by R.S. Grey
“Listen, I’d like to talk to you about Freddie for a second after practice. Seriously, wait for me.”
I promised her I would, though I really had no intention of sticking around for another Kinsley and Becca lecture. How quickly they’d forgotten what it was like to be young and single during the Olympic games. For years, my life of training and preparing for the games had left little time for anything outside of soccer. Sure I’d had a few random dates through the years, but nothing compared to what other girls my age were doing.
Giving up boys to play soccer on a professional level was hard, but in the end it was an easy decision. Growing up in Vermont, the only time I ever saw real action was on the soccer field. It thrilled me in a way no boy ever could. Most of the popular girls in my high school had assumed I was a lesbian because I preferred Adidas over Tory Burch and I didn’t know the difference between “beach waves” and “curls”. No, really, someone tell me what the difference is. To put the rumors to rest, I’d forced my first kiss behind the bleachers of my high school’s soccer stadium with pimple-faced Kellan who was a year younger than me and had the breath of a walrus. He was tall and spindly, and when he pulled away, he accidentally bonked his head on the bottom of the stadium seats and had to get three stitches. Once that story had spread, no other guy in school thought I was worth the risk.
Fortunately, college was better after I completed the duckling-to-swan metamorphosis that often graces early adulthood. (Goodbye braces, acne, and pudgy cheeks.) College guys weren’t so intimidated by my talent and I’d managed a boyfriend here and there. Still, nothing serious. Dating didn’t exactly go hand in hand with competing at the Olympic level. For so long, I’d dreamt of going to the Olympics, not only to win gold for Team USA (duh), but also because I wanted the chance to meet other people who got it. Just like me, they’d dedicated their lives to a sport they loved, and they understood the sacrifices that came with the territory.
Kinsley and Becca could lecture me all they wanted, but at the end of the day, how could they blame me for wanting more than gold? I would be in Rio de Janeiro for nearly a month and I wasn’t going to waste it. I’d work my ass off on the field, but in my free time I was going to make memories that would last a lifetime. And, sure, if Freddie Archibald somehow worked his way into those memories, then so be it.
Chapter Six
Freddie
I WOKE UP thinking of Andie, trying to recall the bits and pieces of her I’d found so appealing the night before. She wasn’t like any of the posh British girls I was used to. They’d have willingly thrown themselves over a bridge before tossing their knickers at my head, and yet Andie had done it without a second thought. I was intrigued, but I couldn’t pinpoint what exactly made her so different—the light behind her grayish blue eyes, her confident laugh, or her body. Her body. It’d taken all night to tear the image of her standing in my boxers out of my mind. Now that I was awake, I wanted to selfishly cling on to it, just for memory’s sake.
My mobile buzzed on my nightstand and I rolled over to find I already had two missed calls from my mum, three texts from my sister, Georgie, and one voicemail from Caroline.
I pressed play on Caroline’s voicemail first, hoping it would realign my world and push thoughts of Andie to the side.
“Freddie! My gorgeous sportsman, I’ve missed you so much. I hope you’re doing well. Give me a ring later. Kisses, Caroline.”
Andie was nothing like Caroline Montague, though maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. I knew exactly what I was getting into with Caroline. She’d grown up in British high society, beloved by everyone. There wasn’t a utensil she couldn’t name, nor a duchess she didn’t know personally. I’d grown up alongside her and knew her to be polite, quiet, and predictable—quite possibly the exact opposite of the enigmatic goalkeeper I’d met the night before.
I pressed delete on her voicemail and then read Georgie’s texts.
Georgie: Mum is LOONY. She’s phoned Caroline and told her you’d LOVE her to join you in Rio. I tried to pry the mobile from her hand, but you know how strong those bony digits of hers are. I think I’ve strained my wrist…
Georgie: She’s absolutely mad. I’m putting myself up for adoption. Think anyone will have an adorable, house-trained eighteen-year-old?
