by Violet Paige
My first serve was returned quickly by one of the Italians, but Scott was ready for it. He spiked it over the net and the fans erupted, roaring in unison. I grinned. That was badass.
I stared our opponents down, assessing their positions, their eyes, and their stances before tossing up my next serve.
I wasn’t the sentimental type. I didn’t save pictures, or keep souvenirs from trips. I couldn’t tell you the name of the first girl I kissed, or the first girl I fucked. Hell, I deleted texts off my phone. I didn’t keep shit, or think about it. But in that instance while the ball hovered over my head. While it floated in the air, carried in space by the ocean winds. While the crowd chanted “Miller-Laurer.” While the Olympic flag fluttered next to the American one. I had a moment when I felt like I was a part of something bigger than myself. I felt the weight of the Olympics. I felt the magnitude of what I was doing. I felt as if this was a moment I would remember. A first I couldn’t toss aside as if it meant nothing. And it was fucking incredible.
“Mine!” I screamed diving for the ball as it came ripping toward me after the serve. The Italians were trying to play the angles in the back court, but I was fired up. I bumped it toward Scott as he stuffed it on their side of the net.
I’d been reprimanded for my language before so I slapped my partner on the back instead of shouting “Fuck yeah.” He knew it meant the same thing.
Before I knew it the first set was over and we had won by a decisive margin. We only needed to win the next one and we’d be on to the next round. The way the Italians were playing I couldn’t imagine we would have to face a third set in this match.
I sat next to Scott while Eric talked to us about our scoring strategy.
“You guys need to be more aggressive,” he urged.
“More aggressive?” I looked at the scoreboard. “We’re fucking killing them.”
“Yeah, but they never lose the second set. That’s their thing. They play for a third set. They take it easy in set one. It’s their style.”
“Fuck,” I muttered.
Scott stretched his arms overhead. “And it’s starting to rain.”
The drops were cool at first, but they started to pelt in rapid succession, making me feel chilled for the first time since I arrived in Rio. I shook my hair as it was soaked from the rain.
“Let’s get this over with. We are not headed to a third set.” I eyed my partner with certainty. We were playing harder and sharper than we ever had. This was our game to win.
I wiped the rain from my face and chucked the sunglasses I was wearing into my equipment bag. They were more of a distraction now with this downpour.
We rotated sides of the court. The rain was coming in sideways. The arena was starting to thin out by the minute. Even the most dedicated fans didn’t want to sit through this. It started to feel like a monsoon as the sheets of rain trickled closer together.
Scott served first while I watched the net. Eric’s words rang in the back of my head. I needed to be more aggressive at the net. I had to get every spike. Every block. There was no room for mistakes if the Italians were used to dominating the second set.
I had another one of those time-suspension moments. What the fuck was with playing at the Olympics? Why had I suddenly become so aware of every second of this match? Why the hell was I a fucking sentimental Olympian?
The taller of the two Italians jumped forward, giving the ball a soft tap over the net. The rain was in my eyes, but I could see the ball was going to land inside the line if I didn’t get there and knock it back to Scott. It was the only chance we had to stop the point.
I lunged forward, throwing my weight toward the ball, aiming my fists underneath its surface. But the sand was clumped together from the rain and I felt the twinge in my knee as I propelled my body through the air. I hit the ball as I threw myself out of bounds on Italy’s side.
“Fuck,” I growled, pulling my knee to my chest. I rolled on my side, coating myself in wet sand. The pain was searing. I knew immediately something was wrong. My knee wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
“Don’t move.”
I looked up, expecting to see Eric or Scott hovering over me with concern, but neither one of them looked like they had walked off the pages of a swimsuit magazine.
She had long blond hair that clung to her forehead in damp tendrils and green eyes that were busy studying my knee.
“Stay still. Let me try something,” she instructed calmly. “Does it hurt if I do this?”
She pressed her thumb along the inner ridge of my leg and I bit the inside of my lip to keep from howling out loud. I didn’t want this beautiful girl to know I was about to start crying.
“Yeah.” I nodded.
The game had stopped and by now the rest of the teams had moved to the side court to see what had happened. The thunder boomed overhead and I swore I saw a crackle of lightning, but I wasn’t sure any of this was real. Who in the hell was this girl?
“Shit, Pierce.” Eric stooped to the sand. “You ok?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” I tried to retrieve my leg, but part of me didn’t want to. I liked the long delicate fingers exploring my skin. When had we added her to our team?
“No, he’s not.” She pressed her lips together. “I think he has a tear, but I’m not completely sure.”
“You shouldn’t examine him.” Eric glared at her.
I looked at both of them. What was going on? There was an icy stare between them. And then I saw her logo. She was with Team Italy. What the fuck?
This time I was sure I saw another streak of lighting over the arena seats. Everyone jumped with the clap of thunder.
The official blew his whistle and jumped from his seated perch by the net.
“Match! Out! Out!”
Eric ran over to talk to him. Apparently there was some kind of dispute about what to do during lightning situations.
The girl began to rise to her feet.
