by R.S. Grey
“Ever since you moved to L.A., you’ve been like a little sister to me,” Kinsley had said on the way to the airport. “I feel responsible for you.”
Technically, I was Kinsley’s little sister on the soccer team, and though I appreciated her concern, I was ready to live a little. For so long I’d focused all my energy on soccer, but we had one week until our first match and I was ready to see for myself what kind of mischief the village had to offer. Viva Brazil!
THE VILLAGE WAS spread out over seven compounds with high-rise condos and apartments lined up along one main road. The shuttle drove us toward the entrance of our building, and I counted the amenities along the way. There was a coffee shop beside a flower shop. Cafes were sprinkled in among a doctor’s office, banking center, salon, and post office. Anything we could possibly need was within walking distance.
We arrived at a crosswalk and our shuttle paused to let the crowds cross in front of us. It looked like move-in day on a college campus. Athletes spilled out of cars and vans, sporting their national colors. Everyone was weighed down by their suitcases and duffel bags, tired from hours of travel. We were all there to work hard and represent our countries in the games, but now that we were all mixed together, there was an undercurrent of excitement in the air.
“There he is!” Michelle shouted, tapping her finger against her window. “Freddie! Look!”
I followed her finger, trying to discern a British athlete in all the madness.
“Where?” Kinsley asked, shoving past Becca to get to the window.
“That’s my boob, jerk. Get off!” Becca said, pushing her back.
I tried to find him, but the sidewalk looked like an explosion of color. Athletes were weaving between one another and the second I’d spot what looked to be someone sporting British colors, they’d disappear back into the crowd.
“I don’t see him!”
Michelle groaned. “Look! He’s the tall guy with the brown hair!”
“Right, Michelle, because that really helps,” Kinsley said, giving up and falling back onto her seat.
I laughed, prepared to give up as well, but then Michelle screamed and pointed out the front window. “THERE! HE’S RIGHT THERE!”
I wedged myself in between Becca and Kinsley and froze as Freddie came into view, framed in the center of the windshield as he crossed the street.
God save the queen.
“Damn,” Nina whispered, clawing her fingers into my arm so she could push herself up for a better view. Damn didn’t begin to cover it. Damn was a word for ugly peasants. This Freddie? The sight of him begged a rousing “good heavens” with a polite undertone of “new pair of panties, please”. His face was so handsome I blinked three times before letting myself believe I was looking at a real live human.
“Look at his jawline,” Nina said in awe.
“Look at those lips,” Michelle whispered.
“He’s so tall,” Nina replied. “Oh my god…he’s so much better in real life.”
I tried to ignore their assessments so I could take in his features for myself. He had rich brown hair and a pair of eyes that looked to be a few shades lighter. Caramel. His skin was tan and clean-shaven and anyone with a pair of eyes could see the muscles hidden beneath his button-down. But for me, it was the slow-spreading smile he aimed at the media liaison leading him across the street. That was the moment my stomach flipped.
“I forget,” Becca said, turning around to look at the three of us in the back seat. “Is it ‘The British are coming’ or ‘The British are making me come’?”
Kinsley laughed. “We never should have declared independence. Do you think we can take it back?”
“Where do you guys think he’s going?” Michelle asked, ignoring them completely.
“Probably to an interview,” Nina answered.
There was no doubt he had the looks for TV, but more than that…he was intriguing. Frederick Archibald was an entity unto himself, and as the shuttle pulled forward, I stared back at him through the window and wondered if maybe Michelle and Nina were right. There was definitely something about Freddie Archibald, and if I were going to make a list of sexy athletes in Rio, it’d start with him.
Chapter Two
Freddie
“WELCOME TO GOOD Morning America. I’m Nancy Rogers, joined this morning by Frederick Archibald, the enigmatic British swimmer with no less than sixteen gold medals to his name.”
The camera panned to me and I waved to the audience. The studio lights made it hard to see five feet from my face, but I could just make out Thom, my teammate, standing beside the cameraman having a laugh.
