FURY: A Rio Games Romance

by Alison Ryan

  For the rest of the flight, she had but to ponder the proverb offered by her new friend. Was Logan the meat? Or the fire? Or the tears? Logan herself dozed off briefly somewhere over Utah, wishing she’d paid closer attention in Professor Chapman’s philosophy lectures.

  The group of thirty-four women wasn’t complete until after dinner on the eve of national team camp. Players had flown in from all over the country and a handful from overseas, where they played professionally. Many of them knew each other, whether from having played together in previous training with the national team or in college. The only faces familiar to Logan were assistant coach Megan Riffle and her rival from Notre Dame, Tara Rourke.

  Logan’s roommate was as much a fresh face as she was, a midfielder from Atlanta who had just completed her sophomore season at Florida State, a girl named Savannah Reeves.

  Logan had actually crossed paths with Savannah years earlier at a softball tournament in Virginia. Her team had faced an opponent from Georgia who had a tall girl with braids who seemed to hit a home run every time she came up to bat. Logan had never seen a girl hit like that, and she remembered her dad taking her to watch the girl play even after Logan’s team had been eliminated. They both marveled at her fluid swing and the way the ball flew off her bat like it had been shot out of a cannon.

  When they’d met that afternoon getting unpacked, Logan knew she looked familiar, but couldn’t place her. It was at dinner over pasta that the she finally put the pieces together.

  “Softball!” Logan exclaimed, clapping her hands.

  “Hmm? What?” Savannah wiped her mouth with a napkin and looked at Logan quizzically.

  “You played softball. I played against you in Virginia. In Richmond. When we were, I don’t know, like twelve or thirteen. You hit all these home runs.”

  Savannah laughed. “You played softball? I loved softball. But I gave it up in high school. My school was terrible at sports. I didn’t even play soccer there. I just played select soccer. But yeah, we used to go to the big tournament in Richmond. We won it two years in a row. We played you guys?”

  “Well, we didn’t put up much of a fight, but yeah, we played you. Even after we were knocked out, my dad took me to watch you play again. He was my high school coach. He was kind of obsessed. He said he’d never seen anybody hit like you. I guess he thought I’d pick up some pointers. It didn’t work though. He was so disappointed.” Logan’s heart fell a small bit, thinking of her father.

  “I wanted to try to play in college, but my coach was always against it. Wanted me to focus on soccer, soccer, soccer. I guess she was right; I mean look where we are. But I do miss hitting. We should sneak out of here and find a batting cage if we have any free time,” Savannah said.

  Logan and Savannah laughed their way through dinner, trading war stories.

  After dinner, the team was assembled in a conference room and addressed by head coach Nina Pressley, a former national team player with a reputation as a hard-ass.

  “Most of you I’ve met, some I haven’t, but I’ve seen all of you play. I’m Coach Pressley, this is Coach Riffle and Coach Stall. We’re here this week to narrow down this group of players into a team to play in the first round of Olympic qualifiers. If you make the squad, all that means is that you’ll have the opportunity to play in the qualifiers. Nobody is guaranteed a spot on the Olympic team. If you’re cut, that doesn’t mean you’re out. Injuries happen. Suspensions happen. Shit happens. If your name isn’t on the list at the end of the week, stay in shape and be ready. You may get a call. I’m not here to waste anyone’s time, I hope none of you are here to waste mine. We wake up and eat at 0600, bus leaves at 7:15, we’re on the field at 0800. The best way to get sent home is to be late. If you need the trainers for anything, Al and Jolene will hang around a bit after this. Any questions?”

  When nobody raised their hands, she dismissed the women, who wandered off to their rooms or to the hotel lobby.

  Logan and Savannah struggled to sleep that night, anxious to get on the field and show what they could do against the best of the best.

  The next morning, the pair of newbies got swept up into a whirlwind of activity, scarfing down breakfast, getting on and off busses, enduring icy glares from some of the veterans whose jobs they’d come to take, and getting their ankles taped, and national team practice gear straightened out.

