by Jesse Gordon
Monica shrank in Hades’ lap. The cameras were hovering close now, making her feel quite naked. She wanted to slip over to the sofa, but didn’t dare budge for fear it would allow Hades to run amok, tearing apart the stage with his bare hands.
Facing Leroy again, Zoe said, “That’s just the behind-the-scenes drama. It’s a whole separate issue when you’re actually performing. Personally, I would never let my twelve-year-old daughter parade her little butt around in front of a stadium full of strangers, whether or not it’s the patriotic thing to do. Aside from the overemphasis on body image, the pressure of performing in front of such a large audience is just ridiculous. You’ve got an army of living, breathing people watching you—to say nothing of the extended audience tuning in via camera and satellite linkup. Every mistake is magnified tenfold.”
“So, what, then?” asked Leroy. “Do we abolish the Patriot System? Keep our children locked safely indoors at all times?”
“I have no problem with the Patriot System,” said Zoe. “Nor do I think it’s necessary to stifle our youngsters’ desires to contribute to the national rank in their own way. There are many ways to gain elite status, ways that don’t require the total abolition of one’s social life, ways that don’t involve the exploitation of a girl’s every curve, every crevice.” She gestured at Monica, who shrank even further in a desperate attempt to make herself disappear altogether.
Somehow Hades held himself together. He fielded a few more pokes and jabs from Zoe before it was time for her to go, time for the musical act to begin its number. Midway through the song, Team USA made its exit, Linda (bending to a plea from Hades) feigning a tight schedule.
Outside, as Tompkins and his entourage guided the girls into their shuttle, Monica overheard Hades growling at Tracie: “Fucking bullshit. All of it.”
“Darren, calm down—”
“Nothing’s changed in sixteen years. A bitch like Zoe wants to be a Hero, but doesn’t want to pay for it. No wonder she got knocked up, dropped out of the sport, and started writing sensationalist books for a living.”
Monica’s jaw dropped. Sure, she knew Hades was a tyrant, a sexy, screaming, ranting, raving lunatic who liked to throw things during practice—but he never swore. Not typically.
“Come on, sweetie,” said Linda, giving Monica a gentle push. “Into the shuttle.”
“What’s with Coach Hades?” Lisa asked as she settled into her seat.
Monica thought, Leroy Chase did to him in half an hour what we couldn’t do in two months.
She said, “I don’t think he likes Mr. Chase.”
CHAPTER 34
The Leroy Chase interview stuck with Monica for several days, and for all the wrong reasons. Points had been made, feathers ruffled—the whole ordeal had left a bitter aftertaste. Hades insisted that he’d been unaffected by Zoe’s animosity, but Monica knew that wasn’t true. He spoke less than usual during training, and almost never yelled—which was actually less satisfying than the norm, because Monica knew he was keeping everything bottled in. He was wounded; it was only a matter of time before there was a backlash, the result of which would undoubtedly include more reps during warm-ups, longer training hours, a new resolve to keep the girls lean, mean, ready for world domination.
But that was for later. In the meantime there were other worries demanding Monica’s attention. Since the start of the season, she and the girls had been living and training at the National Training Center in California, and though the place was quite literally a gigantic ranch within walking distance of an achingly quaint tourist town, there wasn’t much time for browsing the gift shops or hiking along the wooded trails.
In mid-January, the International Patriots’ Festival was held in Dubai. Like the Incept Conference, there were protesters, reporters, cameras, fans (as seen from a distance), fake-outs, and tantrums; unlike the Incept meet, Monica was ready for the superficiality of her role as a member of the U.S. Patriot team. Superficial athletics, genuine theatrics—if that was how it was done, then that was how it was done. She followed Hades’ lead, earned her credits (and probably provided material for Zoe Gaines’ next book along the way), and no matter how embarrassing it was knowing her friends and family had seen her squirming like an ant under a magnifying glass during the Chase interview, she kept her smile.
