Arrogant Devil(104)

He laughed, this long, drawn-out laugh that definitely proved my point without him having to say a word. “Ask her about the Russian gymnasts. That’s all I’ll say.”

“HA!” I shouted at Kinsley and hung up. “I rest my case.”

She was already firing off a text to Liam, no doubt threatening divorce.

“Was it fun partying with those gymnasts, Kinsley? Did you have so much fun?”

By this point, nearly half our team had turned around to listen to our argument. It was in Kinsley’s best interest to nip it in the bud to preserve her reputation as team captain.

“What I did in London is beside the point. Becca and I had Liam and Penn to protect us, but since you are basically an old spinster that nobody loves—”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Right. Even still, we love you, and you’ve left us no choice but to be your chaperones for the remainder of the games. Every step you take, Becca and I will be there.”

“Every breath you take and every move you make,” Becca continued.

“Every bond you break, every step you take, we’ll be watching you.”

“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.