by R.S. Grey
“What shall we do with an all-i-gat-or? Something-something drunk James Taylor…EARLY IN THE MORNING!” I bellowed, tilting back and forth on Gareth’s shoulders. I’d chugged two beers and the alcohol was sloshing around my stomach in the worst way possible.
“Keepitup, lassie,” Gareth said, tilting his head back to look up at me.
“Oh my god! You just called me lassie!”
I threw my head back to laugh, which in hindsight wasn’t the most genius move. Shifting my weight back threw off Gareth’s equilibrium. Picture a tipsy raccoon on the shoulders of a bear. Sure, he weighed five times what I did, but he couldn’t counterbalance my weight and before I knew it, I was sailing for the ground in slow motion. There was a distinct moment when I thought, This is where a sexy man would catch me if I were a Disney princess. That thought concluded right as I collided with the ground with a heavy “oomph” and the air whooshed out of my lungs.
The music faded and the laughter died down as people formed a wide circle around me. Did they think I was dead or something? Wait, am I dead?
I blinked, and blinked again, trying to make out some definitive sign that I was still alive. The lights overhead swung back and forth, but that could have been the angels calling me to heaven—or y’know, hell, since that’s honestly where I was headed for lying to Kinsley and Becca about needing to poop.
A face leaned over me, blocking the heavenly (or hellish) light. I caught caramel eyes, dark hair, a defined jaw, and a pair of dreamy lips.
Was it God? Or…
“Are you the devil?” I asked the floating head. “Because I swear I was going to clean up my act really soon.”
The face laughed and I focused on the lips that had been moving and now stretched across a seriously cute face. If Satan was this handsome, I’d probably be able to handle the eternal damnation business.
“All right, I’m going to lift you up. Just give a shout if something hurts,” said the devil with a very cute British accent.
Hands wrapped around my shoulders and lifted me up to a sitting position. I could breathe again, and I didn’t feel any pain. I patted my elbows and my head. I surmised that I’d managed to fall very gracefully, like the princess I’d imagined earlier.
“All right?” the British voice asked again, coming around to face me.
The bobbing head was connected to a very, very handsome body. I took my time scanning over him until I reached his face and realized all at once that I recognized the devil.
“You’re Frederick Archibald,” I said with a small, shocked voice.
“I prefer Freddie—”
A slow-spreading smirk took hold of my heart just as Gareth rushed forward.
“Lassie!” Gareth boomed. “I’m sorry, but you’re too slippereh!”
The rugby team was all there surrounding me, probably awaiting my cue to send me off for a proper Viking funeral. I waved him away and pushed to stand. “I’m fine, really.” My wrist hurt, but that wasn’t from the fall. “I swear.”
There was another five minutes of them picking up my arms and turning me around to confirm I didn’t have a bone sticking out or something.
“I think she’s fine,” Freddie said, hovering just behind the rugby guys.
I stared up and smiled, finally getting my first real look at him. Either he was stealing my breath, or I’d lied about being okay earlier. Had I punctured a lung? Dislodged my heart?
The rugby team agreed that I was stouter than I looked, or that I looked like I needed another stout. Either way, they departed and I was left standing a few feet from Freddie, trying to work up something witty to say. He was wearing blue jeans and a red t-shirt. I couldn’t tell what color his boxers were, but if I swapped my pants for his, I’d be one step closer to completing my Rubik’s cube.
“Feeling better?” he asked, taking a step toward me.
I smiled. “Yes, but I need you to take your pants off.”
Chapter Four
Freddie
“YOU NEED MY trousers?” I asked, confirming that she had in fact said what I thought she’d said.
This girl was cute—more than cute, really. Her blue tank top rode up an inch or so on her trim torso, and one look at her long legs proved she played a sport in which she ran—loads. Her bluish gray eyes were hard to ignore, even with the lopsided yellow cap covering half of them.