I smiled and sat up in bed. Georgie had been dramatic from birth, though she’d never admit it. I rang her and then reached for my laptop to glance over the day’s itinerary: practice, workout, phone interview, more workouts. I’d be running round the village until supper.
“FREDDIE!” she squealed after picking up on the third ring.
I smiled at the sound of her voice. “Morning Georgie.”
“You sound dreadful. What have you been doing all night?”
“Nothing. Honest. I just woke up and listened to a voicemail from Caroline.”
“Oh.”
There was a pregnant pause before she spoke up again.
“Well let’s not talk about that. How’s Rio? Has it given your pale English arse a tan yet? Or have you been loitering in the shade of Christ the Redeemer all day?”
I wiped sleep from my eyes and pushed the blankets aside.
“Honestly, I haven’t seen much of the place.”
She groaned. “What a bore. At least give me some details about the village. Is it just as barking as London was?”
“I’m sure it will be. Last night was…”
I mulled over my previous night, trying to compartmentalize the image of Andie that was fighting its way back to the forefront of my mind.
“Last night was what?”
“I’ve met someone.”
Silence.
More silence.
I pulled the mobile away from my cheek and glanced down to check she hadn’t hung up on me.
“Georgie?”
“What do you mean you’ve met someone?”
Her usual charm was gone, replaced by a serious tone I didn’t much care for.
“It’s nothing,” I said, trying to backtrack. Maybe it’d been a mistake bringing it up.
“Well ‘nothing’ sounds quite like a girl to me, Freddie, and you haven’t mentioned any of those things in four years. FOUR YEARS. And you think I’m going to let you drop this?”
My stomach clenched. “Just forget I’ve said anything.”
Georgie wouldn’t let it go. “Spill it, Freddie. Who is she?”
I stared up at the ceiling and acquiesced, actually sort of glad to confide in her about Andie. What would it hurt to tell Georgie about her?
“She’s an American.”
“Is her last name Kardashian?”
“No, she’s called Andie. She’s a footballer. You’d like her, Georgie. She’s got a natural thing about her and she’s really talented.”
“Good lord Freddie, you sound like a smitten schoolgirl.”
I smiled. “You’re the one who asked, Georgie.”
“Are you in love already?” she laughed.
My smile fell and suddenly it wasn’t fun to talk about Andie any more. The silence was back, louder than before. Neither one of us was going to utter the words, because we didn’t need to. The idea of Caroline spoke loudly enough on its own.
Finally, she laughed. “Blimey. It’s rotten luck.”
I’m glad one of us can laugh about it.
“Yeah, well. Really, it’s nothing.” I checked the clock on my bedside table. “Listen, I’ve got to run and get ready for swim practice.”
“Fine. On the contrary, I require a little lie down. Between our nutter of a mum and your dramatic love life, I’m feeling faint.”
I laughed and promised I’d phone her later.
“Wait, Freddie,” she said, just before I hung up.
“Yeah?”
“What are you going to do about Andie? Will you see her again?”
I hesitated before answering.
“It is a rather small village.”
Chapter Seven
Andie
“LET US IN, Andie!”
Jesus Christ. I reached out for a pillow and pulled it over my face to keep from yelling at Kinsley and Becca to go away. I’d had four, maybe five minutes of alone time since returning from practice. I’d showered and changed, but I should have savored it more and really reveled in the silence before Kinsley and Becca polluted it. On the bus ride home, they’d tried to corner me, but I’d put on my headphones and tuned them out. My plan had worked temporarily, but now, it seemed they weren’t going to take no for an answer.
I’d arrived in Rio less than twenty-four hours earlier and the dust had yet to settle. I hadn’t finished unpacking, I hadn’t called my mom, and I hadn’t had a full uninterrupted minute to consider what had happened with Freddie the night before. Had that encounter actually happened? Had I really slung my panties at his head like a bachelor party stripper?
