring this particular shipment of recruits—”
“As has already been stated, the girls have only just arrived, but will be properly incorporated into the team shortly. Now, if there are no more questions, Mr. Goodberg—”
“One more,” said Dan, smiling that devious smile of his (all around him, the flock of reporters seemed content to watch their colleague play with fire).
Tracie was seething. She’d obviously done battle with the likes of Dan Goodberg before. “If it’s appropriate—”
Not waiting for a complete acknowledgment, Dan asked, “What about the NPAA’s decision to return to the ‘one size fits all’ attitude, having one coach handle the national team without input from each individual athlete’s coach?”
“It’s obvious from the United States’ three-term slump that that attitude is invalid. What we need is consistency across the roster—”
“Or exclusivity.” Dan stepped forward so that he was very nearly resting his elbows on the podium. “Is there any truth to the rumor that Hades is compiling a skeleton-team, focusing solely on his two top athletes—planning a pony show for Heroes’ Day?”
“That’s absurd!” Tracie exclaimed, looking as if she’d been slapped in the face. “Mr. Goodberg, are you here to hand out wild accusations or to do an interview?”
Dan held up his hands and backed off. “My apologies if I’ve hit a sensitive spot.”
There was an uncomfortable silence as he took his seat and the next reporter stepped up to bat—which wasn’t really necessary, because Dan had already asked the questions everyone else had been too polite to ask. Now, all that was left was the fluff: the girls’ stats, their favorites, their opinions on which current pop-culture icon was cutest. When these sorts of topics were exhausted, the U.S. team was excused from the podium, and the next team was prepped.
John caught Monica on the way out.
“You’re quite popular with the newsmen,” he whispered in passing.
“Monica,” Tracie barked, pointing towards the exit. “On task, please.”
John giggled, waved goodbye.
* * *
The remainder of the day was spent learning protocol.
“The door scanners are coded to only accept commands from those with clearance,” Tracie said while instructing the girls on how to get around the station with the proper hand gestures. “Your rank grants you access to all civilian-level compartments, as well as a few privileged areas, such as your home stripe, the training rooms, and many areas of the promenade.”
In the cafeteria, she showed Monica how to work the food kiosks. “As team captain, you’ll be responsible for properly guiding your teammates’ eating habits whenever Hades or myself are not around.”
“Banana cream pies for all!” Monica joked.
Tracie frowned and returned the team to their room. She sat with the girls and went over timetables, as well as proper etiquette regarding training sessions. By the time she was through, it was knock-off time.
“Not you,” Tracie said, gesturing for Monica to follow her out into the corridor.
She complied, stepping away from the door and letting it slide shut. “Yes, Coach Tracie?”
“You need to be more aware of your responsibilities.”
Monica blinked. “Sorry?”
“The press conference—it was a disaster.”
“I don’t understand—”
“That Goodberg fellow had his way with us and then tossed us aside. Who knows what sorts of things he and his cronies are putting into their stories—”
“I could’ve handled the questions,” Monica said. And it might have helped if you didn’t flip out every chance you got.
Tracie glanced over her shoulder, as if someone might be eavesdropping. When she looked at Monica again, there was a grave expression on her face (well, more so than what was typical for her). “This is probably the only free moment we’ll have before winter break, so listen closely. It’s not about me and you. It’s about us versus them. We have an image to uphold, and whether or not you agree with it, it’s your duty as a Patriot to uphold that image, for team and for country. Those newshounds are the enemy, always feeling along the seams for cracks. Never be forthcoming with more than a simple answer to any and all questions. Give them fluff i
nstead of facts. Anything that has to do with our training philosophies, our attitudes as Patriots, you let me or Coach Hades answer. Is that understood?”
Monica nodded. “Yes,” she said.
“Good. Now, make sure the lights are out by 21:00—we begin tomorrow, bright and early.”
Tracie turned and left.
Inside her quarters, Monica sat on her bunk and sighed.
“What was that about?” Kristen asked. (She and the others had swapped their uniforms for shorts, sweats, tees.)