“Welcome to the show, Freddie,” Nancy continued, angling her body toward me. “When did you first arrive in Rio?”
“Just two days ago, actually. Flew over with a few of my other teammates.”
“I would have thought you all would just swim over! Kidding of course!” she screeched, drawing from the well of manufactured enthusiasm only available to middle-aged morning show hosts.
I took a patient breath before offering a small smile. “Would be a bit cold, that.”
“Well nonetheless,” she started, eying my physique. “I’m sure you would have been able to manage it. Your workouts must be so very grueling.” Is she hitting on me? “Tell us, do you plan on breaking the records you set during the London games?”
Fucking hell, I’d forgotten the kinds of questions they asked over in the States. What did she suppose I wanted to do? Lose?
“You’ve got it, Nancy. That’s the plan,” I said, deadpan.
She smiled, a fake sort of grin that made her face lopsided.
“You know, Freddie, your reputation definitely precedes you—even ‘across the pond’,” she tittered. “You’re known to everyone as the ‘bad boy’ of swimming.”
The camera zoomed in on my face as I glanced to Nancy and frowned. “Was that a question?”
She stammered and adjusted the lapel mic on her blazer. I wasn’t making the interview easy. It was thirty seconds in and I was having a go at her, but there was no point in dancing around it. I didn’t like press. I didn’t want to do interviews. My manager had insisted I take the interview, so this was what she’d get—ten minutes of awkward air time.
“You’re right. Silly me. I meant to ask, how does it feel to be the ‘bad boy’ of swimming?”
I laughed. “You’ll have to ask my mate, Thom. He chats up ladies far more than I do.”
It was a lie, but I needed some way to diffuse her question. Who actually refers to someone as the bad boy of swimming? I’d never get laid again if I went about saying that.
“Oh, I’m sure you’re being modest.”
I didn’t reply and she had to rifle through her cue cards to find the next question.
“Uhh, Freddie…” she stammered, eyeing the camera tentatively before turning to me. “It’s been four years since your last Olympic games and I understand that a lot has changed for you since then. Would you mind going into a bit of detail about the announcement of your—”
I shook my head to cut her off. I knew my manager had passed along a specific list of topics that were off-limits. “Nancy, this interview was meant to be about swimming.”
She smiled wider. “And it will be! I promise, it’s just that our viewers are dying to know what your plans are with the lovely Caroline.”
I stood and reached for my mic. “Sorry Nancy. Until my races are done in a few weeks, my focus will be in the pool and nowhere else.”
I passed my mic to the cameraman as I walked off the studio set. Thom wouldn’t stop laughing until we were back outside—the wanker. They probably couldn’t air the segment. It was less than two minutes, but I didn’t care. The media were vultures. They’d write what they wanted to whether or not I pretended to be a well-mannered gentleman.
“Freddie, do you think you’ll try to swim even faster this time around?” Thom echoed, doing his best impersonation of Nancy.
“Exactly!” I l
aughed and shoved his shoulder. “Of course I’m here to break my bloody records.”
“Did you really mean what you said to her?” He looked concerned. “About only focusing on the pool?”
“What? Have you already got plans for us or something?” I asked, reaching for my mobile. There were already three missed calls from my manager—she’d want to berate me for walking off the interview—but I skipped over them, content to ignore her.
“There’s a few swimmers heading over to Brian’s place, but I think we should stop in at this party the Brazilian swimmers are having. Blokes’ve got a theme and everything.”
Sounded ridiculous. “What’s the theme?”
“Says ‘Rubik’s Cube’ on the Facebook invite.”
I paused and turned to him. “Are they taking the piss?”
Chapter Three
Andie
WE’D ONLY BEEN in Rio for a few hours, but Kinsley, Becca, and I had already begun to settle into place. We were sharing a condo on the same floor as the rest of the team and though the three of us each had our own room and bathroom, we’d probably be joined at the hip the whole time anyway. Even then, they sat in my room watching me rifle through my clothes instead of unpacking their own things.
