The Summer Games: Out of Bounds (7 page)

Weird.

“After he quit, he disappeared for a while and then popped up in Seattle to open this gym. He was only nineteen at the time. Crazy, right?”

I nodded, mesmerized by the missing parts of Lexi’s story. Why would he quit right before the Olympics? How could a nineteen-year-old afford to start his own business?

June dismounted from the high bar, stuck her landing, and squealed.

Erik clapped. “Great, June. Did you feel how fast that last twist was? It needs be like that every time.”

June nodded gleefully before turning to us. Her expression changed quickly, turning supercilious. She sauntered off the mat and walked right up to me, clapping her grips so chalk particles spiraled through the air, nearly choking me.

“You’re up, Brie.”

I called my
mom later that night when Molly and the other girls were downstairs finishing up dinner. She’d been trying to get ahold of me since I’d arrived, but I’d been busy, not to mention a part of me wanted to put distance between my life in Seattle and my life back home. I could almost feel normal here, light, free from the pressures mounting in Austin.

“I checked your bank account today.”

I cursed under my breath, annoyed with myself for giving her access to it in the first place.

“Oh?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant about it.

“You promised me you had enough money to get through until Rio.”

I could feel my throat closing up. I hadn’t thought about the balance in two days, but I knew it was still as abysmal as when I’d left it. I’d counted the drinks at the bar the night before, tallying up what it had cost Lexi to pay for them. She didn’t ask us to reimburse her, but I’d been nervous the whole night that she would.

“And I do,” I replied, pulling confidence out of thin air.

My mom sighed, and the weight of it nearly broke my heart in two.

“Mom, I swear. I still have some cash on me and besides, everything here is pretty much paid for.”

The cash was a lie, but the rest wasn’t.

“They’ve got food and everything for you?”

I smiled, because for once I wasn’t lying. “Yes. Tons of healthy stuff that tastes like high-protein cardboard, and they aren’t charging me for rent, obviously. The airfare to Rio has already been covered, so don’t worry. I don’t need much money while I’m here, I swear.”

This time when she spoke again, I could sense a lightness in her tone. I figured she was relieved to know I wouldn’t be asking for any money.

“And you know what?” I continued. “When I get back from Rio, we’re going to celebrate
on me
,” I said, smiling at the image of my mother and me dressed up at a fancy restaurant. We never ate out while I was growing up. I hadn’t even been to a real restaurant until I went with a friend’s family when I was thirteen. I’d been embarrassed to admit that fact at the time, so I sat in silence, marveling at how the price of just one meal would buy us groceries for a week. I’d feigned a lack of appetite and ordered a small salad that I was embarrassed to learn only came as a side to an entree. I shook the memory from my head and turned to look out the window.

“I don’t want you worrying about any of that while you’re there, Brie. Just focus on gymnastics. I’ve been picking up a lot of extra hours while you’ve been gone.”

I ground my teeth together. My mom deserved more than this life. She deserved more than bland food and long, thankless hours. She was the most selfless person I knew and it wasn’t fair that life had dealt her such a shitty hand.

The USOC rewards $25,000, $15,000, and $10,000 for each gold, silver, and bronze medal earned at the Olympics—hardly life-changing money for most professional athletes, but any one of those sums would make an immediate impact on my life, let alone more than one. Plus, if I was smart about it, I could easily spin my success into sponsorships and endorsement deals. I had no limits. If they wanted to slap my photo onto cereal boxes? Perfect. Leotards? Makes sense. Tampons? Sure, I’d go with the flow. (Ha.) I would shill for whatever I had to to turn our lives around, but first I had to win. First, I had to become a household name worth mentioning.

“When I get back from Rio, things will be different, Mom. I promise.”

Chapter Nine

Brie

The next morning
, I woke up before my alarm. I blinked my eyes open and glanced back at the small window, disappointed to see the moon through the translucent curtain. A quick glance down at my phone confirmed my suspicions. It was only a little after 5:00 AM. I needed to lie back down, force my eyes closed, and go back to sleep. I’d crashed early the night before, exhausted after a hard day of workouts and the phone call with my mom. Still, I’d regret it if I didn’t try for another few hours of sleep.