She looked like that type of American girl blokes dream about: pale blonde hair and sun-kissed skin, as if she’d just walked off the beach. I told myself this was the reason why I wasn’t leaving her alone. She’d had an entire team of titans more than ready to keep her occupied for the night, and yet my curiosity had gotten the better of me.
She pointed to her red shorts and I caught another glimpse of her long legs. “Yes, we have to swap so that I can have blue pants and a blue top. It’s for the game. We have to leave the party wearing one color, and I guess my color is blue.”
I had no clue what she was going on about, but there was no way we were swapping trousers. Her shorts would hardly fit around my ankle.
“C’mon, you have to play,” she said, jutting out her bottom lip. Something told me she got away with murder having a pair of lips like that.
“I can’t give you these,” I said, “but my boxers are blue.”
Freddie, you dim perv. She doesn’t want your boxers.
Her brows rose in shock, but it didn’t last. The surprise faded into a smile and she reached out for my hand. “C’mon, we can change in here.”
I’d braced for a slap for even suggesting the idea, but maybe American girls were different. She led me past the drink table and we turned a corner down a long hallway. The party was less crowded back there, and every person we passed took one look at us, her hand in mine, and assumed the worst. The lads clapped me on the shoulder and the girls flashed jealous stares.
“Wait, I don’t even know your name,” I said as she knocked on one of the doors at the end of the hallway.
She turned and smiled at me over her shoulder. “Andie.”
I knew that name. “Andie Foster?”
“How’d you know?”
“You and the other football girls are the talk of the games.”
She arched a brow and nodded, not bothering with a response.
The room she pulled me into was an unoccupied bedroom. It had the same furniture as all the other rooms in the Olympic Village: standard queen bed, chair, and dresser. There wasn’t a suitcase or bag in sight.
“Looks like we’ll be safe in here,” she said, turning to face me. “But you’ll have to turn while I change.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but she was already working on the waistband of her shorts. I turned and stared at the opposite wall, trying to talk down the excitement in my pants. I could hear her pushing down her shorts. I pictured them sliding down her tan legs and I shoved my hands into my pockets and pinched my eyes closed. I had as much willpower as any bloke, but this was pushing it.
“Hey, I don’t hear you taking your boxers off over there,” she said with a laugh.
Oh, right.
I unbuttoned my trousers, pushing them down to the ground.
“Rest assured, I put these boxers on right before the party,” I said with a smile.
“I don’t care,” she said. “Here.”
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and then something landed on my shoulder…a red, silky something.
“Jesus.” I groaned under my breath. She’d tossed her panties at me, a red, lacy pair that felt like heaven in my palm.
That’s it. I’m moving to America after the games. It’s such a beautiful, beautiful country.
“Ahem!” She cleared her throat. “I need those boxers. My butt cheeks are cold!”
I’d survived more high-pressure situations than most blokes have by the age of twenty-seven. I’d competed in two Olympic games and swam in hundreds of races at the international level. None of those situations were half as difficult as facing away fr
om Andie in that moment. I knew she was standing behind me. Her bare skin was right there, all I had to do was turn around; she probably wouldn’t have even noticed.
“Freddie!”
Bloody hell.
I pulled my boxers off, ignoring the slight tenting situation occurring in the front. I walked backward, trying to hand them off to her like a gentleman. It seemed like a good idea right up until my hand brushed against her bare ass.
“HEY! Hands off the tush,” she said, yanking the boxers out of my hand.
“Ah, sorry,” I said with a cheeky smile. “My mum told me never to throw my knickers at a girl.”
She laughed, though I was more focused on trying to push aside the memory of how soft her skin had felt. I pulled my jeans back up and buttoned them.
“All right, they’re a little big, but it’ll work.”
I turned to find her rolling up my boxers so they wouldn’t fall down her hips. They were rather large on her, but by the second roll they seemed secure enough.
“How do I look?” she said, adjusting the hat over her hair.
Un-fucking-believable.
“ANDIE!”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“ANDIE FOSTER! We’re coming in!”