Britney didn’t share the sentiment. During the preliminaries (the Festival was a two-day conference), she botched a vault landing, and the deduction was just enough that Jackie and Lisa were advanced to the finals without her (only two members from each country were allowed, and Monica, tied with Lisa, had been instructed to take a fall during her beam routine).
“I should have learned the fake-outs,” Britney murmured during the all-around finals as Tompkins’ men guided her (Monica, Kristen, Autumn, and Linda, too) into a plush skybox.
“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Monica said, setting her bag down. “I didn’t make it to finals either.” She glanced around the room, which was quite accommodating, but which suffered from a lack of decent snacks on the refreshment table. There was also a camera bot present. As soon as it spotted Monica, it whizzed over, focused its lens on her face. She felt like flicking it off. “We shouldn’t be talking about that anyway.”
Throwing herself onto one of the overstuffed sofas, Britney said, “With you it’s intentional to slip or fall. I didn’t make it because as hard as I tried, I still fucked—”
Linda glanced her way, eyes wide.
“—messed up my landing.”
Monica giggled softly. “Pretty little gymnasts aren’t supposed to swear.”
With a devil-may-care wave of her hand, Britney reached for her portable music player. “I don’t care. Don’t talk to me anymore.”
Monica scowled, took a seat and stretched her legs out. One of the dozen smart screens came to life and aimed itself at her as soon as her buttocks had settled into the pressure-sensitive cushion. A subtle holo-menu appeared within arm’s reach, offering channel and volume controls.
“That’s why you’re his new favorite, you know,” said Kristen, sitting beside her with a small bowl of grapes balanced between her knees. “Because you do whatever he says.”
“I’m supposed to,” Monica responded. She peered over her shoulder to make sure Linda—and the camera—was out of range. “He’s my coach.”
Britney snorted. “You probably do the same thing when you’re alone with John. Whatever he says.”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Monica snapped, and wondered what percentage of the team assumed she was screwing John between assignments.
“Don’t mind her,” said Kristen. “It’s the cabin fever talking.”
“Right. Cabin fever.” Britney rolled her eyes and clicked furiously through her playlist.
“And I didn’t mean anything either. It just seems like Coach Hades has trouble with anyone who isn’t in total agreement with him all the time.”
“Total agreement? Are you kidding?” Monica laughed. “Do you know how many times I’ve gotten into an argument with him? You’d need a scorecard to keep track!”
“That’s why Autumn over here is the perfect athlete,” said Britney. “That’s why she’ll make it to Heroes’ Day after the rest of us have become day-old bread.”
Autumn had been peering through the window with her zoom lens; now she walked over to where the others were lounging. She sat cross-legged on the floor, tucked the lens into her pocket. “You’re worried because of a single bad vault, Brit. There’ll be others. Not all will be bad.”
“And not all will be good.”
“True, but—”
“Jackie was right. Darren isn’t delivering on his promises. The season is going to suck.”
“It may or may not. Look at it this way: even if it does suck, being on the national team is the high point of your life.”
Britney looked horrified. “This is my life!”
“Yeah,” agreed Monica. “Or is becoming a Hero a side-p
roject for you, Autumn?”
“It’s a phase, nothing more. You’ll either succeed or fail, and after you there’ll be another girl to take your place, and after her there’ll be another, and another, and another. In the meantime, you will have moved on. High school, your first car, your first boyfriend, your first job—a husband, kids, a house in the suburbs, maybe.”
“How incredibly boring,” yawned Britney.
Kristen asked, “How do you know so much, Autumn?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Um…like, not really,” said Britney.
“Everything’s predetermined. That’s how I know.”
“Ugh.” Britney rolled her eyes. “Not the conspiracy theory speech again!”
