by Alison Ryan
She looked down at her feet, suddenly uncharacteristically shy. “You’re like me, Solomon. We put it all out there on the field; on the mat. It’s how we survive. It’s all we know. I recognize it in you and I’ve never seen it in anyone else but myself. The fury.”
Solomon was inches from her now, towering above her. He wondered if she could hear his heart pounding in his chest. He decided it was time to take a chance.
He cupped her chin with his hand and pointed her face up to him.
“Watching you play,” he said. “Is like watching something special. I feel like I’m part of something big when I’m at one of your games. You’re so talented.”
Logan blushed. “I love that you watched me and I didn’t even know it.”
She was laying back on the mat now, her skirt riding up her thighs.
“I couldn’t take my eyes off you,” he said. He rested his body above hers now, wanting her desperately. His cock strained against his slacks and his belt buckle.
Her legs were parted slightly and without a thought, he ran one of his large hands up her inner thigh, making her whimper.
“Solomon,” she said. “Please fuck me. I’ve wanted you for so long. And tonight… I just want to feel something good. Can you do that for me?”
Without even answering, he pulled off the collared polo shirt he’d been wearing as she started to unbuckle his pants. He unbuttoned her skirt and pulled it off swiftly.
She wasn’t wearing any panties. He sucked in a breath.
“Logan,” he said. “You mean to tell me you’ve only been separated from me by a thin layer of cotton skirt?”
She smiled at him. “I had hopes for tonight.” She pulled off her shirt and wriggled out of her bra.
They were both naked. His eyes raked over her body. Her legs were fantastic; muscled and tan. Her waist had a defined curve to it. Like a guitar. He ran his hands up her naked body, making her nipples stiffen.
“Please,” she called out to him. “Solomon, I need you.”
He’d trained on that very mat she now lie naked on, for hours. Never in all that time had he imagined a moment like this. And now he’d never be able to imagine anything but her from now on, every time he was on the mat.
He entered her slowly, causing her to yelp as she adjusted to his size. He’d never been so hard, never wanted a woman like he wanted her.
She arched her back as he fucked her slowly, his hands under her ass where it met the small of her back. She came so easily for him, calling out his name as she did, making it so hard for him not to come himself. He resisted, all so he could prolong the pleasure of having her body.
He flipped her over, needing to take her from behind, desiring to own her in every position. She cried out and leaned into the mat, she was now on all fours. Her elbows dug into the floor as he pounded her relentlessly, never having felt something as good as Logan’s Lowery’s body.
“My pussy,” she called out, crassly. “You’re going to make it sore. But I like it. Harder, Solomon! Fuck me harder!”
He’d never have guessed Logan would be so assertive and so wonton in her need for him. But their bodies melded together like they were pieces of something that had been missing. He couldn’t get enough.
He never wanted this to end.
“I want to be on top,” she panted.
He was happy to oblige.
In that position Logan had more control of the pace. She slowed it down a bit and he watched her body rise and fall, her breasts being groped by his eager hands as she cried out from another orgasm ripping through her body.
“Logan,” Solomon said. “You feel too fucking good. I need to come.”
She nodded. “Missionary. So I can look at you.”
God, he almost came just from her saying that. He gently placed her on her back again and began to thrust into her slowly, than faster, until the tightness of her pussy was too much for him.
Solomon came hard and long inside of her, neither thinking to pull out, something that wasn’t completely wise on their parts, but in the moment it just didn’t seem to matter.
They lie next to one another for a long time after that, breathing hard, neither knowing what to say.
“I don’t want this night to end,” Logan finally said. “Ever.”
“Then let’s not end it. Not now anyway,” Solomon said as his cock started twitching again. “I have more in me, Logan. You’re going to be begging me to stop by the end of this night.”
Logan grabbed onto him as he began to fuck her again.
“Not likely,” she whispered into his ear. “I can take as much as you can give me, Solomon Kano.”
And she did.
“Good morning,” Logan said, snuggling into the crook of Solomon. Somehow after what had happened at the dojo, they had made it back to her dorm room. She’d remembered her roommate was out of town for a wedding which meant they had the tiny college dorm room all to themselves. And sharing a twin sized mattress didn’t seem like such a terrible idea when you had someone like Solomon sharing it with you.
“Yadra,” Solomon replied. “It’s Fijian for good morning, you’re really sexy.”
Logan laughed. “Is it now?”
Solomon smiled. “Yep.”
Logan sat up, wrapping a sheet around her still naked body. “Last night was… amazing.”
Solomon grinned. “That’s one word for it.”
“Well, what’s a Fijian word for it?” Logan said, pressing her forehead against his.
“Ha,” Solomon said. “It would be veivakadrukai.”
Logan’s eyes widened. “I’m going to stick with amazing.”
Solomon laughed. “There are no words for you, Logan Lowery.”
She kissed him again, and thought of doing more… But they needed to talk.
Last night she’d been swept up in the moment. It had been incredible and she had no regrets.
“I feel bad asking this,” Logan suddenly said as Solomon stretched his long, ropey arms as he leaned against her headboard.
