Risking the Crown (The Crown 2)

Rain storms happened during matches, but with Paulo’s calf I worried rain could lead to more injuries. The sand would be more unpredictable, and he could lose his footing. He was the most careless athlete I had ever worked with.

I stooped over my trainer’s bag ensuring I had everything I needed in case there was another incident. The Americans would be here in another twenty minutes to start their hour of warm ups and I would need to keep the guys busy with stretches and cardio so they stayed loose for the game.

The fans had started to trickle into the arena, and I glanced up to see how many seats were already filled. I’d heard the entire tournament was sold out. Beach volleyball was one of the most popular sports in Rio. Add the Americans to the mix and it was the perfect recipe for ticket sales.

I sat on the bench with my back to the crowd and took a sip of water. Paulo practiced his serve. He hit it inside the corner line by inches every time. He was a pain in my ass, but he could play.

Sergio tried to return the serve and ended up face down in the sand. I waited to see if he was ok. He popped up, grinning at me. He knew I would freak out if anything happened before the match started. Their well-being was in my hands.

The sooner this match started, the better I’d feel about the gray clouds drifting closer.

I pulled my long blond hair off my neck and twisted it into a bun. Even when it was overcast, Rio was humid and sticky. It didn’t help that I had to wear a thick polo shirt. All Team Italy coaches and trainers wore the same uniform. It wasn’t very flattering for someone with curvy hips. The khaki shorts assigned to me were probably the ugliest things I had ever worn.

I pulled on the hem to flatten the pleats, but it was pointless. I had to admit defeat.

Sergio and Paulo ran toward me, their chests rising with rapid breaths.

“Warm ups are over,” they announced. “We’re off the sand for the next hour.”

I stood from the bench. “Ok. Let’s get started on some stretching. Paulo, how is your calf feeling?”

“Ow, bella.”

I rolled my eyes. He was a consummate flirt. “Are you going to be able to play on it?”

He nodded. “Can you work it out some more?”

“Sure,” I grumbled. “Let me get Sergio started on some stretches and then I’ll see what I can do to help.”

There wasn’t much room on the side of the court. I had barely glanced up when the Americans walked into the arena. The fans cheered, but I had to give all of my attention to my guys.

The Americans were the favorites to win. They always were. I hadn’t been with the Italian team long enough to have faced the other teams before on an international stage. I felt a sting of betrayal rooted in my chest. After all I was American. It seemed disloyal and unpatriotic to help another country win.

But this was my job. I was a trainer. I couldn’t help that my dream job took me to Italy.

Once I had Sergio in position, I turned to Paulo. He was guzzling water on the bench.

“Paulo!” I admonished. “Sips. Not gulps. You’re going to end up with stomach cramps.”

He shrugged as if my words meant nothing. He pointed to his leg.

I applied pressure with the heel of my hand. I could tell the muscle was still tight, but not nearly as badly as it had been. I began to point and flex his foot while keeping pressure on his calf. He winced every time I moved it.

The crowd was excited about whatever the Americans were doing behind me. The match hadn’t even begun and they were cheering for every bump or block. I tried to focus on Paulo’s leg and not the growing knot in my stomach.

Just this morning I had talked to my mother on video chat. She promised to cheer for the Italian teams, but I told her it wasn’t necessary.

“Of course I will, honey,” she said. “You’ve worked hard there. Everyone is so happy we have our own Olympian to root for.”

“Mom, I’m not an Olympian. I’m a trainer for Olympians,” I explained. “And they aren’t even Americans.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re in Rio, aren’t you?”

“Yes. True.”

“Then, let Four Corners be excited about you. Other than that guy your father went to high school with, who played for the Wranglers one season, there hasn’t been a single professional athlete out of this town. Ever. And besides, he just sat on the bench.”

Four Corners was a tiny town in the eastern part of North Carolina. Its biggest claim to fame was an award-winning barbecue sauce. I understood why the local paper wanted to interview me. But I wasn’t what the town considered a traditional woman. I lived in Europe for God’s sake.