“Wait.” I grabbed her wrist. “What do you think it is?”
She knelt next to me. “Your coach doesn’t want me to talk to you.”
“I don’t really give a shit. I want to know what you think.”
She bit her lower lip and inhaled. “Well, on the spot without a full exam, I would say you may have done something to your meniscus. But I don’t know your injury history, and I don’t know your body.”
My eyes flared. There was a way to remedy that. I could make this easy for her.
There was panic all around us. Fans were scrambling to get off the aluminum bleachers and the rain was like something out of a hurricane.
“Bella?” The two Italians stood next to the bench waiting for her.
If I was going to get my full physical exam, I needed to act quickly.
“I’m Pierce.” I smiled. “I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Sierra.” She stood, then helped me to my feet, watching my knee the entire time.
“If a guy wanted an Italian point of view on his meniscus where would he go to get that done?”
“You can’t be serious. You heard Eric. I work for Team Italy.”
“You seem pretty American to me.”
By now I had stood to my full height. I towered over her.
“I am American, but I don’t work for your team. I don’t think I can help you. I know you have a trainer.” She was busy packing her supplies into an Italian bag.
“I do, but he’s not as gorgeous as you are. Actually, Larry needs a full makeover.” I laughed.
“I can’t.” She shook her head. “You better get inside and have someone take a look at that. You’re going to need ice and compression. Oh, and elevation. Definitely elevate it.”
“See? You do want to help,” I pressed.
She threw her bag over her shoulder, trying to get out of the rain. “I can’t help. It wouldn’t be right.”
Eric and Scott were busy talking to the officials. I heard some kind of a squabble over when we would finish the match. The to
urnament was tightly scheduled. We couldn’t push the other countries’ matches back today if the storm let up. We might have to play back-to-back tomorrow.
“Just give me five minutes,” I suggested. “You’ve already told me more than Larry could after two hours.”
“And how would that look?” she asked. “Sergio and Paulo would be pissed. Not to mention your coach.”
“They don’t have to know.” I winked. Hell, no one needed to know what I had planned for her.
“You don’t give up easily, do you?” she questioned.
“Never.”
4
Sierra
God, what was I thinking? I was using the patriotic thing as an excuse. I knew it. There was no good reason for me to help Pierce Miller. He had amazing coaches and trainers at his disposal. He definitely didn’t need me. Somewhere in the back of my head I was trying to convince myself this was a way to help my country. There was rationale there, but I knew it wasn’t legitimate. Agreeing to help Pierce had nothing to do with my patriotism and everything to do with his rock-hard body.
The rain dripped off his tan, rippled muscles and one look in those eyes that were bluer than the Italian sea and I was putty in his hands.
The thunder crackled above us as if to warn me time was running out.
I had a split second to make this decision. He needed my help now.
I leaned toward him. “I’m staying in the fourth tower. Room seven-eight-one.” I didn’t know why I told him. Only that my sanity had been turned off.
I ran with my equipment bag, lugging it through the rain and searching for the rest of my team. Sergio and Paulo were huddled under the stands.
“Bella!” they called to me.
I ducked under Sergio’s arm. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Are we waiting for the storm to pass?”
There was nothing but heavy rainfall and black clouds around us. I couldn’t see it lifting any time soon.
“No. We are re-scheduled for tomorrow.”
“Oh.” I tried to brush the wet hair from my temple. I was certain I looked like something that had washed up on the beach. My polo was stuck to my chest and my shoes were soaked.
Paulo smiled. “More time for a calf massage.”
“You need to hydrate.” I wagged my finger at him. “No more massages.”
He looked dejected, but I knew it was part of his flirty personality. The guys wore their emotions on their sleeves as part of a game. I never found sincerity with either one of them. I had thought at some point I would have broken through their antics. Broken through the jokes. Broken through the facades, but it never happened. Every day was like being in some kind of comedy sketch with these two.
“All right. Someone text me the schedule for tomorrow. I’ll be in my room.”
I felt a sudden urge to run back to the village. To be there in case Pierce showed up on my doorstep. But I searched the eyes of the men in front of me. I didn’t want to look anxious to leave. I wasn’t anxious to leave, was I? I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I should ask Sergio how his shoulder was. I should make sure Paulo had exactly what he needed. I should ask Coach Gio if there were any concerns before tomorrow, but the only thing I could think about was Pierce Miller and his damn knee.
As soon as he had rolled on his side in front of our bench I had instinctively bent to examine him. I didn’t think about whether Italy would interpret it as a traitorous move. I saw the volley baller in pain and reacted.
My fingers worked along his skin as he writhed in pain beneath my touch. The rain fell on my hands as I sought the source of pain. I knew the crowd was watching, but I didn’t care. I knew the cameras were on us, but I didn’t care. It didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was that his eyes were on me, and in that moment Pierce Miller needed me.
I watched the rain slide down the small square window in my room. The day had only become drearier since I’d left the arena. I took a hot shower and changed into a pair of jeans and a tank top.
