Heroes' Day

by Jesse Gordon

  “Okay,” said Lisa after Jackie had been led away to dimple at a table of Texas tycoons. “Worst floor routine you’ve seen so far this season. Anybody?”

  Kristen laughed, tapped Monica’s hand. “Tell her about the space girl.”

  Monica dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “Well, I don’t know about bad, but there was a German girl at the Festival who choreographed her whole routine to a spacey Berlin School mix.”

  “Oh, yeah!” said Lisa, laughing. “She was the one in the metallic-silver leo who did all the robot moves, right?”

  “How do you know the band is called Berlin School?” asked Britney.

  “Because,” said Monica, smiling at Linda, “when she took the floor, I specifically heard Ms. Baimbridge say, ‘Berlin School? Mechanical nonsense!’ So I looked it up online, and Berlin School isn’t a band but a type of old—like, 100-years-ago old—classical electronic music. Stuff computer geeks and science fiction writers listen to.”

  “Scary,” chuckled Autumn, shaking her head.

  “My dears,” said Linda, “gymnastics is all about aesthetics, the marriage of motion and music—and some musical genres simply do not translate well to the dance floor. Wouldn’t you agree, Brenda?”

  Tracie shrugged uncomfortably. “Some people will try anything—chew with your mouth closed, Lisa.”

  Jackie returned to the table. “I don’t see John,” she said as she took her seat. “I thought all the teams were invited.”

  Monica caught herself in mid-yawn—she’d forgotten about John!

  “I hear he took gold on the parallel bars yesterday.”

  “Yeah, he did,” said Monica, finishing her punch and making an excuse out of getting up for more. She walked around for a little while, hopeful, looking for the Canadian boys’ team. However, John and his companions were nowhere to be found. After several minutes of searching, she gave up and started back to the table.

  Jackie caught her halfway there, just as a thundering dance beat filled the air.

  “Dance competition!” she squealed, running past and joining the throng of partygoers helping to clear space at the center of the ballroom.

  Linda took Monica by the arm and guided her along. “This will be wonderful for publicity!”

  There was little use in protesting. Monica wasn’t in a dancing mood, but nevertheless she followed everyone else’s lead. There were many cute boys, many handsome men, many a flutter of Monica’s heart as, despite her lethargy, she danced herself dizzy, exchanging partners, keeping up with the changing tracks—

  —and then there was John, who just so happened to be thrust forward during an unexpected moment when the music went from conquer-the-dance floor to sweetly-and-slowly-feel-your-guy-up.

  Dean and several of the other Canadian boys were there too, and they waved, gave her multiple thumbs up. Monica acknowledged them with a bug-eyed nod. As a gymnast, she had, of course, a keen sense of balance and grace—but in this particular instance she suddenly felt her face flushing and her knees trembling as her new partner stepped in close, flashed her one of his heartwarming smiles, and placed his hand on her waist.

  “May I have this dance?” he asked, huskily.

  Monica nodded, noting how handsome he looked in his tux. She moved with him among the assembled couples. Some were jovial about the whole thing, slipping in showy athletic tricks between steps; Monica was merely shell-shocked, staring into her partner’s eyes as he seemed to float with her across the floor.

  “You made it after all,” she whispered into his ear.

  “Logistical problems,” he whispered back. “Try as he might, though, my father couldn’t keep us lost forever.”

  “And here I thought you’d been avoiding me.”

  “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  They danced for a few minutes more. Then the music faded, the lights came up, and Monica found herself the subject of a good many gazes. John took a bow, allowing himself to be engulfed by his teammates, who were gleefully satisfied with the performance.

  “Wow,” said Lisa, appearing at her side. “That was hot!”

  Across the way, Jackie crossed her arms and snorted disdainfully. She looked her age—in a bad way.

  After the music had picked up again, John came over with a pair of sodas, one of which he handed to Monica.

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” Lisa said, and winked. She joined the other girls on the dance floor.