Molly was snoring gently above me. I strained to hear any other sounds in the house, but it was silent. We weren’t due at the gym for another three hours.

I could go on a morning run, but I was too sore. Instead, I lay in bed and shot off a few text messages to my mom, letting her know I’d meant what I’d said the night before and further assuring her that practice was running smoothly and I was having fun. I attached a few photos I’d taken of the property and the house. I knew she’d beg me for more details, but it was enough to sustain her until I got another chance to call her.

After that, I tried to roll over and fall back asleep, but it was hopeless. I’d already had eight hours and I was antsy to get up and move around.

“Molly,” I whispered. “Psst.
Molly
.”

If possible, she started snoring even louder.

I texted Lexi.

Brie
: Awake?

When I didn’t get a reply, I pushed out of bed, resigned to spending the next three hours alone. I brushed my teeth and loosely braided my hair before padding down the stairs in search of a distraction. I made coffee and sipped it slowly, staring out the window at the quiet morning. It was nice, really, trees and grass and a baby bunny hopping in the shrubs.
Cool, I’m already bored.

I turned and eyed the baking supplies I’d purchased the day before when we picked up a new coffee pot. Flour, sugar, baking soda, and vegetable oil sat in a plastic bag, untouched. It’d pained me to pay for the supplies at checkout, but I knew I’d go crazy if I couldn’t bake for an entire month. Molly had laughed when I’d carried the bag out of the grocery store.

“What are you going to do with all that? We don’t have an oven.”

“I’ll figure it out,” I replied.

And I would figure it out. I had three hours before practice and I wanted to spend it baking.

Without a solid plan, I reached for the overly ripe bananas on the counter and stuffed them into the bag of baking supplies. I pulled my coffee mug off the counter, slipped on flip-flops, and walked out of the guesthouse.

“Holy sh—.”

The morning chill hit me like I was walking into a deep freezer. I kept forgetting I wasn’t in the middle of Texas, where during the summer, it was a solid 95 degrees even in the mornings. I picked up the pace and leapt up the stairs to Erik’s house, careful not to spill my coffee.

Molly had hinted that his house was off limits the other day, but during the team meeting, he’d never told us to stay out. I mean, sure, it was
implied
, but I pushed my face against the glass window and spotted the exact appliance I needed:
an oven
.

I angled around to get a better view of the space. The living room was dark and the only light in the kitchen was coming from outside. I lingered there for a few seconds, shivering in my tank top.

Erik was nowhere to be found. He was likely a normal person, still asleep in a warm bed. I walked back around and tried the door off the kitchen. I told myself if it was locked then I’d leave. I wouldn’t break into the guy’s house just to bake some banana bread. To my delight, the door opened without a hitch, and warm air wrapped around me like a hug.

I walked in quietly and shut the door, cringing when the hinges squeaked. I paused, listening. The house was silent.
Phew
. I set the bag of cooking supplies on the counter and walked toward the staircase off to the side of the kitchen. I peeked around the corner and stared up, trying to spot Erik’s bedroom door. I couldn’t see anything beyond the second floor landing, and it felt wrong to walk up. Breaking into his kitchen was one thing, but walking into his bedroom while he was asleep was straight-up stalker status.

I decided I would be extra quiet, bake as much as I could, as quickly as I could, and then get the hell out of there before he woke up. The beauty of guerilla baking was that if the aroma did wake him up and I was caught, at least I had breakfast to serve as a readymade bribe to secure amnesty. I smiled as I unloaded the bag of groceries onto the counter. I lined everything up in a perfect row, and then started quietly rifling around the drawers and cabinets for measuring cups and mixing bowls. I knew if I organized it the right way, I could make banana bread, blueberry muffins, and a batch of homemade granola before Erik woke up.

Yes. Solid plan. In T-minus 60 minutes, I’d have warm banana bread to share with my team. Even crotchety June couldn’t turn that down.

Chapter Ten

Erik

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

“Fuck,” a feminine voice shouted. “
Turn off
. Turn off!”

