Strike (Sphere of Irony 2)

A few more quick goodbyes and they’re gone, leaving me in the quiet flat alone. Both of my flatmates are out for the evening. They aren’t the ones with a terrifying photo shoot tomorrow. One that might change everything. It’s scary, but I have to do it for me.

It takes forever to fall asleep, what with me worrying about bags under my eyes and the possibility of waking up with an enormous spot on my chin or some other ridiculous ailment. Yet at some point, I must drift off, because the next thing I know, it’s morning and I’m climbing into the backseat of a posh car sent over by Sports Illustrated to pick me up at the flat.

“How was it?” Rose, one of our keepers asks as we stretch on the pitch the next day.

“Odd.” I bend at the waist, wrapping my hands around my ankles as I press my nose into my knees. “Lots and lots of standing around. Honestly,” I sit on the grass to stretch each hamstring individually, “I felt ridiculous. Posing and what not. At this point, I’m hoping they make me look less stupid than I felt.”

Rose shushes me. “Don’t be daft. You’re bloody gorgeous. Of course you’re not going to look stupid. If anything, you’ll have hordes of blokes following you around drooling like dogs once that issue is released.” She pulls back a leg, stretching her quad. “Come to think of it, when does it come out?”

I have to shade my eyes to look up at Rose. The bright sunlight behind her makes her blonde hair glow like a halo around her cherubic face. “Three days before the opening ceremony.” The thought of it gnaws at my stomach, making me a little queasy. “For,” I make air quotes, “Maximum impact they said at the shoot. There’s even a big reveal party I have to go to.”

Rose giggles, “What they meant by maximum impact was maximum money lining their pockets.”

I laugh with her. “Exactly.”

Coach calls us over for our pre-practice pep talk.

Before I get up, Rose leans in. “Hey. I want you to know, if anyone gives you any trouble over the magazine , we all have your back. The whole team.”

It takes a lot to keep from choking up, but I manage to keep my voice steady. “Thanks, Rose. That means a lot to me.”

She nods and we trot over to meet up with our teammates. Once Coach Lewis starts discussing strategies and formations, any worries I had are gone. I’m part of a team. My burden is everyone’s burden, that’s how it works. We’re a family.

I catch my teammates’ eyes while we huddle and I see it in each of their steady gazes—they’re behind me one hundred percent.

For the first time in a long time, I feel as if I’ve accomplished something to be proud of. I’m no longer Kate Campbell, insecure nobody. I’m Kate Campbell, member of the Great Britain Olympic Football team and I deserve to be here.

Coach wraps up her speech, high fiving everyone as we run out onto the pitch. I look up at the bright summer sky, blue as the Caribbean Sea without a single cloud in sight, and smile.

Dax

“What kind of bloody party is this, anyway?” I grumble from the back seat of the hire car that is bringing us to our gig.

“Who cares?” Adam says. “We got free tickets to the Olympics for doing this. Does it matter what it is?”

Christ. I almost like pre-rehab Adam better. Now that he’s sober, he’s all enlightened or some shit. It’s irritating. Especially when I’m in a crap mood. Which I am all the time now that I’ve found out Kate is competing for the women’s football team. Plus, he won’t admit it, but Adam had to have known that before we agreed to perform. Which has me even more aggravated—if that’s even possible.

“I’m excited,” Gavin says cheerily. For once, the haunted look he’s been sporting for the past few months has faded. He looks healthier since we landed at Heathrow a few days ago. “I love Sports Illustrated. They do great features on surfing all the time.”

“Shut up,” Hawke snaps playfully. “You read it for all the pictures of half-naked men. We’re not stupid.”

Gavin laughs. “Well, there is that.” He bumps Hawkes shoulder. “You read it for the swimsuit issue, so you’re not any better than me.”

I roll my eyes as they have a laugh. Whatever. The three of them are too much for me

to take right now. They’re all excited to be here and I’m the pissy bloke who wants to put his boot up someone’s arse.

The car glides to a stop in the back of some posh new restaurant near King’s Cross. Rachel had to stay back in Los Angeles, so she has one of her coworkers traveling with us. He hops out of the front and meets with the rep for SI at the back door.

“Okay guys. Let’s go in.” Cole, Rachel’s replacement, opens our car door, herding us inside the building.

The SI rep introduces himself. “I’m Scott Kramer, one of the public relations liaisons for the Olympics. We’re really glad you guys agreed to play tonight.”

“What exactly is this party?” I ask. When Scott’s face registers fear and he takes a step back , I realize I may have sounded a bit more intimidating than I intended .

“Ummmm,” he stammers a second trying to squelch his reaction to my intimidating demeanor. “Well, we’re unveiling our 2012 Olympic Issue tonight. The cover model is from London and is competing for the U.K. in the games, so we wanted a performance from a band that has roots in the area.” He gestures towards Adam and myself.

“And,” Cole interjects, “most of the IOC will in attendance, as will the London organizers of the games, and the mayor.”