  “Why do I get the feeling that I’m being given preferential treatment?” Monica asked, noting that neither Tracie nor Linda made an effort to collect her.

  “Well,” said John, “you are the old girl.”

  “Absolutely over the hill.” Monica stooped slightly and clutched her lower back in mock fatigue.

  John took a swig from his soda can, put on a devious look. “Maybe my reputation precedes me.”

  “Maybe,” Monica said, nodding towards one of the exits, “we should take advantage of the opportunity.”

  “You think you’re allowed?”

  “They left the guards down in the lobby.”

  “I’m game, then. Let’s get lost.”

  It took a little exploring, but several floors down, they found an empty spa room with a magnificent view of the shoreline. Monica removed her sandals and padded barefoot to the window; John stood beside her and watched the city lights below.

  “You’ve been busy,” she said.

  “Fighting for my country, yes.” John sighed, chuckled. “It takes a month of practice for every minute of performance.”

  Monica faced him. Like herself, he’d become leaner over the months, his shoulders broader, his jawline sharper, neck muscles more pronounced. A whiff of his cologne and a dangerous excitement filled her, made her wonder (shamefully) what he looked like under his clothes.

  “How about you?” he asked, facing her as well. “Are the States poised for world domination?”

  “Yeah—in credit debt.”

  “Ah, I heard you went on a shopping spree. Must’ve been fun.”

  “It’s given me claustrophobia,” Monica snorted. “And not just today, but every other day since the beginning. Somehow we’ve gone these past two, almost three months doing everything and going everywhere—but I don’t feel like I’ve met anyone or…or done anything.”

  “You’re racking up credits,” said John. “You’re appearing in videocasts and on fast-food wrappers. You’re inspiring all the little girls back home.”

  “It feels so superficial, though. The only time I ever have fun is when I’m with you.”

  “Must be a coincidence or something.”

  “I mean it.”

  John smiled, pulling out his father’s palm console. He aimed it at nighttime Dubai. “Night augmentation. You can see everything. Here.”

  He handed Monica the console. She adjusted the zoom, homing in on, as luck would have it, a faraway scene depicting a shabbily-dressed elderly man picking through a garbage bin. She watched him for a moment as he cataloged that which was worthwhile, discarded what even he couldn’t use. Further down the street, someone else was laying curled on a shop step.

  “You’re off in your own world again,” said John.

  “I’m thinking,” Monica said, handing back the console, “of how we’re up here on top of the world and everyone else is down there. All the food and drink and dancing, and down there someone’s poking around for scraps. Someone’s pacing the streets half-asleep because they can’t find a nook to curl up in. And here we are, celebrating the fact that we’re competing to muscle resources away from their government.”

  John rested his hand on her shoulder. “There are so many of us, and there’s so little to go around. It’s impossible not to pick sides. We have homeless people in Canada and America as well. There’s nothing wrong with earning your countryfolk a chance.”

  “Except it’s not so much chance, is it?” Monica murmured—though she caught herself in time. Not supposed to tell anyone abo
ut the fake-outs, remember?

  “Until you actually get out there on the floor,” said John, “you don’t know what’s going to happen. There are so many ways things can turn out—you’d go berserk trying to keep track of it all. So you focus only on what you can manage. For you, that’s America. For me it’s Canada. And Dubai has its champions, too. They’ll take care of their own.”

  Monica reached up and grasped John’s hand. She looked down into the city once more. “It just seems there are so many lights out there. You’d never notice if just a few blinked out. I don’t feel a part of it. If I tried to take a walk down there the security team would stop me.”

  “Probably.”

  “It ticks me off.”

  “Your people are merely taking care of you.”

  “I know, and it’s stifling.”

  “Think of this,” said John, now wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “Your parents wouldn’t have let you come if they hadn’t been promised every possible precaution. If you’d never come, then I wouldn’t have met you. ‘Monica Sardinia’ would be nothing more than a name, a statistic in a roster I would never have seen—a distant point of light.”