BEEP. BEEP. BEERHRHHpppppppppppp…

I sat up in bed and wiped sleep from my eyes, turning to my alarm clock. It wasn’t due to go off for another thirty minutes, which meant the beeping had come from somewhere else.

A door slapped shut and then I heard a metallic clang from the kitchen.

I frowned. Had someone broken into my house to…
use my oven?

I whipped the blankets off my legs and pushed out of bed. As soon as I pulled open my bedroom door, the scent of banana bread hit me like a wave.
Shit.
I hadn’t had homemade bread in years. My mother used to make it every now and then, but it was usually half burned. Baking wasn’t really in her wheelhouse.

I padded down the stairs, confused and now, suddenly starving, but I paused when my foot hit the bottom stair. Brie was standing on tiptoes on my kitchen counter with her back to me, jabbing at my smoke detector with a broomstick. She was barefoot with red pajama pants hanging low on her hips and a loose gray tank top exposing an inch or two of her midriff.

Just beyond her, I caught sight of the mess she’d managed to create in my kitchen. Flour was everywhere, coating the counter and the floor. There were streaks of it on her arms and back.
How did she manage to get it on her back?

After silencing the beeping device, she dropped to the ground gracefully and resumed her work with a heavy sigh. She couldn’t see me from my perch near the stairs, so I stood, watching her as she scraped the edge of the bread pan. She turned it over and dumped the fresh loaf onto a plate, and my stomach grumbled at the sight. She spun around and shrieked when she spotted me standing at the bottom of the stairs. The pan was suddenly loose in the air and then a second later, it crashed down onto her big toe.

“Shit,” she said, bending low to hold her toe. “You scared me!”

I cringed and stepped closer, bending low to see the damage.

“Don’t touch it!” she demanded, jerking her foot away from me. She wouldn’t let me get close, holding her arm out to stop me and brushing flour onto me in the process.

I laughed and shook my head. “It’s fine. If it were broken you wouldn’t be standing right now.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Well it landed right on the nail!”

I was sure it hurt like hell, but she’d be okay.

I turned and my kitchen—
or what used to be my kitchen
—pushed back to the front of my thoughts. It looked like a bomb had gone off inside my house. “Care to tell me why you’re in my house without my permission?”

She puffed out a breath and stood up, propping her hands on her hips as if she was the one in charge.
Funny
.

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, waving to the baking supplies behind her.

I wiped my finger across the counter and came away with flour.

“Yeah, I’ve somehow deduced the
what
, but I’d like to know the
why.”

She turned to me, leaning her hip against the counter. “The guesthouse doesn’t have an oven, and a girl can’t live on dry chicken and broccoli alone.”

“So you decided to let yourself into my house and use my oven?”

She held up one hand to stifle my anger and reached forward with the other to break off a piece of banana bread.

“Here’s your why,” she said, holding the morsel out to me. I watched the steam curl off the top as I pulled it out of her hand and slipped it into my mouth.

I resisted an audible groan.
Fuck.
“It’s all right,” I lied as I chewed the delicious bread.

She frowned. “Yeah right. I would be willing to bet my life this is the best banana bread you’ve ever had.”

I arched a brow as she got back to work stirring ingredients in a mixing bowl. It looked like by the end of her baking session, we’d have enough bread to host a community-wide bake sale.

“Let me try some more,” I said, pointing to the banana bread.

She smiled. “Only if I’m allowed to keep using your oven.”

I stared between her and the bread. On one hand, I really liked my privacy. That’s why I’d put the team in the guesthouse in the first place. On the other hand, I really fucking loved banana bread. I shrugged and reached behind me for a plate in the cupboard. “Whatever. Just make sure to clean up after.”

She grinned and turned to the refrigerator to grab a carton of milk. “Want some?”

When she turned back to hand me the carton, I noticed two things at once. First, Brie wasn’t wearing a bra. I hadn’t noticed at first because her tank top was loose and Brie was petite, but then she shifted and I caught the outline of her breast beneath the loose material. Suddenly, I was fully aware of the fact that Brie was a beautiful woman, standing bra-less in my kitchen. Instead of dwelling on that fact, I had to force myself to focus on the second thing that caught my attention: she had a little tattoo running horizontally across her ribcage. I caught the edge of it and leaned forward to capture her arm to hold it up so I could see it clearer.