“ANDIE! Let us in, we have a present for you.”
I groaned, shoved off my bed, and opened my door to find Kinsley and Becca—my team captains and the two people I should have respected the most—standing in my doorway dressed in matching unicorn onesies.
“Here, we got one for you too,” Kinsley said, shoving a limp, horned onesie into my hand and then stepping past me into my room.
“The three amigos!” Becca confirmed, running and jumping onto my bed. Between the two of them, there was never a dull moment, hence why I’d bonded with them the first day of tryouts.
“I think your mattress is better than mine,” Becca said, bouncing up and down in an attempt to confirm her theory.
“They’re all the same,” I laughed, setting the onesie down on my suitcase.
“What are you going to do for the rest of the day?” Kinsley asked, taking a seat beside Becca.
I shrugged. “Unpack, get settled, finally call my mom.”
She nodded. “We were thinking of going down and scoping out the first floor if you wanna come. Our complex has the biggest food court, so I think most of the athletes will be hanging out there.”
“I really need to call my mom. She’s already texted me like thirty times.” Honestly, she had. The woman was clinically insane.
“It’s okay, we can wait,” Kinsley offered with a smile.
Since neither of them made a move to leave, I stepped out onto my room’s balcony to give my mom a call.
My parents, Christy and Conan Foster, were robots. Sweet, well-meaning robots. They grew up in Vermont, my grandparents grew up in Vermont, and my great-grandparents grew up in Vermont. Somewhere during all those generations spent in harsh winters, their personalities had been replaced by good-natured gobs of maple syrup. Their idea of fun was layering a cashmere sweater over a gingham button down and taking a picnic to the park. They belonged to our small town’s country club and spent their free time flipping through L.L. Bean catalogs; needless to say, they were shocked to have produced a daughter like me.
Those first fourteen years were a real struggle. My mother had insisted I stay in dance but I’d insisted on playing soccer. It wasn’t until I earned a spot on the U-17 National Team at only fifteen years old that she let me tear down the dance posters in my room. Throughout high school, I’d replaced them with soccer stars like Ashlynn Harris, Hope Solo, and Cristiano Ronaldo. Admittedly, Cristiano was there mostly for eye-candy. Also, I liked to rub his abs like Buddha’s belly for luck before a big game.
“Andie, are you using that hand sanitizer I packed in the front left pocket of your bag?” my mom asked as soon as the call connected.
That was the first question she asked. Not, how the hell is Rio? The Olympics? Practice?
“Yes.” I sighed. “But did you honestly have to pack a sixty-eight ounce bottle in my carryon? I had to shove it in my checked luggage and it spilled on half of my underwear.”
“Brazil is different.” She whispered ‘different’ like it was derogatory. “Besides, it can’t hurt to have extra clean underwear.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah Mom, that is priority number one as I, y’know, compete for a gold medal.”
She mm-hmmed cheerily, accepting my sarcasm as truth.
“Well, just let me know if you need any more underwear.”
I edged closer to the balcony, embarrassed by the conversation. “No Mom, don’t send me more underwear.” I tried to change the subject. “The condos are fun. I’m sharing a space with Kinsley and Becca.”
“They’ve put you all in a condo? How can that be safe?”
“Security only allows athletes and coaches to enter. Guests have limited visiting hours and they—”
“Oh! Sweetie, guess what I watched this morning while I was walking on the treadmill!” She didn’t even notice she’d cut me off.
“What?”
“I try to walk at least a mile or two every morning. I even put on some Taylor Swift sometimes, but don’t tell your dad because he thinks her music is just—”
“MOM. What’d you watch this morning?”
“Oh! It was this little special on the CBS.”
She loved saying “the CBS” like it was a thing.
“Have you heard of Frederick Archibald? They did a feature about his upbringing and his special path to the Olympics.”
My stomach dropped at the mention of his name. Was there no escaping his celebrity?