  The morning began with light conditioning work and basic drills, and Logan felt pretty good. She was grouped with other defensive players, including Allie DeCarlo, one of a set of twins who’d been synonymous with the national team for a decade. Logan tried to be friendly with her, and with several of the girls, but Allie was all business and didn’t reply to Logan’s attempts at conversation.

  After the two of them had a particularly violent collision going up for a head ball, won by DeCarlo, the veteran player spat on the ground near Logan and issued a warning. “If that’s how they teach you to win headers at Xavier, you ought to pack your shit and head home now.”

  Logan was taken aback, and started to reply, but then it occurred to her – Allie DeCarlo knew who she was. She knew that Logan played for Xavier. Sure, she was being a bitch, but she’d obviously done her homework. Logan smirked, dusted herself off, and jogged back to the end of the line to continue the drill.

  The rest of the morning continued that way; Logan had her moments, but as things sped up, she often found herself an uncustomary step behind. What she expected to happen was rarely what did, and she found herself out of position and not quick enough to recover against women who possessed similar athletic gifts to her own. She had to get her head screwed on straight, and quickly, or this entire trip would just be for the brief sightseeing she’d done out the window of the plane and the budding friendship with Savannah.

  When the team broke for lunch and rest before the afternoon session, she compared notes with her roommate.

  “So, Angie DeCarlo is a complete bitch,” stated Savannah between bites of fruit salad.

  “Oh my God I was going to say the exact same thing about her sister!” Logan replied. “And Allie plays dirty! She was coming into challenges studs up half the time and throwing elbows like crazy.”

  “I honestly thought Angie was going to drop an N-bomb. She just runs her mouth constantly. If I hear that word come out of her mouth – she has no lips, by the way, neither of them do – I swear I’m going to fight her, even if it gets me sent home. Fuck her. I can handle Coach Pressley riding me, but I don’t need it from a teammate.”

  Logan laughed hysterically. “I know! Seriously, how can they kiss with those mouths? But don’t hit her. I need you here. You have to promise.”

  “I won’t. I mean not punch her. But I’ll sure as hell get physical with her bony ass. Lori G is cool though. And that high school girl, Alyssa? Wow. I mean capital W wow. I’ve never seen anybody dribble like she does. I think we’ll probably scrimmage this afternoon. She’s all tricks and fakes and feints. Don’t get embarrassed by her, girl.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. If I get a chance to knock some sense into either one of the DeCarlos, I’m going for it.”

  The pair exchanged high fives and enjoyed some quiet; Logan listening to music and reading a Jodi Picoult novel. Savannah put her earbuds in and drifted off to a light nap.

  The afternoon session involved drills and then some small-sided games under the watchful eyes of the coaching staff.

  Logan and Savannah wound up being paired with Alyssa Guzman and another newcomer to camp, UCLA striker Mal Sinclair. The coaches purposefully selected the newbies to play against four veterans – the DeCarlo twins, Lori Gallagher, and midfielder Abby Yang, a valuable reserve player during the last Olympic and World Cup cycles.

  To put things simply, it was a disaster for the new girls. The veterans seemed to be three steps ahead mentally, passing circles around the younger quartet and shutting down everything Logan and company tried when they had the ball. After the fifth (or was it sixth?) goal scored by th
e older group, against very little resistance, Coach Pressley blew her whistle to call a halt to the bloodletting.

  “If the four of you don’t want to be here, don’t waste my time. Just let us know this is too tough for you and we’ll ship you home. When I was your age, I’d have seen something like this as an opportunity and I’d have given it my all. This is bullshit. I could go down to the local high school and get four girls who would put up a better fight than this. Do any of you want to get your things and leave now?”

  Coach Pressley glared at the four girls on the losing side of things, who stood silently. Allie DeCarlo snickered.

  Not used to being mocked, or losing, Logan spoke up. “No ma’am, we’re not going anywhere. Give us a minute.”

  Without waiting for the coach, the national team coach, to reply, Logan pulled her three teammates into a tight circle, with her arms around the shoulders of Savannah and Mal, who followed her lead and pulled Alyssa in close. Logan was the only one in the circle who spoke.