“What is it?” Solomon said. “Breakfast?”
“Yes, definitely breakfast, but something else,” Logan’s voice trailed off for a moment. “Solomon, there is no one else I want but you. I can’t even imagine… I didn’t even know what happened last night was an actual real thing. It was by far the best night of my life, and certainly the most passionate.”
Solomon grinned. “The first of many.”
Logan closed her eyes. This would be hard.
“But it can’t be the first of many,” she said, not having the strength to look at his reaction. “At least not until after Rio. If I even make it to Rio.”
Solomon sat back, completely dumbstruck. He hadn’t expected this.
“I have to focus,” Logan explained. “And when I am around you… I do anything but. All I want to do is touch you, or kiss you, or think about you fucking me. I get lost in thought in class, at practice. And with national try outs coming up, I can’t afford to lose focus now.”
“So,” Solomon said. “We’re breaking up.”
He couldn’t deny it; he was hurt. The timing was just so odd. He’d made love to her all night. Hell, he’d been close to actually telling her he loved her, but now he was glad he’d resisted.
This was just… out of nowhere.
“No,” Logan said. “I just need a break from anything that isn’t soccer. But I don’t want to see anyone else.And it would kill me if you were to see anyone else.” She sighed. “I know I am being completely selfish and completely confusing and very unfair. But, Solomon, I have to make the Olympic team. For my dad.”
Solomon understood. He just didn’t agree with the way she was going about it. He had to focus on things too. But his desire for Logan was something he channeled into his sport. It helped him get better.
Maybe soccer was different. Or maybe just Logan was.
He leaned forward, taking her hand. “I hate this. After last night the very last thing I want t
o do is be away from you. This is going to kill me.”
Logan lied down next to him again, running her hands across his abs. “It’s not going to be easy for me either. I’m crazy about you, Solomon. If that helps. And I’m honestly not even sure I can stick to it. I think about you all the time.”
“Well,” Solomon finally said. “I will respect your wishes, Logan. But I’m not going anywhere. And in Rio, it’s going to be pretty hard not to want to spend a month with you in arguably one of the sexiest places on the planet.”
She leaned into him then, kissing him hard. He seemed to understand, but she couldn’t be sure.
But she had to try. They weren’t guaranteed another Olympics. Or even another day.
She knew it all too well.
So she had to give this her all. It was what might help her forget how broken hearted she still really was.
Chapter Seventeen
Solomon
Solomon respected Logan’s wishes for now and admired her from afar, watching her games in person when Xavier was at home, following her exploits on the internet when they weren’t. He regretted missing the final home game of her season, but he was in Brussels at his judo tournament, a major event on the European circuit, where he finished fourth in a very competitive field. Adonis DeCarlo was in attendance, but he withdrew with a shoulder injury before a potential quarterfinal matchup with Solomon.
Gavin and Sensei Shinji plotted Solomon’s course, and he was doing well enough that he seemed to have a shot at clinching an Olympic berth four years ahead of schedule. To make his own dreams come true, the make Gavin and his family in Fiji proud, to compete on the biggest stage in the world under the Fijian flag, to potentially humble Adonis, all these things motivated him, but once he realized Logan would possibly be part of the United States Women’s’ National Team in Rio, he needed no further inspiration.
He fought like a demon through the spring of 2016, and in mid-June Gavin received the news from the Fijian Olympic Committee and the Fiji Judo Association: Solomon Jack Kano was formally invited to represent the nation of Fiji at the 2016 Summer Olympics.
Gavin borrowed a tactic he recalled seeing on American Idol the next time he saw his nephew.
“Solomon, I heard from the FJA and the FOC today. I’m afraid it’s not good news.” Gavin’s demeanor was downcast, and Solomon practically physically deflated in front of him. “It’s. The best. News. Ever!”
Solomon looked puzzled, so Gavin let him off the hook. “You did it! You made it! You’re going to the Olympics!”
Confusion became joy, and Solomon lifted his uncle into the air and spun him in a circle as they laughed and hugged.
Solomon Kano, who by all rights should have perished in the same storm that claimed his parents, not only survived tragedy, he flourished. Being a product of two nations, two cultures, two clashing worlds, made him kailoma. It also made him a potential Olympic champion.
Chapter Eighteen
Logan
Logan touched down at San Diego International Airport an uncustomary bundle of nerves. Throughout her athletic career, even making the leap from high school to college, she’d always been buoyed by an unshakable confidence; as a youngster because she was bigger and faster than most everyone else, and as she got older because she just knew she was better.
She never lorded it over anyone, she worked just as hard in tryouts as players who were sure to be cut, and she neither expected nor received any special treatment based on her last name, her looks, or her talent.
But this week would mark her first time training with the national team.
You’re the best in the county? Big deal. Top dog in your state? Who cares? The thirty-three women she’d be joining had spent, in some cases, over a decade playing at the absolute highest level – competing at multiple World Cups, professional leagues on three continents, Olympics, and more. Most of them had grown up playing for youth national teams, learning the international game in their teenage years.
Logan had spent those same years swinging a bat and dribbling a basketball in little Dayton, Ohio.
