FURY: A Rio Games Romance (11 page)

* * *

T
he next morning
, the pair of newbies got swept up into a whirlwind of activity, scarfing down breakfast, getting on and off busses, enduring icy glares from some of the veterans whose jobs they’d come to take, and getting their ankles taped, and national team practice gear straightened out.

The morning began with light conditioning work and basic drills, and Logan felt pretty good. She was grouped with other defensive players, including Allie DeCarlo, one of a set of twins who’d been synonymous with the national team for a decade. Logan tried to be friendly with her, and with several of the girls, but Allie was all business and didn’t reply to Logan’s attempts at conversation.

After the two of them had a particularly violent collision going up for a head ball, won by DeCarlo, the veteran player spat on the ground near Logan and issued a warning. “If that’s how they teach you to win headers at Xavier, you ought to pack your shit and head home now.”

Logan was taken aback, and started to reply, but then it occurred to her – Allie DeCarlo knew who she was. She knew that Logan played for Xavier. Sure, she was being a bitch, but she’d obviously done her homework. Logan smirked, dusted herself off, and jogged back to the end of the line to continue the drill.

The rest of the morning continued that way; Logan had her moments, but as things sped up, she often found herself an uncustomary step behind. What she expected to happen was rarely what did, and she found herself out of position and not quick enough to recover against women who possessed similar athletic gifts to her own. She had to get her head screwed on straight, and quickly, or this entire trip would just be for the brief sightseeing she’d done out the window of the plane and the budding friendship with Savannah.

When the team broke for lunch and rest before the afternoon session, she compared notes with her roommate.

“So, Angie DeCarlo is a complete bitch,” stated Savannah between bites of fruit salad.

“Oh my God I was going to say the exact same thing about her sister!” Logan replied. “And Allie plays dirty! She was coming into challenges studs up half the time and throwing elbows like crazy.”

“I honestly thought Angie was going to drop an N-bomb. She just runs her mouth constantly. If I hear that word come out of her mouth – she has no lips, by the way, neither of them do – I swear I’m going to fight her, even if it gets me sent home. Fuck her. I can handle Coach Pressley riding me, but I don’t need it from a teammate.”

Logan laughed hysterically. “I know! Seriously, how can they kiss with those mouths? But don’t hit her. I need you here. You have to promise.”

“I won’t. I mean not punch her. But I’ll sure as hell get physical with her bony ass. Lori G is cool though. And that high school girl, Alyssa? Wow. I mean capital W wow. I’ve never seen anybody dribble like she does. I think we’ll probably scrimmage this afternoon. She’s all tricks and fakes and feints. Don’t get embarrassed by her, girl.”

“Thanks for the heads up. If I get a chance to knock some sense into either one of the DeCarlos, I’m going for it.”

The pair exchanged high fives and enjoyed some quiet; Logan listening to music and reading a Jodi Picoult novel. Savannah put her earbuds in and drifted off to a light nap.

The afternoon session involved drills and then some small-sided games under the watchful eyes of the coaching staff.

Logan and Savannah wound up being paired with Alyssa Guzman and another newcomer to camp, UCLA striker Mal Sinclair. The coaches purposefully selected the newbies to play against four veterans – the DeCarlo twins, Lori Gallagher, and midfielder Abby Yang, a valuable reserve player during the last Olympic and World Cup cycles.

To put things simply, it was a disaster for the new girls. The veterans seemed to be three steps ahead mentally, passing circles around the younger quartet and shutting down everything Logan and company tried when they had the ball. After the fifth (or was it sixth?) goal scored by the older group, against very little resistance, Coach Pressley blew her whistle to call a halt to the bloodletting.

“If the four of you don’t want to be here, don’t waste my time. Just let us know this is too tough for you and we’ll ship you home. When I was your age, I’d have seen something like this as an opportunity and I’d have given it my all. This is bullshit. I could go down to the local high school and get four girls who would put up a better fight than this. Do any of you want to get your things and leave now?”

Coach Pressley glared at the four girls on the losing side of things, who stood silently. Allie DeCarlo snickered.

Not used to being mocked, or losing, Logan spoke up. “No ma’am, we’re not going anywhere. Give us a minute.”

Without waiting for the coach, the
national team coach
, to reply, Logan pulled her three teammates into a tight circle, with her arms around the shoulders of Savannah and Mal, who followed her lead and pulled Alyssa in close. Logan was the only one in the circle who spoke.

“The tears of roasting meat kindle the fire even more. Understand?”

She looked around to see confusion on the faces of her teammates.

“Fuck it. I don’t understand it either. Somebody on the plane told me that. Anyway, we’re here for a reason, right? And it’s not to be sacrificial lambs. Stop playing scared, right now. Stop showing them so much respect. Get stuck in! We’ve got this. Look in my eyes. Stay with me. I’m not fucking going home. I’m going to Rio. And if I have to drag all three of you with me, you’re all coming, too. Let’s do this!”