It was difficult to understand Tracie’s motives. Certainly the woman wasn’t anything like she’d expected—Olympus wasn’t anything like she’d expected. Regardless, Monica knew it was her duty to keep her teammates at ease. Darren Hades’ right-hand woman may have fumbled her first impression, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t just having a bad day (though it would be satisfyingly easy for Monica to simply shake her head and say, “Coach Tracie is a bitch!”).
It’s only our first day, she reminded herself. The dust has to settle. Given time, she was sure Tracie would mellow out.
Given time.
CHAPTER 16
The homesickness didn’t hit that first night aboard Olympus. Everyone was too wired, too excited, too exhausted to sleep. Bedtime wasn’t wasted, however. Without Tracie hovering over them, Monica and her new roommates could do all the gushing and babbling they’d had to forgo throughout the day. They swapped stories, traded ideals. Eventually, at some obscure point in the early morning, everyone returned to their bunks and got what little sleep there was to be had before the new day began.
06:00 came hard and fast. It seemed like Monica had barely closed her eyes when suddenly Coach Tracie was breezing into the room, clapping her hands, and shaking everyone from their beds.
“Alarm off,” she said as she brought up the lights.
Monica yawned and swung her legs over the side of her bunk. She exchanged brief glances with the other girls, who appeared to be just as clueless as she was concerning their being roused an hour early.
“Coach Hades,” said Tracie, assuming an authoritative stance in front of the door, “would like to make an early assessment. You have five minutes to get changed and to have your bags ready.”
Monica left her bunk, began preparing along with her teammates. “We’re supposed to get bathroom time,” she said.
“This is the international space station,” said Tracie. “Having a new, preemptive Olympic training program means having upwards of 10,000 athletes vying for the same space. Adjustments must be made, lest we waste taxpayer resources standing in line for the toilet. Besides, there are restroom facilities at the gym.”
Monica started to protest again, but Lisa, who was standing nearest, nudged her in the side and gave her a look as she wriggled out of her pajamas. Kristen and Alana followed suit, so that by the time Monica had finally slipped into her warm-up gear, the others were already dressed, waiting.
(Though Tracie didn’t offer any hints, Monica knew on the way out that she’d earned herself a deduction of some kind—she would have to keep her moves polished, she realized. In and out of the gym.)
Tompkins was waiting in the corridor. He had two security officers with him. Their name tags read “Kim” and “Cross.”
“Good morning, ladies,” Tompkins greeted, bowing slightly.
Kristen yawned.
Taking the lead, Tracie directed her troop down the corridor. There were other NAU members up and about, many carrying towels and toothbrushes as they headed towards the bathroom. A few smiled or nodded.
During the ride into the promenade belt, Monica turned to Tompkins and asked, “So, you’re our bodyguard?”
“I prefer ‘personal escort,’” Tompkins replied, and winked. “Sounds much better, doesn’t it?”
Monica smiled. She liked Tompkins—especially amidst this early-hour abundance of bloodshot eyes and puffy faces—and gave him an extra point in her mental score book.
For the remainder of the ride, she sat quietly and took in the sights. The view was spectacular, with the “morning” sunlight filtering through the mirror system above and illuminating the gently sloping landscape. There were buildings, trees, grass, a wide watercourse—the torus was a slice of the Earth encapsulated in space for safe keeping.
“Look,” Lisa whispered, pointing off into the distance, where the Olympic Arena sat proud on its hilltop. This got the girls smiling, winking at each other, looks of, I can’t believe I’m actually here! on their faces.
The transport dropped the team off outside an NAU training lot, which contained about half a dozen converted warehouses speckled between stacks of concrete blocks, piles of lumber, and gatherings of bulldozers and cranes. The entrance to the lot was guarded by a small gaggle of security officers who waved their wands, checked their rosters, and motioned Monica’s group inside.
The gym itself was nearly five times the size of the Keenes’, and the equipment was untarnished, the paint unchipped. Back at KG, the air-conditioning system had never worked; here, the air was crisp and cool, enough to raise the goose flesh on Monica’s arms—but she knew it would feel good once she was warmed up.
Tompkins and his men took up post on the perimeter as Tracie led the girls to the washroom. There, Monica understood Hades’ desire to get an early start, as several members of the Canadian and Mexican teams were already availing themselves of the showers, sinks, and mirrors. In another hour or two, the place would be crammed with people, virtually inaccessible.