“What exactly is a Rubik’s Cube party?” Becca asked.
“It’s simple: everyone wears different colors—red shirt, blue shorts, green socks, whatever—and once you get to the party, you have to swap clothes with people until you’re wearing all of the same color.”
Kinsley tsked. “Sounds like an excuse to see people in their skivvies.”
I tossed my luggage onto my bed. “Yes, well, isn’t that basically the meaning of life in the first place?”
I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know they were exchanging one of their trademarked worried glances. They weren’t used to seeing this side of me. In L.A., I hadn’t gone out much, but that was because my entire day—6:00 AM to 6:00 PM—had been dedicated to soccer.
“Do you guys have any purple or orange clothes I can borrow?” I asked, reaching for a blue tank top and pairing it with red shorts. There was enough red, white, and blue gear stuffed in my suitcase to last a lifetime. They basically shelled it out to us in bulk as soon as we were called up for the national eam.
“I think this will look better,” Kinsley said, reaching around me for a giant white fleece I’d packed as an afterthought. It was technically winter in Rio, but it felt more like a mild L.A. summer.
She laid the fleece out over the blue tank top and then offered me a proud smile. “Yeah, see. That’s adorable.”
Ten minutes later, I had the outfit I wanted to wear: blue tank top, red shorts, white knee-high socks, and a yellow trucker hat I’d picked up at the airport. It had Rio de Janeiro spelled across the front in scrolling cursive. On top of that outfit, Kinsley and Becca had laid out their choices for me: black track pants that covered every inch of skin from my navel to my ankles, the white fleece, and a red scarf they dictated should be worn like a burka.
“Oh, and you can keep the white socks,” Kinsley said, like she was doing me a big favor.
Becca nodded. “Yeah, and maybe just wear the hat over the scarf?”
“I think I can handle it from here.” I started to usher them to the door, sweeping my arms back and forth so they’d get the picture. “You guys have helped enough.”
After they left, I used my suitcase to barricade the door. I changed quickly, pulled my blonde hair out of its ponytail, and shook it out. Loose, long waves framed my face, and when I put the trucker hat on backward, it took the edge off my feminine features. I smirked at my tan reflection in the bathroom mirror. Night one in Rio was going to be a good one.
“ANDIE! Let us in!” Kinsley yelled, banging on my bedroom door.
Or not.
I grabbed my phone from my bed, pushed my suitcase aside, and pulled the door open to find Kinsley and Becca changed and ready for the party. No. Just no. They looked absolutely ridiculous in matching red Adidas track suits, black hats, and sunglasses. Either they’d just walked off the set of an 80s music video or they were now officially part of my security detail. Either way, I wasn’t going anywhere with them.
“What the hell, you guys? I’m not walking into the party with you two dressed like that.”
They followed me out of the condo, adjusting their hats and assuring me they’d blend in just fine. I knew better. Sure they were still sexy, confident, kickass soccer players, but they’d lost a little of that edge. Once Liam and Penn had “put rings on it”, there was nothing left to keep them from becoming real adults. (They literally got excited over a Friday night spent watching Parks and Rec reruns before turning in at 9:00 PM.)
“What about your husbands?” I asked, reaching for some legitimate reason to block them from coming with me. “Surely they don’t want you two mingling with a bunch of eligible bachelors.”
“While you’re correct in your assessment that I’ve still ‘got it’,” Kinsley said with a gesture at her bright red tracksuit. “I’ll have you know Liam trusts me and made me promise I wouldn’t let you go alone.”
I groaned. Liam too?! How many parents did I have on this trip? I tried to walk faster, hoping that if I took four steps for every one of theirs, I’d eventually lose them. No such luck. They picked up the pace and linked their arms with me, successfully shackling me to my embarrassment.
“This will be fun!” Becca said with a little skip in her step. “Girls night!”