Fists pounded on the bedroom door right before it crashed open. Two girls jumped forward, one with pepper spray and the other with a bottle of beer poised to strike.
“We’re too late!” The brunette one had zeroed in on Andie’s knickers still clutched in my hand. “HE ALREADY HAS HER PANTIES!”
Chapter Five
Andie
I WOKE UP to Kinsley and Becca standing over my bed, doing their best impersonation of FBI agents. Their arms were crossed and their glares would have sliced me in half had I not been burrowed safely beneath my covers.
“What do you two want?” I asked, clutching a spare pillow beneath my chin.
“Sleep well, Andie?” Kinsley asked with an arched brow.
Apparently they had practiced the good cop, bad cop routine.
“Or was it pretty…drafty down there?” Becca asked, yanking the covers back to expose my blue tank top and matching pair of boxers—the pair Freddie had given me. They were loose around my hips, but I liked the feel of them and, SUE ME, I didn’t see the point of taking them off before going to bed.
“Planning on wearing those things to practice as well?” Kinsley asked, eyeing the boxers like they were contagious.
A quick glance at the bedside clock revealed I’d slept right through breakfast. I felt like total shit, but I wouldn’t let them know that. They wanted me to suffer after what I’d put them through the night before, but I wouldn’t.
I shooed them out of my room and changed into my soccer gear, taking care to shove Freddie’s boxers safely into my suitcase. I dragged my shin guards and cleats out into the living room and tossed them near the door before rifling through the cupboards for something of substance. The food court would have been my first choice, but I didn’t have time to go down before practice.
“Finding anything, Andie?” Becca asked.
The committee had filled the cupboard with snacks and food prior to our arrival. I reached in and grabbed the first thing my hand touched…a bag of kale chips, salt and vinegar flavored. “Yup. Mmmmmmm. I love the taste of vinegar in the morning.”
Kinsley held a granola bar between her thumb and pointer finger. I snatched it without a second thought. It was a peace offering of sorts, and as I trailed them to the bus waiting on the first floor of the condo complex, I decided to push the subject.
“You guys can’t be mad at me forever. I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You went off by yourself!” Kinsley said.
“Fraternizing with the enemy!” Becca added. “When you were supposed to be pooping!”
All right, they were being ridiculous, so I had to take extreme measures. I took my seat at the back of the bus beside Kinsley and dialed her husband’s number. Most people knew Liam Wilder as the rowdy ex-professional soccer player who’d been forced to retire due to a knee injury, but I knew him as Kinsley’s husband, the man who donned a chef’s apron on Sunday mornings to whip up enough eggs and bacon to feed a small village.
He answered on the third ring and sounded genuinely happy to get my call. “Andie!? What’s up? Are you guys headed to the practice field? I’m already here.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah we’re on our way LIAM.”
“What?” Kinsley tried to reach for the phone, but I pulled it out of her reach. “LIAM—don’t talk to her, she’s a traitor!”
Fortunately, he didn’t hear her. “I just spoke with Kins earlier—”
“Yeah, that’s great,” I said, cutting him off. “Listen, Liam, when you were in London for the last Olympics, did Kinsley ever go to any parties?”
He laughed, this long, drawn-out laugh that definitely proved my point without him having to say a word. “Ask her about the Russian gymnasts. That’s all I’ll say.”
“HA!” I shouted at Kinsley and hung up. “I rest my case.”
She was already firing off a text to Liam, no doubt threatening divorce.
“Was it fun partying with those gymnasts, Kinsley? Did you have so much fun?”
By this point, nearly half our team had turned around to listen to our argument. It was in Kinsley’s best interest to nip it in the bud to preserve her reputation as team captain.
“What I did in London is beside the point. Becca and I had Liam and Penn to protect us, but since you are basically an old spinster that nobody loves—”
“I’m twenty-one.”
“Right. Even still, we love you, and you’ve left us no choice but to be your chaperones for the remainder of the games. Every step you take, Becca and I will be there.”