  “The tears of roasting meat kindle the fire even more. Understand?”

  She looked around to see confusion on the faces of her teammates.

  “Fuck it. I don’t understand it either. Somebody on the plane told me that. Anyway, we’re here for a reason, right? And it’s not to be sacrificial lambs. Stop playing scared, right now. Stop showing them so much respect. Get stuck in! We’ve got this. Look in my eyes. Stay with me. I’m not fucking going home. I’m going to Rio. And if I have to drag all three of you with me, you’re all coming, too. Let’s do this!”

  Logan watched the nerves of her teammates melt away. She knew she sounded like a crazy person, but if it helped to loosen everyone up, she didn’t care.

  She suddenly realized it. She’d turned into her father.

  They broke their huddle to look over at the DeCarlo sisters juggling a ball back and forth, effortlessly keeping it aloft while Lori and Abby stretched.

  When play resumed, Logan and Savannah were everywhere. The vets may have been able to read the game better, to anticipate what their younger opponents would do, but they weren’t prepared for the maniacal intensity and overwhelming athleticism brought to bear by Logan’s inspired troops. Alyssa began to express herself, dancing with the ball, drawing extra defenders and freeing space for Mal to get open and convert her chances. Logan and Savannah tackled brutally, and although Lori Gallagher was still the best player on the field, Allie and Angie began to play with more caution and started pulling out of challenges when they saw (and felt) how hard Logan and Savannah were coming in. Abby largely disappeared.

  By the time Coach Pressley blew her whistle again, her tone had changed.

  “Nicely done, Coach Lowery. I was ready to sack Coach Riffle. She’s the one who scouted you. But I’m starting to see why she was so adamant about you getting an invite to camp. Much better, all of you. Go line up for sprints.”

  As they jogged over to the rest of the group, Alyssa Guzman, at seventeen the youngest girl in camp by four years, sidled up to Logan.

  “Thanks, Logan.” She offered.

  “For what?”

  “If you hadn’t grabbed us like you did, I was about ready to get my stuff and go. This whole thing has been a real eye-opener.”

  Logan threw an arm around Alyssa’s shoulders as they jogged side-by-side and hugged her.

  “No problem, Alyssa. You were great out there.”

  That night at dinner, Savannah and Logan were joined at their table by Alyssa, Mal, Tara Rourke, and, to everyone’s surprise, team captain Lori Gallagher.

  The newbies, and even Tara, who had played alongside Lori previously with the national team, sat in stunned silence to be so near to someone each and every one of them had idolized growing up. In fact, aside from Logan, everyone else at the table had, at some point, worn a Lori Gallagher USWNT jersey, although four of them were replicas.

  “Hey, y’all. I’m Lori. Welcome to camp.” Despite having played on five continents and appearing in commercials and on magazine covers, Lori’s Alabama twang was as strong as ever.

  The group mumbled their greetings, trying to play it as cool as they could.

  Lori asked how everyone was getting on, gauging her potential new teammates to see how they were holding up under the stress of what amounted to a huge tryout, something most of them hadn’t endured since before they turned ten years old.

  The conversation began to flow over chicken and pasta and the girls became more at ease with their captain, comfortable enough to ask her some pointed questions.

  “So is Travis Zane as hot in person as he is on television and in pictures?” Mal asked, covering her mouth with her hands to stifle her nervous giggle. Lori had done a Sports Illustrated photo shoot for its swimsuit issue, in a section pairing athletes with people from the entertainment industry. Zane was a crooner known for washboard abs, a disarming smile, and a never-ending parade of models on his arm. After the shoot, rumors swirled that the singer and soccer star were an item.

  Lori smirked at Mal, finishing a forkful of chicken and washing it down before replying. “Travis is…” Lori pondered a while longer before finishing. “You know what, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Travis performs at the closing ceremonies in Rio. Does that give you any extra motivation to make the team?”

