“Every single day and every word you say.”
I covered my ears. “Oh my god. STOP SINGING THAT SONG.”
But they wouldn’t stop. I had to listen to them going on and on until the bus pulled up outside the practice complex. I ran for it as quick as I could and decided then that I probably needed new friends. Maybe the Russian gymnasts would be down to hang out. I’d tower over them, but that’d be okay. Everyone needs one tall friend for reaching things on the top shelf.
Liam and Coach Decker were standing just inside the entrance of the stadium looking like the start of a bad joke. Coach Decker was fifty-three with short white-blonde hair and a face that promised she hadn’t laughed since the Nixon era. She’d worn the same pair of thin black-framed glasses for as long as I could remember and she was a damn good coach, even if she did scare me a little. Liam stood by her side, tattoos exposed down his arms, dirty blonde hair short and fussed up. He and Kinsley made quite an adorable pair, though I refrained from telling them so as their perfectly proportioned heads were already close to exploding.
“Good morning, Liam,” I said, tipping an imaginary hat in his direction.
He eyed me curiously and then glanced back to Kinsley and Becca walking into the stadium a few feet behind me.
“Are you three fighting?” Liam asked with what he probably thought was a chastising glare. It never worked the way Coach Decker’s did.
“No fighting,” I said, holding up my fingers. “Scout’s honor. Although your wife is a little crazy. You should have her head examined.”
“Liam! Do not talk to her about the gymnasts!” Kinsley shouted.
Coach Decker shook her head and clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention.
“All right everyone. I know we’re all excited to be here for our first practice in Rio, but it’s time to focus. Kinsley and Becca, show the girls where to stash their bags and then Kinsley, I want you to lead warm-up.” She paused and turned toward me. “Andie, there’s a trainer over there ready to tape your wrist.”
I followed her gaze and found a group of trainers stationed near benches off field. They’d propped up a small black table and as I walked closer, a small girl with black hair knotted on top of her head stepped forward to greet me. Her khaki pants didn’t fit well, but her team shirt was fitted and embroidered with her name under a soccer ball and an American flag.
“Lisa,” I said, reading her name off her shirt and holding out my hand. “I’m Andie.”
She nodded and ushered me toward the trainer’s table. “Good to meet you, Andie. I’ll be your trainer here in Rio and I’ll be with you at every practice and every game. We’ll set up times for you to come to the training center for some physical therapy exercises as well, but for now, hop up onto the table and I’ll take a look at your wrist.”
I did as she said and then started to walk her through the injury. It wasn’t career threatening; I’d just sprained it back in high school and it flared up every now and then. I’d gone through physical therapy for it multiple times, but unless I laid off it for a sustained period of time, it would never truly heal. Unfortunately, time was not a luxury I could afford.
“How does it feel?” Kinsley asked.
I glanced over my shoulder to find her watching the trainer as she worked. She flexed my hand, working the tape over and around my wrist so that it’d be supported during practice. I tried not to wince at the stab of pain, but Kinsley caught my mask slip. She shook her head and crossed her arms, but I shot her a death stare as the trainer bent to grab another roll of tape from her bag.
The trainer finished up and stepped back to examine her work. “Tell me if it’s secure enough,” she instructed.
I flexed and curled my hand, twisting it in a circle one direction and then the other. I could still feel a dull ache, but with the tape in place, it was more tolerable.
“How does it feel?” Kinsley asked again.
I nodded and shot her a thumbs up. As far as our coach and team trainer knew, my injury was minor and I was having it wrapped as a precaution. Kinsley knew the truth—that I was stepping into dangerous territory—but she also knew why I was downplaying it. Bones and tendons and ligaments all heal with time, but with the Olympics only occurring every four years, most athletes consider themselves lucky to earn a spot once or twice. So unless my wrist fell off, I’d stay on the field.
“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.