Gemma makes the executive decision to head to the bar for drinks. The rest of us trail behind her.
Lucy’s eyes are as wide as mine as she glances around. She goes to UNC, if I’m remembering right. I doubt Chapel Hill’s establishments boast the same chicness as Paris either. I’m not the only one out of their element here, but I think I’m the worst at pretending otherwise.
The rest of us look on as Gemma orders from the bartender in fluent French.
She smirks as she passes around the shots. “I looked up where the first Olympics I’d be eligible to play in were beingheld back in seventh grade. Language prep for London was unnecessary, obviously, so I learned some French.”
Mackenzie and I exchange an impressed look before we suck down our shots. I grimace, fighting the urge to cough, as smooth, chilled liquor slides down my throat and sears my stomach.
“To winning gold!” Lucy cheers.
“We’re supposed to toastbeforedrinking,” Mackenzie points out, setting her empty glass on the metal counter with a dullclank.
“And to not draw attention to who we are,” I can’t help but add.
We are still in college. There are countless professional athletes here who areactuallyfamous, who sign autographs and score multimillion-dollar brand deals on a regular basis. As far as I know, we’re not technically breaking any rules. We’re allowed to leave the Village at night, and we didn’t drink alcohol on the premises.
Cautious is my default setting though. Especially since I was named to the final roster, an elusive dream I’m terrified could dissipate into wisps of smoke at any second.
“We’ll just have to do another round with a toast first,” Gemma says, signaling to the bartender. “But Claire’s right. We’re undercover, ladies.”
To my left, Mackenzie giggles.
I pass on the next shot, mindful of my low tolerance. Gemma wheedles the bartender into drinking it instead, waving the napkin he wrote his number on around like a sparkler as we migrate to the dance floor.
An hour later, the pulsing beat of the pop music isn’t enough to keep me from yawning every other minute. Between jet lag and the excitement of visiting Europe for the first time, I’m running on a serious sleep deficit.
All the girls offer to leave with me, but I can tell they’d prefer to stay longer. So, I wave them off, saying I plan to call my boyfriend on the ride back and he’ll keep me company. Which leads to ten minutes of questions about said semi-fictitious boyfriend, which I muddle through until a familiar song draws their attention back to the dance floor. After promising to text them once I’m safely back at the Village, I emerge outside alone.
It’s cooler than it was earlier, but not by much. The night air smells like smoke from the cigarette butts littering the sidewalk. The ends of some still glow orange.
My nose wrinkles as I fish my phone out. For too long, I stare at the most recent message from Nolan, sent a few hours ago.
Nolan:Stop being so childish.
My thumb hovers, sorely tempted to swipe and delete it. To deleteeverything, the entire digital record of our relationship. I dated him to prove a point to myself, and the only lesson I learned is that’s a terrible reason to enter a relationship.
I sigh and shut off the phone. I’ll decide what to do about Nolan when I’m back in Boston. Right now, I have more important things to focus on.
Then I remember why I was on my phone to begin with and tap the screen again. This time, it doesn’t wake up. It remains stubbornly black, the empty battery flashing a few seconds later.
Fucking Nolan. Even thousands of miles away, he’s still managing to distract me. If not for his latest text, I’d have noticed the low battery and ordered a ride in time.
And fuck me for going out in a foreign city with a barely charged phone. I was ambushed about this outing, but still.
I glance at the long line of people waiting to enter the club, wondering how likely the bouncer is to recognize me and allow me to skip to the front. I decide to see if the man at the valet stand can help first.
“Excuse me?” I call out, stepping his way.
I have to repeat myself twice before he glances over, spitting out a steady stream of rushed French before resuming rifling through sets of car keys.
I stare at him blankly, struggling to decipher any of what he said. Unlike Gemma, I never expected to be at this Olympics. Hoped, sure, but never planned or prepared. I studied Portuguese in high school.
“Uh…auto?” I mime turning a steering wheel with my hands, then raise my thumb and pointer finger to pretend I’m making a phone call. “Taxi?” I tack on, hoping that’s a recognizable word in any language.
More French flows from behind me. The valet’s attention shifts past me, and he nods in response to whatever was said.
I sigh, shoulders slumping, resigning myself to the fate of standing in line a second time. Maybe my teammates will decide to leave soon, and I won’t have to wait long, but the evening didn’t seem to be trending that way. Gemma, at least, is waiting for the bartender to get off his shift.