  The group laughed as Mal glowed red with embarrassment. As the ruckus died down, Savannah and Tara performed an admirable rendition of the chorus of his biggest hit – “Your touch, your kiss, every night with you is bliss,” which made Lori cringe and Mal feign crawling under the table to hide.

  After dinner, the team gathered for remarks from the coaches, who praised everyone’s effort, but indicated things would only be getting tougher, and to make sure everyone got plenty of rest.

  Savannah and Logan called home to fill in friends and family on the events of the day and fell asleep easily.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Logan

  By the fourth day of camp, Logan and Savannah were sore and exhausted. Things had ramped up the second day, and on day three the team had run on the beach together and sprinted up and climbed down a steep opening on the rocks where the road fell away to the ocean below.

  When their alarms sounded at 0600, it was only with great effort, accompanied by moans and groans, that the roommates rose from their beds.

  Following a light set of drills, the coaches called the remaining 32 players together at midfield. Two girls Logan hadn’t gotten to know very well had left camp with injuries, one a goalkeeper and the other a striker.

  “We’ve divided you up into two teams. Coach Stall and Coach Riffle will each take a group and work with you for the rest of the morning. This afternoon, you’ll scrimmage. Full-sized field, ninety minutes, referees, just like a real match. Everybody will play, we’ll have free substitutions, otherwise, just like a real game.” Coach Riffle addressed the team before her assistants read off the lists of players and the group separated into two units.

  Logan was relieved to see that Savannah, Alyssa, and Lori G were with her and Coach Riffle. They went over tactics and positioning, worked on a few set plays they hoped to use in the scrimmage, and broke for lunch. When they returned to the locker rooms after the break, Logan’s breath caught in her throat.

  Hanging beneath a placard that read “Lowery” was a #14 blue national team jersey. She ran the material between her fingers and felt tears in the corners of her eyes. She thought of her dad, and how proud he’d be of her. She recalled all the long drives in the car to tournaments, all the practices, the countless hours kicking a soccer ball off the side of her garage under the disapproving glare of their neighbor from two houses down, old Mrs. Pearson, always watching through her window, staring daggers through all the children on the street who dared to play outside.

  Her daydream was interrupted by the voice of Coach Riffle over the din of sixteen women going through their pregame rituals and getting dressed.

  “If you aren’t starting, don’t rea
d anything into it. Everybody will play. We’re opening in a 3-5-2. Cruz, Lowery, and Beierle on the backline.” Coach Riffle went on to announce the rest of the starters. A 3-5-2 meant they’d be playing with three defensive players, five midfielders, and two strikers. Lori G was in her customary spot in the center of midfield, the engine of the team. Savannah would begin the match on the bench, while Alyssa was on the right side of midfield, a winger.

  Logan was more used to playing as part of a defensive quartet, but she’d be in good company with national team veterans Jada Cruz and Leah Beierle flanking her. Jada, the daughter of a former Mexican professional soccer player and an American Olympic sprinter, looked like she belonged in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, an exotic beauty who’d become the USWNT player with the second-highest Q-rating on the team behind Lori Gallagher, although in Jada’s case more for her looks than her relatively modest accomplishments as a player. Not that she didn’t belong, she’d played in the last World Cup and acquitted herself well, but her fame owed itself more to casual fans stopping while flipping channels and wondering “Who is that?” than soccer purists seeking her out for her sublime skills, as they did for Lori.

  Leah was striking in her own way. Covered in tattoos and sporting a head of closely-cropped hair that changed color more often than most people change socks, Leah stood out in any crowd. Her hair was currently bright green, and when she wasn’t playing, the holes she’d volunteered to have put in her face outnumbered the ones nature had put there four to one.

  As they took the field, Leah and Jada slapped hands and then did the same with Logan.

  “Talk back here, rookie. Let us hear you. You’re in the middle, we’ll be going forward. Make sure our asses are covered back here,” Jada instructed.

  Logan knew that in a 3-5-2 that the fullbacks on the sides tended to go forward, overlapping midfielders, and that she’d be expected to stay back, with two defensive midfielders adding cover. She’d be the eyes for the players in front of her, with her voice letting them know what was happening behind them.