Out of Bounds (The Summer Games #2)(4)
The scathing words come from a man who is no stranger to success. Filip Winter competed in the 1964 Olympics, leading a Swedish team to all-around gold. Subsequently, he immigrated to the United States to open a training center in Austin, Texas. Since the 1970s, Filip and his wife Sarah have consistently produced Olympic-quality athletes year after year. This list includes Erik, although he was forced to retire and withdraw from the Olympic team in 2004 due to a chronic shoulder injury. Perhaps it was Erik’s decision to retire that kicked off the decade of iciness between father and son.
“I’m not interested in discussing the past,” Erik Winter said when asked to respond to his detractors. “It’s my job to get these girls up to speed before Rio and bring gold back to U.S. Gymnastics. Everything else is just noise.”
After disappointing showings at the past two Olympiads, the volume is almost certain to rise before it falls for Team USA and its new coach. Here’s to hoping the Pacific Northwest will provide the peace and quiet they’ll need to prepare for the storm.
My father’s comments were news to me. After everything, he couldn’t resist a jab. He’s still the same prick he was ten years ago, I thought defiantly.
But whether I admitted it or not, the pressure to succeed was getting to me. Yes, it was an honor to have been selected, but after reading my father’s words, it felt like an albatross around my neck. Turning around an underachieving team so close to the Olympics was basically an impossible task and made me suspect I was less of a savior for USGA and more its sacrificial lamb. Any failure at the games would just reinforce my doubters.
The sound of tires on the gravel drive pulled my attention back to the present. I straightened up and closed the paper, a sick feeling already fixed in the pit of my stomach.
A black SUV pulled into view in the driveway, and I was thankful for the distraction. The team wasn’t due to arrive for another few hours, so the SUV was likely for my one-night stand, some white knight there to rescue her from the * kicking her out at the crack of dawn. I tossed the paper aside and turned to shout up the stairs for Birthday Queen, but paused when the car door slammed behind me. I whipped back around and watched as a driver in an ill-fitting black suit held open the back door and mystery passenger stepped out from behind the tinted windows. I realized a moment too late that it wasn’t Birthday Queen’s friend; it was Brie Watson.
I recognized her from the televised competitions I’d watched over the last few months. On TV, her long legs seemed to make her tower over the other girls, but it was an optical illusion. She was tiny in real life, slender and petite, more fitting of a New York City ballet production than a gymnastics competition.
Her chestnut brown hair was braided loosely down her back and her high cheekbones held my attention as the driver dropped her suitcases beside her on the gravel drive.
She hadn’t noticed me standing on the porch—she was too enchanted by the woods surrounding my old house. I leaned forward and propped myself up on the bannister, then finally, her penny-colored gaze made its way to where I stood, staring at her from the front porch.
I thought she’d blush, embarrassed by the fact that she couldn’t follow simple instructions—last time I checked “arrive at 2:00 PM” meant arrive at 2:00 PM—but the fact that she didn’t seem the least bit apologetic pissed me off. I was standing on my porch, shirtless.
“Why are you here this early?” I asked gruffly, bypassing a formal greeting.
She arched a brow, scanning over my bare chest quickly before glancing away. I didn’t care that I was meeting her without a shirt on. She’d shown up early and unannounced, and I was under-caffeinated and pissed off after reading my father’s comments—not to mention I had a half-dressed Birthday Queen inside my house. This—a gymnast arriving early with a smug smile on her face—was the last thing I needed.
“Is this how you’re greeting all the girls, shirtless and rude? Because by my watch,” she said, glancing at her wrist. “I’m right on time.”
“Either your watch is five hours ahead or you’re incapable of telling time.”
She frowned. “Did you see my email?”
“I haven’t seen anything from you.”
“I sent it two weeks ago,” she protested, pulling her phone out of her back pocket and striding over to where I stood. “See?”
I glanced down at the screen where she’d pulled up an email. It only took me a second to realize her mistake.
“You mistyped my name in the email address.”
“What? I copied it directly from the packet the USGA sent.”
She seemed truly upset about her mistake, but I picked up the mug of coffee from the porch ledge and turned for the door.
“You can wait out here until the rest of your team arrives.”
“What? Are you kidding me?! That’ll be hours from now.”
Her words caught me off guard. With those fragile features and dainty build, I would have painted her as meek, but her assertive tone proved otherwise.
I clutched the newspaper in my hand and whipped the screen door open hard enough that it clapped against the hard siding. She yelled out after me, but I shook my head and continued inside without her. I was too hungover for this.
Chapter Two
Brie