“Every breath you take and every move you make,” Becca continued.
“Every bond you break, every step you take, we’ll be watching you.”
“Every single day and every word you say.”
I covered my ears. “Oh my god. STOP SINGING THAT SONG.”
But they wouldn’t stop. I had to listen to them going on and on until the bus pulled up outside the practice complex. I ran for it as quick as I could and decided then that I probably needed new friends. Maybe the Russian gymnasts would be down to hang out. I’d tower over them, but that’d be okay. Everyone needs one tall friend for reaching things on the top shelf.
Liam and Coach Decker were standing just inside the entrance of the stadium looking like the start of a bad joke. Coach Decker was fifty-three with short white-blonde hair and a face that promised she hadn’t laughed since the Nixon era. She’d worn the same pair of thin black-framed glasses for as long as I could remember and she was a damn good coach, even if she did scare me a little. Liam stood by her side, tattoos exposed down his arms, dirty blonde hair short and fussed up. He and Kinsley made quite an adorable pair, though I refrained from telling them so as their perfectly proportioned heads were already close to exploding.
“Good morning, Liam,” I said, tipping an imaginary hat in his direction.
He eyed me curiously and then glanced back to Kinsley and Becca walking into the stadium a few feet behind me.
“Are you three fighting?” Liam asked with what he probably thought was a chastising glare. It never worked the way Coach Decker’s did.
“No fighting,” I said, holding up my fingers. “Scout’s honor. Although your wife is a little crazy. You should have her head examined.”
“Liam! Do not talk to her about the gymnasts!” Kinsley shouted.
Coach Decker shook her head and clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“All right everyone. I know we’re all excited to be here for our first practice in Rio, but it’s time to focus. Kinsley and Becca, show the girls where to stash their bags and then Kinsley, I want you to lead warm-up.” She paused and turned toward me. “Andie, there’s a trainer over there ready to tape your wrist.”
I followed her gaze
and found a group of trainers stationed near benches off field. They’d propped up a small black table and as I walked closer, a small girl with black hair knotted on top of her head stepped forward to greet me. Her khaki pants didn’t fit well, but her team shirt was fitted and embroidered with her name under a soccer ball and an American flag.
“Lisa,” I said, reading her name off her shirt and holding out my hand. “I’m Andie.”
She nodded and ushered me toward the trainer’s table. “Good to meet you, Andie. I’ll be your trainer here in Rio and I’ll be with you at every practice and every game. We’ll set up times for you to come to the training center for some physical therapy exercises as well, but for now, hop up onto the table and I’ll take a look at your wrist.”
I did as she said and then started to walk her through the injury. It wasn’t career threatening; I’d just sprained it back in high school and it flared up every now and then. I’d gone through physical therapy for it multiple times, but unless I laid off it for a sustained period of time, it would never truly heal. Unfortunately, time was not a luxury I could afford.
“How does it feel?” Kinsley asked.
I glanced over my shoulder to find her watching the trainer as she worked. She flexed my hand, working the tape over and around my wrist so that it’d be supported during practice. I tried not to wince at the stab of pain, but Kinsley caught my mask slip. She shook her head and crossed her arms, but I shot her a death stare as the trainer bent to grab another roll of tape from her bag.
The trainer finished up and stepped back to examine her work. “Tell me if it’s secure enough,” she instructed.
I flexed and curled my hand, twisting it in a circle one direction and then the other. I could still feel a dull ache, but with the tape in place, it was more tolerable.
“How does it feel?” Kinsley asked again.
I nodded and shot her a thumbs up. As far as our coach and team trainer knew, my injury was minor and I was having it wrapped as a precaution. Kinsley knew the truth—that I was stepping into dangerous territory—but she also knew why I was downplaying it. Bones and tendons and ligaments all heal with time, but with the Olympics only occurring every four years, most athletes consider themselves lucky to earn a spot once or twice. So unless my wrist fell off, I’d stay on the field.