Logan watched the nerves of her teammates melt away. She knew she sounded like a crazy person, but if it helped to loosen everyone up, she didn’t care.

She suddenly realized it. She’d turned into her father.

They broke their huddle to look over at the DeCarlo sisters juggling a ball back and forth, effortlessly keeping it aloft while Lori and Abby stretched.

When play resumed, Logan and Savannah were everywhere. The vets may have been able to read the game better, to anticipate what their younger opponents would do, but they weren’t prepared for the maniacal intensity and overwhelming athleticism brought to bear by Logan’s inspired troops. Alyssa began to express herself, dancing with the ball, drawing extra defenders and freeing space for Mal to get open and convert her chances. Logan and Savannah tackled brutally, and although Lori Gallagher was still the best player on the field, Allie and Angie began to play with more caution and started pulling out of challenges when they saw (and felt) how hard Logan and Savannah were coming in. Abby largely disappeared.

By the time Coach Pressley blew her whistle again, her tone had changed.

“Nicely done,
Coach
Lowery. I was ready to sack Coach Riffle. She’s the one who scouted you. But I’m starting to see why she was so adamant about you getting an invite to camp. Much better, all of you. Go line up for sprints.”

As they jogged over to the rest of the group, Alyssa Guzman, at seventeen the youngest girl in camp by four years, sidled up to Logan.

“Thanks, Logan.” She offered.

“For what?”

“If you hadn’t grabbed us like you did, I was about ready to get my stuff and go. This whole thing has been a real eye-opener.”

Logan threw an arm around Alyssa’s shoulders as they jogged side-by-side and hugged her.

“No problem, Alyssa. You were great out there.”

That night at dinner, Savannah and Logan were joined at their table by Alyssa, Mal, Tara Rourke, and, to everyone’s surprise, team captain Lori Gallagher.

The newbies, and even Tara, who had played alongside Lori previously with the national team, sat in stunned silence to be so near to someone each and every one of them had idolized growing up. In fact, aside from Logan, everyone else at the table had, at some point, worn a Lori Gallagher USWNT jersey, although four of them were replicas.

“Hey, y’all. I’m Lori. Welcome to camp.” Despite having played on five continents and appearing in commercials and on magazine covers, Lori’s Alabama twang was as strong as ever.

The group mumbled their greetings, trying to play it as cool as they could.

Lori asked how everyone was getting on, gauging her potential new teammates to see how they were holding up under the stress of what amounted to a huge tryout, something most of them hadn’t endured since before they turned ten years old.

The conversation began to flow over chicken and pasta and the girls became more at ease with their captain, comfortable enough to ask her some pointed questions.

“So is Travis Zane as hot in person as he is on television and in pictures?” Mal asked, covering her mouth with her hands to stifle her nervous giggle. Lori had done a
Sports Illustrated
photo shoot for its swimsuit issue, in a section pairing athletes with people from the entertainment industry. Zane was a crooner known for washboard abs, a disarming smile, and a never-ending parade of models on his arm. After the shoot, rumors swirled that the singer and soccer star were an item.

Lori smirked at Mal, finishing a forkful of chicken and washing it down before replying. “Travis is…” Lori pondered a while longer before finishing. “You know what, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Travis performs at the closing ceremonies in Rio. Does that give you any extra motivation to make the team?”

The group laughed as Mal glowed red with embarrassment. As the ruckus died down, Savannah and Tara performed an admirable rendition of the chorus of his biggest hit – “
Your touch, your kiss, every night with you is bliss
,” which made Lori cringe and Mal feign crawling under the table to hide.

After dinner, the team gathered for remarks from the coaches, who praised everyone’s effort, but indicated things would only be getting tougher, and to make sure everyone got plenty of rest.

Savannah and Logan called home to fill in friends and family on the events of the day and fell asleep easily.

B
y the fourth
day of camp, Logan and Savannah were sore and exhausted. Things had ramped up the second day, and on day three the team had run on the beach together and sprinted up and climbed down a steep opening on the rocks where the road fell away to the ocean below.

When their alarms sounded at 0600, it was only with great effort, accompanied by moans and groans, that the roommates rose from their beds.

Following a light set of drills, the coaches called the remaining 32 players together at midfield. Two girls Logan hadn’t gotten to know very well had left camp with injuries, one a goalkeeper and the other a striker.

“We’ve divided you up into two teams. Coach Stall and Coach Riffle will each take a group and work with you for the rest of the morning. This afternoon, you’ll scrimmage. Full-sized field, ninety minutes, referees, just like a real match. Everybody will play, we’ll have free substitutions, otherwise, just like a real game.” Coach Riffle addressed the team before her assistants read off the lists of players and the group separated into two units.