I jumped at every noise I heard outside my door. This place was always loud. The athletes weren’t staying on my floor, but they were still around. I was housed with other trainers and team staffers. I hadn’t been in Rio long enough to befriend anyone other than the guys I traveled with.
I kept expecting that to happen once I was here longer, but like my move to Italy, things I thought would happen, never did.
There was a sudden rap on the door and I rose to answer it, untucking my feet from under my legs.
I pulled the door open. Pierce Miller stood there, filling the frame and grinning from ear to ear.
“Hi.”
“How’s your knee?” I tried to look around him. I didn’t want anyone in the hall to see him at the door. I ushered him inside.
“You can see for yourself.” He lowered himself on my bed and hiked up the cuff of his pants.
“Oh shit.” I covered my mouth with my hand. It was swollen and red. “That doesn’t look good. What did your trainer say?” I bent to take a closer look.
He leaned back on the small bed and I tried to ignore the fact that his massive body was all over my sheets.
“I didn’t show him.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“I wanted you to look at it.”
I didn’t know whether it was an actual compliment or part of a game. I doubted he knew much about my career in sports medicine.
“This could be serious. Why are you taking a chance like this?” I shook my head. He was no different than Sergio or Paulo. He thought he knew better than everyone else.
“I didn’t think it was much of a chance coming up here. I thought it was a sure thing.”
“Oh God.” I took a step back. This was a total booty call.
“Come on, Sierra. I want your expert opinion.”
I was tempted to kick him in the shins. “Men have done a lot of crap to get my number, but this … this is insulting.”
“Insulting? I’m putting my safety in your hands. I think it’s the opposite of insulting.”
He pushed himself forward on the bed. His eyes blazed. It was hard to be mad at him when he looked like he did. Everything was so angular and perfect. Damn it.
“I don’t know why I’m doing this,” I huffed.
I turned to the wardrobe cabinet and searched until I found a wrap. Next, I opened a silicon bag and filled it with a gel pack I kept in the dorm-sized freezer.
“Lie still,” I ordered.
Pierce’s eyes widened, but he reclined on the bed, folding his hands under his head. God, he was gorgeous. I was used to men’s bodies. I studied them for a living. I treated them. I healed them. But I don’t think I had ever seen one that was as exquisite as this one. I was almost afraid to touch him.
I applied the frozen packet to his knee and began to wrap it tightly with the bandage.
“We’re going to ice it for twenty minutes and then I’ll do a series of exercises,” I explained. I made another loop around his leg until I was confident the ice pack wouldn’t move.
“Twenty minutes?”
“Yes. And then twenty minutes of exercises before another twenty of ice.” I grabbed an extra pillow and shoved it under his ankle. “We also have to keep it elevated as long as possible.”
“You think I’ll be able to play tomorrow?” There was a hint of concern in his voice, but I wasn’t sure he would stay off his leg if I told him his life depended on it.
I bit my lip. “I don’t know. You can play through anything I guess depending on your pain tolerance, but it doesn’t mean I would recommend it. You really need a full assessment before you make a decision like that. Your team needs to advise you. Not me. I don’t want that responsibility.”
“What would you tell your guys?” he asked.
My shoulders slumped. “My guys don’t listen, so it doesn’t matter what I tell them.” I looked away.
“Tell me what you think I should do.”
I wasn’t expecting his fingers
to grip my wrist. They were firm and strong. I felt a spark tingle along my spine.
“I-I would tell you to stay off it as long as you can and keep this therapy routine going.”
“Then that’s what I’ll do.”
He leaned back on the bed, closing his eyes.
“You can’t stay here,” I warned. He looked as if he were settled in for the night.
“Why not? It’s where the treatment is.”
“I am not your trainer,” I reminded him. “I’ve given you my advice and I’ll do one round, but after that you have to go.”
He didn’t bother to open his eyes. “I’m pretty comfortable here, bella.”
My ears perked. “What did you just call me?”
“Bella. Isn’t that what your team calls you?”
They did, but it always felt as if they were teasing me with some kind of inside joke. When Pierce said it, it sounded sexy.
“Yes, but you’re not Italian.”
“Maybe for tonight I am.”
And that’s when I knew Pierce Miller was going to be trouble.
5
Pierce
Shit. I was hard just thinking about it. I didn’t care if my knee hurt, or if my leg couldn’t move at all. I was in her bed, and I had a full night of treatment ahead of me from this sexy as hell woman. Most men would be thinking about the match tomorrow. Me—I was thinking about how I was going to make this night more monumental than it already was.
The sexual tension between us was a ten. And I fucking loved it.
“Has it been twenty minutes yet?” I asked. I couldn’t wait for her hands to land on me again.
I’d never seen a trainer like her before. I usually was treated by middle-aged men with belly paunches and receding hairlines. I wanted to know how the Italians snagged her and not the US team.
“Not yet.” She checked her watch.
“Why aren’t you working for us?”
“Excuse me?”
I put it out there. It didn’t make sense. She clearly knew her shit. And she was hot as fuck. Why hadn’t we hired her? How did we let someone like this slip off our radar?