  Monica smiled, fighting back the unpleasant thoughts that she didn’t want to think at the moment. “Did I ever tell you my nickname?”

  “Gloomy, right?”

  “Who told you?”

  “I looked you up on the Internet. Did you know you have more than thirty fan sites?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. I counted them myself.”

  “That’s…weird.”

  “What, that you have thirty fan sites or that I counted each and every one of them?”

  “Both,” Monica said.

  “You know, they’re very thorough. They have all your stats—your height, weight, birth date, your favorite books and movies. They even have detailed lists of which leotards you wore at which competitions, and how you wore your hair—but none of them has ever mentioned your smile.”

  Monica indulged him, grinning ear to ear, for once not the least bit concerned that her mouth was too wide for her face.

  John chuckled. “See? How could anyone with a smile like that be called Gloomy?”

  “I’ve often wondered about that,” laughed Monica. “I’m always thinking on the gloomy side of things. I try not to, but…well, I guess I’d rather go through this now, when I’m young. If I tough it out I’ll have something for myself and my family later on. College money. A nice house. My parents won’t have to struggle in their golden years—I won’t have to struggle in my golden years.”

  “That won’t be for decades and decades—now’s what matters.” John took her in his arms and kissed her, borderline passionate. He pulled back. “Isn’t it?”

  Yes, Monica thought, and kissed him back, taking the easier route, allowing her teenage drives to preoccupy her. She pulled him into an embrace and availed herself of him, modestly at first, then more aggressively, making up for weeks of restraint.

  “Do you love me?” John asked several minutes in. He’d moved with her to one of the loungers; his shirt was unbuttoned, and Monica’s trembling hand traversed his abdomen.

  “I do.”

  John looked flabbergasted, trying to squeeze the words out between kisses. Bold, brave, terrified—or perhaps just uncontrollably turned on. “Then…then I want to make love to you.”

  A pause, removing lips from lips, receding slightly, pretending to catch her breath as the question hit her. Oh, God. Just like when Pat asked to go steady—wait, no, not like that at all. Pat hadn’t been breathing so heavily, hadn’t been so hot and hard to the touch. She’d given John a few tentative feels below the waist, and knew that he was raring to go—but am I?

  She had to think. It was scary, the things John made her want to do. She’d never thought it possible that she’d want physical gratification so badly. Most frightening was that she was actually considering it. Gone were the days of STDs, unwanted pregnancies; she could do it with him right now, take a 24-hour contraceptive before bedtime—it would be so easy to give in to the fairy tale, to her own curiosities, to John’s hands sliding up her dress, approaching intimate territory. There were probably a dozen other couples having at it in the bathrooms, the board rooms, private suites—but, then, they weren’t thirteen and fourteen years old…and Monica knew she wasn’t exactly in the right state to be making choices like this. Maybe in a few years, when her Patriot days were behind her, when she could look back and clearly see that John was in it for the long run.

  It was harder than anything she’d ever had to learn in the gym, but she let John go. “We should stop.”

  “Monica…” he breathed—

  She covered his mouth, afraid that if he spoke even one more word or managed even one more kiss she would jump out of her clothes and plaster herself all over him. “We need to stop. It…it wouldn’t be right.”

  There was silence between them for a moment, John hovering close, so close, sighing, looking…relieved? “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

  Monica separated herself from him, took a handful of slow, steady breaths. She watched him button up his shirt, rearrange his pants.

  “Geez,” he muttered, laughing nervously. “What was I thinking? This is all wrong, isn’t it? I must fit the sex-crazed teenage male demographic perfectly.”

  “I helped,” Monica offered, and fixed her dress, smoothed her hair.