Logan was relieved to see that Savannah, Alyssa, and Lori G were with her and Coach Riffle. They went over tactics and positioning, worked on a few set plays they hoped to use in the scrimmage, and broke for lunch. When they returned to the locker rooms after the break, Logan’s breath caught in her throat.

* * *

H
anging
beneath a placard that read “Lowery” was a #14 blue national team jersey. She ran the material between her fingers and felt tears in the corners of her eyes. She thought of her dad, and how proud he’d be of her. She recalled all the long drives in the car to tournaments, all the practices, the countless hours kicking a soccer ball off the side of her garage under the disapproving glare of their neighbor from two houses down, old Mrs. Pearson, always watching through her window, staring daggers through all the children on the street who dared to play outside.

Her daydream was interrupted by the voice of Coach Riffle over the din of sixteen women going through their pregame rituals and getting dressed.

“If you aren’t starting, don’t read anything into it. Everybody will play. We’re opening in a 3-5-2. Cruz, Lowery, and Beierle on the backline.” Coach Riffle went on to announce the rest of the starters. A 3-5-2 meant they’d be playing with three defensive players, five midfielders, and two strikers. Lori G was in her customary spot in the center of midfield, the engine of the team. Savannah would begin the match on the bench, while Alyssa was on the right side of midfield, a winger.

Logan was more used to playing as part of a defensive quartet, but she’d be in good company with national team veterans Jada Cruz and Leah Beierle flanking her. Jada, the daughter of a former Mexican professional soccer player and an American Olympic sprinter, looked like she belonged in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue, an exotic beauty who’d become the USWNT player with the second-highest Q-rating on the team behind Lori Gallagher, although in Jada’s case more for her looks than her relatively modest accomplishments as a player. Not that she didn’t belong, she’d played in the last World Cup and acquitted herself well, but her fame owed itself more to casual fans stopping while flipping channels and wondering “Who is
that
?” than soccer purists seeking her out for her sublime skills, as they did for Lori.

Leah was striking in her own way. Covered in tattoos and sporting a head of closely-cropped hair that changed color more often than most people change socks, Leah stood out in any crowd. Her hair was currently bright green, and when she wasn’t playing, the holes she’d volunteered to have put in her face outnumbered the ones nature had put there four to one.

As they took the field, Leah and Jada slapped hands and then did the same with Logan.

“Talk back here, rookie. Let us hear you. You’re in the middle, we’ll be going forward. Make sure our asses are covered back here,” Jada instructed.

Logan knew that in a 3-5-2 that the fullbacks on the sides tended to go forward, overlapping midfielders, and that she’d be expected to stay back, with two defensive midfielders adding cover. She’d be the eyes for the players in front of her, with her voice letting them know what was happening behind them.

Mal and Tara were the starting strikers for the opposition, wearing white national team jerseys, and they kicked off, sending the ball booming into the corner, where it was corralled by Leah, who passed across to Logan, giving her a first touch of the ball while wearing the red, white, and blue.

Her pass to Lori was intercepted by Tara Rourke, who took two quick dribbles before unleashing a low, blistering shot that Logan’s goalkeeper just managed to tip past the post. Logan’s mistake nearly cost her team a goal less than fifteen seconds into the match.

As the two teams lined up for the corner kick, Logan found herself jostling with Allie DeCarlo, starting center back for the white shirts.

“Hey, the spotlight is too bright for some people, Lowery. No shame in that,” Allie mocked Logan’s errant pass.

“Shut the fuck up,
Twin
,” snarled Leah Beierle from behind Logan and Allie. “If you spent more time playing instead of running your mouth, Logan wouldn’t be taking your job.”

Allie DeCarlo pretended to ignore the comment, but Logan noticed a twitch in her face, which caused Logan to break into a grin as she got into position to defend a ball lofted high into the goalmouth she was defending. Logan rose and beat Allie to it, heading it away and knocking the slender twin to the ground in the process. As Logan jogged away to follow the action, she could hear Allie behind her, screaming at the referee.

A youth coach of Logan’s had once told her that when you start yelling at the referee, it’s usually because you’ve run out of ways to beat your opponent. That advice resonated with Logan, who saved her frustration and anger for her own shortcomings and only spoke to referees to compliment them after matches.

The action continued, and Logan’s miscue to begin the game proved to be an anomaly. She blended well with Jada and Leah, and aside from Tara Rourke sending a shot into the post, the blue team had the better of things and the first forty-five minutes ended scoreless.

Savannah started the second half in place of Lori Gallagher, and immediately linked up with Alyssa on a nifty give-and-go pass which sprung Alyssa for a shot which forced a desperate scramble in front of the white goal to clear.

Ten minutes later, the blue team struck.