She was terrified. And there was also Solomon. Even though she’d been the one to insist they take a break, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Her body ached for him. Giving him up had been the largest sacrifice she’d ever been asked to make in the name of the game.
But she couldn’t focus on that now. Or on her father, who she still mourned every day.
This was what she’d been training her life to do. This was the time.
It was time to rise.
The first leg of her trip took her from Dayton to Chicago, where she boarded a jet bound for California. For that portion of the trip, she made her debut in First Class.
She wore a blue Xavier Soccer t-shirt and jeans, with comfortable flats. Her feet bounced frantically, as they were wont to do when she had to sit in one place too long. Doctors had long ago promised her parents that all of their daughter’s excess energy would burn away at some point and she’d be able to focus more clearly and relax more easily, but that day had not yet come.
The plane sat and sat, waiting for one more passenger, and finally she arrived. A Middle Eastern woman dripping with jewelry and designer labels, a woman in her mid-sixties who could pass for late thirties, and who when she was in her thirties could have been a supermodel, Logan theorized.
She brushed past Logan into the empty seat beside her, seeming to regard her as one might a pest or a nuisance, giving her a sideways look through her expensive-looking sunglasses. She was one of those women who gave off a vibe of being annoyed by everyone and everything. First Class was probably as unfamiliar to her as it was to Logan, although in her case because it wasn’t a private jet.
Logan tried listening to her music and started going down a Wikipedia rabbit hole regarding the women she’d be meeting at national team training. Some of the names she’d known since middle school, women like Lori Gallagher and the DeCarlo twins, Angie and Allie. Others were like Logan, still in college, such as her nemesis from Notre Dame, Tara Rourke. There was even supposed to be a seventeen-year-old girl from Phoenix, Alyssa Guzman, who was being whispered about as potentially the best female American soccer player ever.
Reading the bios and resumes of the women she’d be competing against was doing nothing to calm her nerves, so she decided to strike up a conversation with her seat mate, extending a hand and introducing herself to the well-heeled woman.
“I’m Logan.”
Almost imperceptibly, the woman’s lip curled into a sneer as she shifted her gaze in Logan’s direction, holding it there just long enough to make clear her disdain before speaking, in heavily-accented English.
“Your hair reminds me of a young Shirley Temple.”
The woman made no motion to accept Logan’s offered hand, which she lowered back into her own lap.
“My grandfather used to say that all the time when I was little,” Logan replied. “May I ask your name?”
Taking so long to answer that Logan thought maybe she hadn’t heard her, the woman finally answered. “Zaynab.”
“That’s a pretty name. Where are you from?” Logan had never met a stranger and had the gift of being able to strike up a conversation with anyone, no matter the time or place. This was a trait that filled her mother with endless anxiety whenever she and her young daughter would leave the house. Many a time she’d go to place something in her grocery cart and turn around to find Logan had vanished. Inevitably, she was tagging along with another shopper, asking questions about things in their cart, talking to their children, or otherwise distracted.
“I’m from Persia,” Zaynab replied, dragging out the ‘r’ so long it sounded like a third syllable in the middle of the word.
“That’s Iran, right?” Logan asked, pronouncing the Middle Eastern nation as “Eye-ran”.
No longer trying to hide how irritated she was, Zaynab turned in her seat so that she was facing the effervescent young athlete. “Iran,”
Zaynab countered, (pronouncing it “E-rahn), “is a word that denotes the caliphate. My husband and I, our ancestors, are Persian. Persian influence on world culture is undeniable and pervasive. Iran is nothing with which my family associates itself.” Her tone was sharp, and Logan was taken aback, having clearly struck a nerve.
“My family is Irish on my Dad’s side and English on my Mom’s, but there’s also Swedish and Dutch if you back a few generations. What’s taking you to San Diego?”
Zaynab didn’t quite know what to make of her seatmate. Her reticence to converse was being completely ignored, pushing her out of her comfort zone. “I’m visiting my sister. Will you be asking for my blood type or credit history or anything else?”
“No, sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I’m a little nervous, I guess. I’ve never flown First Class before. And I’m going to training camp for the national team for the first time. Soccer, I’m a soccer player,” Logan offered.
“I’d never have guessed.” Zaynab replied, nodding in the direction of Logan’s t-shirt.
Logan looked down and laughed. “If everything goes well, I might be in the Olympics. But some of the players at this camp I’ve looked up, they’ve been heroes of mine for years. I don’t know where I fit in.”
As was her custom, Logan’s seatmate stared at her a good long while before speaking, translating the words in her mind from Farsi to English and arranging them in the proper sequence before uttering any of them. Zaynab wasn’t the type to ever embarrass herself with poor grammar, a hair out of place, or shoes that cost less than Logan’s entire wardrobe.
“The tears of the roasting meat kindle the fire even more.”
Logan was caught completely off-guard and couldn’t have been more perplexed, but Zaynab offered nothing more, either in the way of explanation or conversation.
“I am fatigued. I’ll sleep now.”
With that, Logan’s window into the world and mind of Arab wealth was shut.