Kinsley nodded. “We don’t have practice until noon tomorrow so we should be able to let loose.”
Kinsley and Becca were only four years older than me, but when we arrived outside the party, it felt like I was walking in with my parents.
“Whoa, a disco ball!” Becca said, pulling us through the door. “Who packs a friggin’ disco ball for the Olympics?”
The Brazilian swimmers ushered us inside with big smiles.
“Good evening, ladies,” one of them said with practiced English and a heavy accent.
“Sorry! Liam Wilder already put a ring on it,” Kinsley said, waving her left hand in the air like Beyoncé. Becca did the same, and since they had death grips on my arms, I couldn’t slink away. Their wedding rings formed a veritable force field of chastity around us that no one seemed to notice but me.
“Should we get some punch?” Becca asked.
“We should really only be drinking water this close to competing,” Kinsley said.
Dear god, I needed to get away from them.
“Guys, I’m going to head to the bathroom,” I said, sliding out of their grips.
Becca looked alarmed, as if needing to pee was an admission of some untold guilt. “Oh, should we all go?”
“NO!” I shouted, then lowered my voice to a whisper. “I, uh…I need to poop.”
“Oh, someone’s neerrrvvouuuusss,” Kinsley said with a knowing smirk.
“It’s her first Olympic party, of course her bowels are moving Kins!” Becca laughed.
I closed my eyes, took two deep breaths, and then slapped on a fake smile. “Honestly, I’m so glad you guys came with me. I’m just going to head over to the restroom and when I get back, we can party together the rest of the night.”
My fake speech threw them off, so much so that they let me go to the restroom all by myself; as a twenty-one-year-old, I never thought that would be an issue. Fortunately, the second I was out of their sight, I finally saw the party for what it really was: a playground.
The Brazilian guys had a condo that was at least twice the size of ours. The living room was packed from wall to wall with a multinational bevy of Aphrodites and Adonises. Kinsley and Becca were holed up in the foyer, and as I wove through the party trying to find a restroom I didn’t actually need, I realized it wouldn’t be hard to steer clear of them for the rest of the night.
Everyone was shouting over the music, and I couldn’t distinguish one accent from another. I caught passing words in English, but
by the time I turned, I couldn’t tell who’d said what. I made it past a rowdy group of guys who were blocking my path to the drinks table, but I weaseled my way through, mostly unnoticed thanks to their gargantuan stature.
“Oy! Where you going?” one of them asked with a heavy accent as I pulled a beer from the table and tried to slink back into the madness.
“Oh.” I laughed. “Just grabbing a drink.”
I wiggled the can back and forth and they all broke out into smiles. Clearly, they approved of alcohol. Between their stature and thick beards, they looked like a group of Vikings who’d accidentally time traveled to 2016. One of them had on a rugby shirt that looked big enough to cover my whole body, which made perfect sense. They were definitely part of a rugby team.
“All right, well you guys have fun,” I said, trying to shimmy past them.
The one who was closest to me—a giant with a red beard that stretched down past his chin—clapped me on the shoulder. My knees buckled under the weight. “Stay! Drink!” he bellowed.
I thought it over for a second. Drinking with a bunch of rowdy rugby players hadn’t really been in my vision for the night, but if I stuck with the Vikings, Kinsley and Becca would never be able to find me. I scanned across them again, and wide cheeky smiles flashed back at me. Crooked or missing teeth were par for the course, but they seemed fairly harmless—so long as none of them thunder-clapped me on the shoulder again. It literally felt like getting hit by car.
Ten minutes later—the details were fuzzy—Gareth (bearded dude) had hoisted me up onto his shoulders and was parading me around the party like a piñata. His teammates formed a scrum around him, and they all taught me a drinking song, one that sounded like a sea shanty borrowed from pirates in the Victorian era.
“What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor early in the morning?”
I didn’t actually know the words, but I was singing along with them at the top of my lungs just the same.