Leah made a run up the right side as Alyssa shielded the ball, and the youngster surprised everyone with a backwards kick through the legs of Angie DeCarlo, which led Leah perfectly. Leah sidestepped a defender and fired a shot into the roof of the net.

Leah didn’t score often, but when she did, her celebratory back handspring reminded everyone of her gymnastics background. Her team surrounded the green-haired defender, who was only interested in congratulating Alyssa Guzman on her brilliant pass.

The goal inspired the white team, and just moments later Tara Rourke took a high ball from Abby Yang, lifted with her knee over Jada’s head, and ran past her to finish the play with a curving shot to the far post.

The rest of the half saw liberal substitutions from both coaches, but no more goals. Logan figured she’d played well; she wasn’t at any fault for the goal, but her new friend Mal was distraught at dinner, sure her disappointing performance would get her cut.

“I didn’t take a single shot. I barely touched the ball. Whatever you guys were doing on defense, I couldn’t find a seam anywhere,” she confided to Logan.

“Everybody has a bad game. At least you got to play. I sat the entire first half,” Savannah offered.

“Yeah, but you kicked ass when you were in there, girl. You and Logan are set,” Mal said, pushing brown rice around on her plate.

“Thank God for Leah and Jada is all I can say,” interjected Logan. “They saved me more than once out there today.”

The girls spent the meal flattering one another, deflecting praise, and coming to a consensus on how much they despised the DeCarlo sisters, while grudgingly admitting that they were damn good players.

* * *

W
hen camp broke
two days later, each player had an exit interview with the complete coaching staff in attendance.

Logan was among the first players called, and none of her close friends had yet received any news.

“Come in Logan, sit down,” instructed Coach Pressley. “How do you think it went this week?”

“Thank you for the opportunity, all of you coaches,” Logan remarked, a smile wide and bright on her face. “I think it went pretty well. Some of the women here are just incredible. I did whatever I could to keep up. It was awesome, however it turns out, and I think I learned a lot I can take back to X with me when our season starts in the Fall.”

“Well, Logan, I don’t want to waste your time or keep you in suspense. You’re not as technically gifted as most of the players we’ve had come through the program. Next to a Leah or Allie, your skills are pretty pedestrian. Wouldn’t you agree?” Nina Pressley didn’t mince words.

“I, um, yes, I definitely respect them, they’re great players,” Logan sank in her chair, her voice dropping almost to a whisper as she responded to the question.

“But,” Coach Pressley opened her binder and paused to review some notes, “You play with an energy, almost a fury, that this team has been missing. You inspire. I shudder at the thought of you finding out you had a grandparent from France or something and showing up in their uniform in Brazil. In an act of self-preservation, at the very least, I’d like to invite you to join us for our next camp in January and the qualifying tournament in February in Houston.”

Logan’s downcast disposition vanished as she sprang up from her chair and pumped her first, causing the coaching staff to erupt in laughter.

“Yeah, that’s definitely an American outburst,” joked Coach Stall, the goalkeeper coach, in his thick German accent.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Logan repeated, shaking hands with the coaches before half-skipping down the hallway, only to stop and compose herself before hitting the hotel lobby where the rest of the players waited. Her best efforts to play it cool, however, failed when she locked eyes with Savannah, and the two laughed as they embraced.

Logan hung around, watching veterans waltz in and out confidently, assured of their places in the team. Tara Rourke was invited back, as was Alyssa Guzman, who had consistently dazzled with the ball at her feet. Mal Sinclair and Abby Yang, current and former UCLA players, were given the same news – thanks for your hard work, and you’ll remain in the player pool, but better luck next time.

Savannah and two goalkeepers were the last to get called back, and as much as Logan knew her roommate and new best friend had made it, Savannah herself harbored doubt. At the final scrimmage, she’d been pitted against a tandem of Lori Gallagher and Angie DeCarlo, and she’d been largely invisible. She cried out of frustration that night.

She shuffled back into the lobby, straight to Logan, dropping her head onto Logan’s shoulder. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to room with you again,” she managed to choke out as Logan held her close.

‘Wait, what?” Logan was completely confused.

“I made it, dummy. I’m sad because I’m afraid I might have to room with you again.”

Logan playfully shoved Savannah and the two of them exited the lobby to the airport shuttle laughing like children.

Once they got rolling, Logan called home. When her mother answered, Logan had just one question for her – “Mom, is your passport up to date? Because you might need to be in Brazil this summer.”

She heard her mother yelp and they both started laughing, then crying, then laughing again.

“Logan!” her mother exclaimed. “My girl! You did it! You’re going to the Olympics.” Her joy quickly turned to tears. “Oh, God. If your father was here… I just don’t even know what he’d do.”

Logan had thought of him all day. He was the reason for her fury, for the fire inside her soul.