Though there were clearly differences in body sizes, there was no denying one fact: every single person was young and in the best shape of their lives. It was no wonder there were so many rumors about the Olympic village; hundreds of attractive athletes with energy to spare were bound to get into a little bit of trouble.
“What kind of juice are you going to get?” Kinsley asked, pulling me out of my survey of the room. We were nearly at the front of the line and I hadn’t even glanced over the menu.
“I think I want a smoothie.”
She laughed. “Well there’s like fifty of them, so—”
Kinsley was cut off when the girl behind us in line squealed so loud I nearly lost hearing in my left ear.
“HOLY SHIT,” she squealed, nudging her friend’s arm. “There’s Freddie!”
“Shut up! Shut up,” her friend chimed in.
My gut clenched as I glanced over my shoulder. The girls were a good deal shorter than I was, and when I spun to face them, the faint smell of chlorine spiked the air. They were definitely swimmers, and judging by their identical mannerisms, I guessed synchronized.
“Oh my god. He’s coming this way,” the first girl said. “Do I look okay?”
If Freddie was coming their way, he was coming my way. My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned past the girls to see Freddie walk up to the back of the juice line with what looked like a few other guys from his swim team. He hadn’t noticed me yet, which was for the best, because I couldn’t drag my gaze away from him. At the party the night before, it’d been dark, and the alcohol had cast him in hazy soap opera light. Here, now, in the food court, there was no denying his appeal.
I stood immobile, accepting the punch to the gut that came with the realization that Freddie’s good looks hinted at years of mischief managed through sly smiles and charming words. His kind brown eyes and endearing smile suggested he’d never been grounded a day in his life, but the chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones whispered that he probably should have been.
He was trying to look over the menu, but there was too much excitement surrounding him. A line of athletes began to form to the side of him as if choreographed beforehand.
“Could I get an autograph for my mum?”
“Freddie! Where are you staying for the games?”
“Can I see your abs?”
Question after question came his way, and I realized that whatever popularity Kinsley had, it didn’t hold a candle to Freddie’s. He drew attention like he was born for it, and as he smiled down and graciously signed autographs, I remembered that might well have been the case.
I used the crowd to conceal my gaze as I continued watching him, or at least I thought I did. I was openly gawking at him as he handed off an autograph and turned in my direction. His eyes locked on me and he smiled out of the right side of his mouth, a slow, cheeky smile that grew the longer I stared.
“Andie,” Kinsley hissed, trying to break through the spell.
I blinked once, twice. Freddie offered me a subtle wave, and then I spun around with cheeks on fire and embarrassment coating my skin.
“Holy shit,” I said, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “How long was I staring at him?”
Kinsley gripped my hand and squeezed it, hard. “I thought you went catatonic there for a second.”
I squeezed my eyes closed and groaned under my breath. Then, a hand reached out and tapped my shoulder. It was the girl from before—the swimmer with the nails-on-a-chalkboard squeal.
“Um, excuse me. Do you know Freddie?”
Before I could answer, her friend chimed in.
“If you do, could you introduce us? It’s just that—”
Kinsley held up her hand to stop them. “She doesn’t know him. He was clearly waving at the juice man,” she said, motioning to the elderly Brazilian man behind the counter.
I forced myself to move forward in line and I kept my eyes trained ahead of me, but the excitement behind me was too hard to ignore. People whispered, girls squealed, and cameras flashed as Freddie took photos with his fans. I moved forward and ordered a strawberry banana protein smoothie, and as I turned to find a seat with Kinsley, I ignored every urge to look in his direction as I passed. It was painful to deny myself that simple pleasure, and I was still lamenting that fact when he bent out of line and reached for my hand. His palm touched mine and my heart stopped. He gripped my hand tightly, just for a moment, then let it go.
Hhhhoooookkkkaay. I was definitely having a heart attack. This is the end. I’m going to die in a smoothie line. I couldn’t breathe and my chest hurt, and then he smiled and started speaking, but I couldn’t hear him over the sound of my heart.
“I’m sorry,” I accidentally shouted. “What?”
He smiled wider, reveling in the fact that he’d knocked me off my senses. I could only focus on his eyes, at the exact shade of light brown that promised to be my demise.
“Your smoothie,” he said with a smooth British accent. “You’ve left it.”
I whipped around to see a girl behind the counter waving my smoothie in the air like a metronome. “Don’t you want this?” she asked, confused.
I cringed. Had I not grabbed it already? Apparently not. I hid my face as I walked back and took it from her hand. Every single person in line trailed my movements, either because they thought I was a little off my rocker, or because Freddie Archibald had just reached out and held my hand. His touch had been warm and his palm was massive, wrapping around mine with no effort at all.