Autumn faced Monica and Kristen. “It’s not a conspiracy, it’s part of the program. See, when nanomedicine became the standard, the legitimacy of competitive athletics went right out the window. It’s all done at the microscopic level, so who’s to say whether or not you’ve been taking a performance-enhancing drug, or whether you’ve had some musculoskeletal work done? Who’s to say what’s fair and what’s not?”
In the background, on the video screen, Jackie was preparing for her floor routine. Monica should have been watching and cheering her on, but instead she turned the volume down and scooted closer to Autumn.
(“You girls aren’t going to watch?” Linda chirped.)
“That’s why they screen you before every competition,” Kristen pointed out. “To make sure you’re playing fair.”
“True, but the technology is changing all the time. The cheaters find new methods of hiding illegal enhancements. There’s no foolproof way to make sure an athlete’s body isn’t augmented in some way, or that she hasn’t been bred with artificial enhancements—like that triathlon girl who’d been born with specific, custom-made genetics. Her parents had planned her gold medals before she was even conceived!”
“The feds caught her, though,” said Monica.
“Yeah—thirteen years after those initial consultations with the geneticist.”
“Your point?” sighed Britney.
“My point,” said Autumn, “is that we have to compete in other ways—namely subtleties and slight-of-hand. Even a team made up of 100% organic girls would be suspect if they raked in too many consecutive wins. We have to make it look genuine. Like it was a hundred years ago. We pretend we all have the same goal, which we do, but it’s in a roundabout way. It’s expected that Monica is probably faking some of her falls, or maybe Jackie some of hers. Whether or not it’s true doesn’t matter; it’s the theatrics the judges are after. The most convincing performance, and not necessarily the best routine, is what gets rewarded. That’s why Monica’s here instead of down on the competition floor. She should have made the finals yesterday, no sweat.”
Monica said, “Can we please stop using me as an example to prove a point?”
Autumn glanced over her shoulder, saw the camera hovering nearby. In a subdued voice, she said, “I’m sorry—but you know better than anyone else what’s going on when you and Coach Hades are practicing alone in the gym after-hours…don’t you?”
“I do,” Monica replied, looking away. She knew—of course she knew—but it was sobering to hear it put into words. “You want me to give back my medals, have them replaced with Oscars?”
“Oh, I’m not saying it’s wrong or anything,” Autumn said. “I guess it’s just interesting to have first-hand experience regarding all the things me and the girls back home used to gossip about. I’m surprised you all are taking it so seriously when you know what’s going on.”
At that moment, Linda came over and wagged her finger at the group. “Now, now, ladies. It’s unpatriotic to be gossiping in hushed tones when your fellow teammates are down there competing for their country. Let’s give them our undivided attention for the duration of the meet, okay?”
“Yes, Ms. Baimbridge,” Monica said, and raised the video screen volume.
“Boy,” whispered Kristen. “She can be pretty annoying when she wants to be.”
Monica nodded, fixing her gaze on the screen. “And when she doesn’t want to be, too.”
On-screen, the news coverage shifted from event to event, from country to country. When it was time for Jackie to perform, the camera hovering above Monica started streaming live footage of her reactions to Jackie’s various tumbling passes. This was only marginally embarrassing until John (who’d evidently qualified the previous evening) got his moment in the limelight—at which point Monica instinctively swatted at the camera as she tried to hide an involuntary blush.
“Wow,” said Autumn, who’d only ever seen John from across the Olympus training room. “Your boyfriend is hot, Monica.”
“And hung,” added Kristen with a mischievous grin.
“I’ve never seen Spandex look so good on a guy.”
“Yeah, but can he perform?” Britney giggled.
Monica pretended not to hear (she wondered if Britney knew or cared that Linda was standing right behind her). She watched John nail his routine on the parallel bars, after which he presented and jogged off the podium. His father gave him a hearty pat on the back; his teammates high-fived him—but still there was a profound look of grimness and fatigue on his face.
Mind’s somewhere else completely, isn’t it? Monica thought, a twinge of sadness making her frown. Oh, John. I wish I could be there with you.
