Risking the Crown (The Crown 2)

The crowd was wild. Somewhere in that chaos Reyna was screaming for Scott, wearing a red and blue Team USA shirt. She was always glued to every play. Sometimes I thought she knew the game better than we did.

My first serve was returned quickly by one of the Italians, but Scott was ready for it. He spiked it over the net and the fans erupted, roaring in unison. I grinned. That was badass.

I stared our opponents down, assessing their positions, their eyes, and their stances before tossing up my next serve.

I wasn’t the sentimental type. I didn’t save pictures, or keep souvenirs from trips. I couldn’t tell you the name of the first girl I kissed, or the first girl I fucked. Hell, I deleted texts off my phone. I didn’t keep shit, or think about it. But in that instance while the ball hovered over my head. While it floated in the air, carried in space by the ocean winds. While the crowd chanted “Miller-Laurer.” While the Olympic flag fluttered next to the American one. I had a moment when I felt like I was a part of something bigger than myself. I felt the weight of the Olympics. I felt the magnitude of what I was doing. I felt as if this was a moment I would remember. A first I couldn’t toss aside as if it meant nothing. And it was fucking incredible.

“Mine!” I screamed diving for the ball as it came ripping toward me after the serve. The Italians were trying to play the angles in the back court, but I was fired up. I bumped it toward Scott as he stuffed it on their side of the net.

I’d been reprimanded for my language before so I slapped my partner on the back instead of shouting “Fuck yeah.” He knew it meant the same thing.

Before I knew it the first set was over and we had won by a decisive margin. We only needed to win the next one and we’d be on to the next round. The way the Italians were playing I couldn’t imagine we would have to face a third set in this match.

I sat next to Scott while Eric talked to us about our scoring strategy.

“You guys need to be more aggressive,” he urged.

“More aggressive?” I looked at the scoreboard. “We’re fucking killing them.”

“Yeah, but they never lose the second set. That’s their thing. They play for a third set. They take it easy in set one. It’s their style.”

“Fuck,” I muttered.

Scott stretched his arms overhead. “And it’s starting to rain.”

The drops were cool at first, but they started to pelt in rapid succession, making me feel chilled for the first time since I arrived in Rio. I shook my hair as it was soaked from the rain.

“Let’s get this over with. We are not headed to a third set.” I eyed my partner with certainty. We were playing harder and sharper than we ever had. This was our game to win.

I wiped the rain from my face and chucked the sunglasses I was wearing into my equipment bag. They were more of a distraction now with this downpour.

We rotated sides of the court. The rain was coming in sideways. The arena was starting to thin out by the minute. Even the most dedicated fans didn’t want to sit through this. It started to feel like a monsoon as the sheets of rain trickled closer together.

Scott served first while I watched the net. Eric’s words rang in the back of my head. I needed to be more aggressive at the net. I had to get every spike. Every block. There was no room for mistakes if the Italians were used to dominating the second set.

I had another one of those time-suspension moments. What the fuck was with playing at the Olympics? Why had I suddenly become so aware of every second of this match? Why the hell was I a fucking sentimental Olympian?

The taller of the two Italians jumped forward, giving the ball a soft tap over the net. The rain was in my eyes, but I could see the ball was going to land inside the line if I didn’t get there and knock it back to Scott. It was the only chance we had to stop the point.

I lunged forward, throwing my weight toward the ball, aiming my fists underneath its surface. But the sand was clumped together from the rain and I felt the twinge in my knee as I propelled my body through the air. I hit the ball as I threw myself out of bounds on Italy’s side.

“Fuck,” I growled, pulling my knee to my chest. I rolled on my side, coating myself in wet sand. The pain was searing. I knew immediately something was wrong. My knee wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

“Don’t move.”

I looked up, expecting to see Eric or Scott hovering over me with concern, but neither one of them looked like they had walked off the pages of a swimsuit magazine.

She had long blond hair that clung to her forehead in damp tendrils and green eyes that were busy studying my knee.

“Stay still. Let me try something,” she instructed calmly. “Does it hurt if I do this?”

She pressed her thumb along the inner ridge of my leg and I bit the inside of my lip to keep from howling out loud. I didn’t want this beautiful girl to know I was about to start crying.

“Yeah.” I nodded.

The game had stopped and by now the rest of the teams had moved to the side court to see what had happened. The thunder boomed overhead and I swore I saw a crackle of lightning, but I wasn’t sure any of this was real. Who in the hell was this girl?

“Shit, Pierce.” Eric stooped to the sand. “You ok?”