“What’s that? Ink?” I asked.

She glanced down to where I was looking. Thin black letters barely peeked out of the armhole of her tank top.

She smirked. “Yeah. It’s a tattoo.”

She was mocking me.

“I can see that. Aren’t you a little young for a tattoo?”

She narrowed her eyes, annoyed. “I’m twenty.”

“What does it say?” I asked, ignoring her glare.

She reached down to move the loose material aside and I struggled to resist the urge to skim my knuckle across her skin. It looked so soft there, creamy white, not nearly as tan as her arms and legs. The scrolling tattoo started an inch away from the bottom of her breast and stretched horizontally toward her back. It was so subtle and small, I would have missed it had I not been so close.

“Unbreakable,” I read.

She nodded.

“Does it have a meaning or did you just like the movie?”

She laughed and shook her head. “It’s a reminder to myself.”

“Huh, I like it,” I said, dropping her arm so I could pour myself a glass of milk and try to compartmentalize Brie in my mind. In the gym, it was easy. There was a buffer between us. There were other people around us, other people to focus on and coach. There in my kitchen, as I took a seat across the island and watched her bake, I had to keep reminding myself she was there to use my oven, nothing more.

She stuck her finger in to taste the batter in the mixing bowl and smiled. I found myself smiling with her before realizing what I was doing. I wiped my mouth and took another bite of banana bread.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Blueberry muffins.”

My brows arched with interest.

She glanced up and the morning light caught her eyes, brightening the dark brown to an alluring golden hue. She smiled. “Don’t worry. You can eat these too.”

She finished stirring the batter and bent down to root through the cupboard beside the stove, most likely looking for a muffin pan. I was about to tell her to stop looking—I didn’t have one—when she leaned forward and I caught a glimpse down the front of her tank top. I could see the full curve of her perky breasts, the same creamy skin I’d wanted to touch a moment before. She shifted lower and I nearly caught sight of her nipples. Another inch forward and
fuck.

“Brie,” I said, voice low.

Fuck
.
Fuck. Fuck.

Her head whipped up and a few more strands of brown hair fell out of her braid. I was about to tell her to go home and put a bra on, but I didn’t want to embarrass her or admit I’d been looking.
Christ.
The whole situation was wrong. It’d been wrong from the very start. I should have spoken up on day one, should have kicked her out the second I walked downstairs, but instead she was in my kitchen, encroaching on my space and pushing me to the brink of self-control.

“What?” she asked, standing back up. “Is it not good?”

Seriously? Was she seriously asking me about fucking banana bread? Either she was clueless or more innocent than I could have imagined. I shook my head and pushed away from the island. I needed a long run and a night out on the town. I needed a good reminder of what a woman my own age felt like. I didn’t want Brie—she wasn’t even an option. I just wanted to get laid.

“Just have this mess cleaned up before practice,” I said, taking my plate of banana bread and carrying it up the stairs.

“You’re welcome by the way!” she called out after me.

She’d broken into
my
house, woken
me
up before my alarm, made a mess of
my
kitchen, and now she was demanding a fucking thank you?

It was hard for me to believe she was oblivious to the effect brought about by her body wrapped in that loose tank top. If she wasn’t oblivious—if she
knew
what she was doing—she was lucky I didn’t call her bluff, push her down onto the dirty counter, and rip that loose material that separated her breasts from my lips. She was probably used to testing her maturity and newfound confidence around hesitant boys closer to her age, but the lesson to be learned was that unlike boys who are intimidated by feminine boldness, men like me are
inflamed
by it.

I took a deep breath, shook my head, and erased the notion from my mind. Brie was only twenty, and I knew the young gymnast lifestyle didn’t leave much time for her to learn manipulation games like that. More than likely, she wasn’t just oblivious to the effect she had on men.

She had no fucking clue.