“There’ll always be a reporter or two lurking on the fringes,” Tracie explained. “You need to get used to looking your best, even in training. I want your complexions clear and your smiles bright.”
There was little room for modesty. Nozzles were lined up in a row. It wasn’t as eloquent as Monica would have liked, but no one seemed interested in prurience, and so she disrobed, ducked in for her shower. The other girls followed along like little ducklings, not saying much as they soaped, lathered, rinsed, and dried off. Once they were spruced up, in their leotards, their hair scrunchied (or, in Monica’s case, pinned appropriately out of the way), they exited the washroom and presented themselves to Tracie, who nodded approvingly and led them back out into the training area. Jackie Davisson and Britney Lawler, who’d been delivered during the interim, and who were already gussied up and ready to go, sat at the edge of the podium listening to their portable music players.
“Coach Hades will be along shortly,” Tracie said, glancing at her wristwatch. She stepped onto the podium to check the various apparatus. “Wait quietly.”
Monica, Lisa, Kristen, and Alana set their gym bags down and sat alongside Jackie and Britney. Since neither of the girls offered more than an obligatory nod, Monica took the initiative and introduced herself, her roommates.
Jackie, her sun-kissed complexion and wheat field locks even more dazzling in person, removed one of her ear buds. Sizing up the new Patriot team with a lukewarm glance that lingered on Alana, she said to Monica, “Wow, you have a lot of work to do, don’t you?”
Her question was posed so matter-of-factly she couldn’t have meant any insult. Nevertheless, Monica felt the heat rising beneath her cheeks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everyone’s so…new,” Jackie said. “Well, not you—you’re the veteran, of course. But them…wow.”
Monica had only known her roommates for a day, and had absolutely no idea what their work ethic was like. Still, her instinct was to stick up for them. “They’re good workers. They wouldn’t be here otherwise. And anyway, we’re all new. We all have a lot of work ahead of us.”
Jackie shook her head. “Britney and me, we’re the specialists. You’re the all-arounders.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning Darren will be working with me and Britney as the front-liners, and Brenda will be working with you girls as support.”
“Brenda?”
Jackie rolled her eyes. “Brenda Tracie. Your coach.”<
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Again, Jackie seemed to be speaking matter-of-factly, with no more guile than that of a six-year-old blatantly pointing out her father’s bald spot in front of company—but for an international competitor, she had little of the acquired social grace Monica had found to be common among elite athletes, junior or senior.
Keeping her smile, Monica asked, “Anything we should know about life with Hades and Tracie?”
“This is it,” replied Jackie, reseating her ear bud and clicking through her playlist. “Watching and waiting—oh, and if there’s time, we do a little training.”
Britney snickered, bobbed her head to whatever tune was blaring through her ear buds.
Monica waited, watched the other teams warming up at various spots around the training room, the girls in their sleeveless leotards, the boys in socks and shorts. When Darren Hades strolled out into the open, more than a few heads turned in his direction—if not because of who he was, then because of how rare it was to see him as a living, breathing entity (and not just a still photograph or video clip posted on his NPAA profile page). Dark-haired, broad-shouldered, handsome, he possessed a boyish sort of charisma that had Monica swooning inwardly despite her best efforts.
All ear buds and wandering gazes disappeared as Hades came to stand over Team USA, clipboard in hand, eagle eyes looking the girls over.
Monica sat, listened, the butterflies fluttering madly in her stomach as, after his visual inspection, Hades launched into the obligatory pep speech:
“Heroes’ Day is almost a year away—an eternity. And yet I can guarantee you the time between now and then will absolutely fly. As you all know, the beginning of each competitive season is the fiercest in terms of scores, national rankings—clubs from all over the country are touting their best for a crack at the Patriot team. I don’t have to tell you that, due to an unfortunate series of events, we’ve decided to re-structure our game plan. Your scores have gotten you a pre-approved membership—you are specialists aboard Olympus, and your teammates are your coworkers. You are America’s Heroes; our time together, as well as your performance at December’s Pre-Season Assessment meet, will determine whether or not you keep the position. You are professional athletes. This is your job, your service to your country. Intra-team friendship can be useful, but professionalism is paramount.”