“Apparently he’s a prince or something in England!”
I laughed and shook my head. “Mom, he’s not a prince. He’s just on the swim team.”
She shushed me. “No no, believe me. Hold on, let me open up the Google.”
Oh Jesus.
Ten minutes later—after she’d accidentally restarted her computer and updated her antivirus software twice—she pulled up the article.
“All right! It says here—” She paused and shuffled around, and I knew she was finding her tortoise shell reading glasses. “His father was the Duke of Farlington and before he passed away, Freddie was just called Lord Frederick Archibald, but now he is His Grace, Frederick Archibald, Earl of Norhill and Duke of Farlington!”
Wait. What? I laughed. That couldn’t possibly be right. She made it sound like Freddie was living in Middle Earth. I didn’t even know dukes were still a thing that existed.
I turned away from the window and pressed the phone closer to my ear. She kept rambling on about the CBS special, but I couldn’t wrap my head around what she was saying. Freddie was a DUKE? He’d touched my hand! He’d touched my butt! He’d basically knighted me and I’d tossed my panties at his face like a commoner. Jesus.
“Mom, I have to go,” I said, overwhelmed by the discovery.
“Oh? So soon? All right, okay. Just use that hand sanitizer and try to find Frederick. I’d love to show your meemaw a photo of you with British royalty.”
Oh my god. “Okay Mom. Sounds good.”
“Oh wait! It’s also says here that three weeks ago—”
I hung up before she could continue to ramble. I loved her, truly I did, but once she got going, there was no stopping her. It was either cut her off midsentence or turn into a mummified corpse out on that balcony.
By the time I made it back inside, Kinsley and Becca had exchanged their unicorn onesies for jean shorts and t-shirts. We started making our way down to the food court, and though my stomach was rumbling nonstop, I couldn’t help but focus on what my mother had just told me. If Freddie really was British royalty—wait, are dukes royal? Who cares. If Freddie really was a duke, the chances of him and I ever getting another moment alone were slim to none. He probably wouldn’t be hanging out around the Olympic village like other athletes. He’d be off sipping tea with baby George.
“Are you thinking about Freddie?” Kinsley asked as we stepped out of the elevator on the first floor.
I shrugged and lied. “No.”
“Because there really is something you should know before—”
I held up my hand. “Honestly, could everyone please stop talking about him?”
Between my mom and Kinsley, I’
d never get him out of my head. I was in Rio to play the field, not get hung up on a guy after day one.
I’D GROWN USED to Kinsley’s popularity back in Los Angeles, but walking around with her in the village felt like accompanying Taylor Swift to the Grammys. When we stepped into the food court, heads snapped in our direction. Athletes, families, friends, coaches—it didn’t matter what country they were from—they all knew who Kinsley Bryant was, thanks to her marriage to Liam Wilder and her meteoric rise to soccer fame.
I slipped behind her and let her take the brunt of the attention. She delighted in it in a way I knew I never would. I liked the sponsorship opportunities and perks that went along with being an Olympic athlete, but I also enjoyed walking through the grocery store in sweatpants without having to worry that the paparazzi would be waiting to snap photos of me outside. Kinsley didn’t have that luxury.
“Better get used to this,” Kinsley said, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “Once you carry the flag in the opening ceremonies, people all over the world will know who you are.”
I bristled at the thought. When the Olympic committee had asked if I’d like to be one of the flag bearers during the opening ceremonies, I’d been honored and had agreed without a second thought. Now, as I followed Kinsley past tables and noticed the curious stares, I wondered if maybe I’d made a mistake. I wasn’t quite ready to exchange my relative obscurity for fame.
“Woah, watch it,” Becca said, pulling me out of the way just before I collided with a group of athletes weaving in the opposite direction.
The food court was a bona fide watering hole for sports stars of all countries. We headed toward a juice bar nestled near the back wall and I scanned over the crowd, taking it all in.