  It took them a moment to cool off. Once they did, though, there was an unspoken release shared between them. Now, instead of groping each other desperately they merely held each other, reclining on the lounger and watching the city lights, listening to the bubbling water of the jacuzzi nearby. The sex might have been fantastic (and then again it probably would have been completely awkward and embarrassing), but, truthfully, Monica wasn’t all that disappointed about having missed out. In fact, she felt closer to John for not having lost her virginity to him. Oh, the thought was still immensely appealing—it was simply more appealing to let a quiet, intimate moment happen instead of forcing her first time, expecting kisses and contraceptives to take care of any guilt that may have ensued later.

  “I still love you, by the way,” she said. “Just in case you’re one of those misguided youths who equates sex with love.”

  “In or out of that lovely dress,” John said, “I think I’m stuck on you for life.”

  She popped a breath mint into her mouth, offered one to John. “What a typically sex-crazed teenage male thing to say.”

  “Sorry. Excess blood reentering the brain.”

  “Eww…”

  John stifled another round of laughter, this time not so nervous. “We should get back before the adults send out a search party.”

  “Yeah.”

  The two of them stood, brushed each other off, and made their way back to the ballroom.

  A Canadian gentleman caught them just inside.

  “Good evening, Lieutenant Matusik.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Minding the lovely lass here?”

  “Yes, sir. Out for a breath of fresh air.”

  “Very good—keep that average up.” The man smiled strangely, nodded, and went on his way.

  John gave him a dirty look.

  “Who was that?” asked Monica.

  “A sponsor whom I’ve never liked—I’m sure you have them, too.”

  “Before tonight, I didn’t even know I had sponsors.”

  “Really?” John shook his head. “Wow. They do keep you in the dark, don’t they?”

  Monica glanced around the room. Tracie was coming towards her and John at breakneck speed. Before Monica could react, she grabbed her by the arm and leaned in close.

  “I know what you’re up to,” she whispered. “I know what you’re up to and I think it’s despicable—and if I had my way you’d be off the team so quickly your head would spin! And you!” She leered at John. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”<
br />
  “What did I do?” Monica asked, rubbing her arm after Tracie had left.

  John shrugged, bit his lip and looked the other way. “She saw us—in the spa room. I knew it. The two of us are finished.”

  “Tsk-tsk, you big lug,” said Autumn (who, along with Jackie and Britney, had snuck up from behind). “Word of advice: don’t use mints. It only makes it more obvious that you’ve been sucking face.”

  “Thank you,” Monica replied dryly.

  Autumn and the girls snickered together and walked away.

  John grimaced.

  “Geez,” sighed Monica. “I hate parties.”

  CHAPTER 36

  In retrospect, rain would have been more appropriate. Certainly clouds and thunder would have been far less misleading than clear blue sky and an optimistic outlook as Team USA attended their eleventh international conference of the year.

  Monica felt great. She felt in control. The evening in the spa room with John had cleared her mind, lightened her conscience. She could have gone all the way with him, but didn’t. She could have settled for the stereotypical outcome, but hadn’t. She knew that neither teenage hormones nor self-doubt would be enough to bring her down before her time. Sure, she’d still had her moments, but she was making it through her term—eight conferences in two months—and with each meet, the stress had become easier to manage, an underlying ache lost among all the other aches and pains associated with being a Patriot athlete.

  John…he was still nervous about something. Monica could only assume it was the increasing importance of his assignments, and the fact that his scores seemed to be gradually slipping. Often he was left out of the final rotations. Monica would spot him now and then at a mutual conference, sitting on the sidelines with his gym bag at his feet, sometimes watching his teammates compete, other times reading or listening to music. He never looked more than marginally disappointed, and never admitted to being more than a little tired.

  Maybe it was a guy thing.

  Regardless, Monica was fired up for the Onyx Cup, a corporate-sponsored conference designed to bolster OnyxWest shareholder morale. The opportunities for advancement were numerous, including individual, apparatus, and team standings. Security, of course, was all-out. However, Monica had grown accustomed to the presence of men carrying firearms, and so hadn’t a clue that today there were perhaps more officers than usual, higher tensions than what was warranted for a not-quite world championship meet.