Shaking her head, Mrs. Jackson sighs. “Is there any reason to believe media reports to the contrary?”
My grip on Dani’s hand tightens, and she squeezes back.
“I hugged him goodbye at the airport?” I try, already knowing that’s not what she means.
My mind flashes back to that night out on the beach, huddling close together on the sand, racing to the water after stripping off my clothes. I am such an idiot.
“Any other reason?” she prods, pursing her lips as if she’s daring me to deny it.
I don’t.
“It was just after our second trials, after I talked to the FBI, I was freaking out and needed to talk to someone … and he was there, you know?” My voice rises in pitch and speed as sheer panic descends. “And besides, I don’t think it’s right that anyone gets to tell me who I spend time with, especially after what happened with the last people who were in charge. We have a right to make our own decisions. I have that right.”
Mrs. Jackson raises an eyebrow but then says, “I agree. I may have been a touch precipitous in asking you to refrain from any contact with Leo.”
“Crap, that worked?”
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the noise she just made was a snort, but I’m pretty sure Tamara Jackson would never do anything so undignified.
“Just keep your answers to the press simple and to the point,” she says and dismisses us.
Chelsea and Emma chuck our tracksuits at our heads as soon as we rush through the door to the locker room. I’m still zipping up the jacket as we march back out to the media room just a minute later.
There’s a long dais and rows upon rows of reporters in front of it, video cameras lining the back of the press area, their red lights on, ready to record the entire session. The chairs at the dais have our names taped to the backs, along with cards on the table to let the world know who we are.
Their questions start off slowly, mostly asking us about how we felt during podium training, how we like the Olympic Village, how we feel about the upcoming competition, and then finally one that lands like dead weight on our chests.
“How does it feel coming to the Olympic Games without your personal coaches?”
Pauline’s face flashes through my mind, her long blond ponytail, her stony blue eyes, and the last time I saw her, disappearing behind a closing door back at Gibby’s training center. My eyes meet Emma’s for a moment. She’s a little paler than usual. She’s probably wondering the same thing I am: How much did Pauline know about Gibby, about the drug tests, about what he did to Dani?
Chelsea is the first to recover. “Working with Janet Dorsey-Adams has been an incredible experience, and we’re so grateful that she stepped up when we needed her.”
“And, Audrey, what of the speculation that Coach Dorsey-Adams had a conflict of interest considering your relationship with her son?”
I straighten in my seat and do my best to channel every boring nonanswer I’ve ever heard an athlete give a reporter. “Everyone watched the selection live on television. Mrs. Jackson and Coach Dorsey-Adams explained why they chose the team sitting here, and their selection criteria were no different from what has been used in the past: performance, experience, and potential for success as a team and individually. Beyond that, I have no comment.”
A disgruntled hum passes through the crowd of reporters and then one follows up. “Dani”—we all tense at her name—“what do you say to the skeptics out there who believe your accusations against Coach Gibson were used to cover up a history of using performance-enhancing drugs?”
An uncomfortable silence settles in the room as Dani blinks and then shifts forward in her seat, reaching out to adjust her microphone. But before she can speak, Emma leans forward and clears her throat.
“I’ll take this one,” she says, and our heads swivel to her. She’s right next to me, and as she starts to talk, her hand grabs mine underneath the table, invisible to the crowd in front of us. “Dani would …” She falters and I give her hand a squeeze. “Dani would never cheat. She’s never tested positive, and she’s been cleared by the USOF, just like the rest of us. The actual FBI arrested the man who claimed that she failed. And if that’s somehow not enough for you, I can say, as the person who has the most to lose from her competing, I believe her.”
I don’t know if she means it or if it’s just for show. Emma has always been great with the press, knowing how to say just the right thing to have them eating out of her hand, but it feels genuine, or at least I want to believe it does. She’s my best friend, and I want her back.
“So do I,” I say.
“Me too,” Sarah says.
“I believe Dani,” Brooke chimes in.
And then finally Chelsea says, “We believe Dani. And you?” She nods at the reporter. “You can go fuck yourself.”
I stand up, pulling Emma with me and the others follow as I lead them off the dais, effectively declaring our press conference over. The reporters shout over one another as we leave, but their calls die with the slamming of the door behind us.
“Really, Chelsea?” Janet says, shaking her head at the group of us in exasperation. When none of us look even the least apologetic, she laughs.
Chelsea shrugs and flicks her hand dismissively over her shoulder. “That prick deserved it.”