I’d help you find your smile.
CHAPTER 35
The day of the banquet didn’t feel at all like the sort of day in which one might find enchantment or romance. For starters, Linda decreed that it would be “absolutely smashing!” for Monica, her teammates, and a film crew to wander about Dubai in a fusion of half-hearted tourism and genuine media overindulgence. “We simply must get some shots for the photo album!” was Linda’s battle cry, though exactly which photo album she was referring to, Monica hadn’t a clue.
The weather was chilly; the cameramen were nothing less than invasive; Britney’s sanity, already trampled on by the results of the IPF meet, was hanging by a thread. Nevertheless, the girls performed their teamly duties, posing in front of every single landmark, buying out every last clothing and jewelry store, and even managing an hour at the beach in their bikinis. Monica couldn’t imagine how much everything had cost, and she definitely hadn’t the slightest clue where she was going to store all her purchases once she was aboard Olympus again.
On the way back to the hotel, the shuttle broke down and the team had to be re-routed via public transit. This pushed back their schedule by half an hour, so that while Linda phoned for a limo, the girls hurriedly took turns showering and changing into their dresses and gowns. Monica shimmied into a one-piece shoulderless that didn’t want to fit right. She would have liked an extra five minutes to make adjustments, but she’d barely had enough time to properly prepare herself as it was. The result: an armpit-wedgie and a slight toe jam—and an ominous outlook.
“This will be a fine evening, ladies,” Linda reassured en route. “Darren and Brenda are so looking forward to showing you off!”
Monica looked through the window with tired eyes. Everything outside passed by quickly, the details a blur. Eventually they melted into the iconic facade of the Burj Al Arab, a luxury hotel standing just off the Jumeirah coast. Guests—athletes, coaches, military and executive men and women—milled about the ballroom, some sitting and enjoying appetizers, others mingling with wine glasses in hand.
Monica sat with her teammates, shared punch and sandwiches, and smiled prettily whenever a press hound came by for a candid shot. Like any other public event, the girls were allowed to get their own refreshments and to go to the bathroom, but whenever Linda spotted one of them talking to a non-NAU athlete for more than a minute, she came bouncing over, asking what was being “jabbered” about, snapping pictures, acting out her delightfully annoying routine—covering for Hades and Tracie until they arrived.
An hour in, Hades and Tr
acie—the former looking like a well-coiffed Hollywood star, the latter dressed in her usual conservative manner—made an appearance. Hades had brought a respectable-looking middle-aged couple with him.
“Monica here,” he said, introducing the couple as Henry and Janice, “she picks up new skills like most girls pick up pop jingles. Would you believe she was doing backflips and cartwheels for lunch money back in Wisconsin?”
Janice covered her mouth, quiet shock distorting her features.
Monica squirmed, alarmed to no end that Hades was doing his part to help spread word of her ghetto days.
“A true all-American darling,” said Henry, and raised his glass. “And a damn fine officer. I salute you, Ms. Sardinia.”
Monica bowed her head humbly. “Thank you, sir.”
Tracie seated herself at the table as Hades led Henry and Janice away.
“Who were they?” asked Monica.
“Big business,” Tracie replied. “Mr. and Mrs. Bates. A pair of your sponsors.”
“I have sponsors?”
“Of course, silly!” said Linda, cutting in. She snapped Tracie’s picture. “All of you do.”
Tracie narrowed her eyes, looking like she wanted to tell Linda to stop smiling so damned much. Luckily, another sponsor stepped up to the table just then.
Of course, thought Monica, shaking the man’s hand. Sponsors. People with money. People with expectations.
The banquet dragged on. Sponsors and well-wishers came and went. Linda took pictures while Tracie kept a vigil on her wristwatch. In the background, Hades made the rounds, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with everyone and everything, and, at regular intervals, picking one or two of his girls to accompany him for show-off time.
