I’D GROWN USED to Kinsley’s popularity back in Los Angeles, but walking around with her in the village felt like accompanying Taylor Swift to the Grammys. When we stepped into the food court, heads snapped in our direction. Athletes, families, friends, coaches—it didn’t matter what country they were from—they all knew who Kinsley Bryant was, thanks to her marriage to Liam Wilder and her meteoric rise to soccer fame.
I slipped behind her and let her take the brunt of the attention. She delighted in it in a way I knew I never would. I liked the sponsorship opportunities and perks that went along with being an Olympic athlete, but I also enjoyed walking through the grocery store in sweatpants without having to worry that the paparazzi would be waiting to snap photos of me outside. Kinsley didn’t have that luxury.
“Better get used to this,” Kinsley said, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “Once you carry the flag in the opening ceremonies, people all over the world will know who you are.”
I bristled at the thought. When the Olympic committee had asked if I’d like to be one of the flag bearers during the opening ceremonies, I’d been honored and had agreed without a second thought. Now, as I followed Kinsley past tables and noticed the curious stares, I wondered if maybe I’d made a mistake. I wasn’t quite ready to exchange my relative obscurity for fame.
“Woah, watch it,” Becca said, pulling me out of the way just before I collided with a group of athletes weaving in the opposite direction.
The food court was a bona fide watering hole for sports stars of all countries. We headed toward a juice bar nestled near the back wall and I scanned over the crowd, taking it all in.
It was remarkably easy to spot the different sports; the telltale signs gave each one away. The rugby and weightlifting guys made their way through four or five different lines, stacking up their trays with enough sustenance to last a normal human a full year. A group of Serbian basketball players had taken up residence in the corner of the food court, towering over the crowd and making the team of Australian gymnasts sitting beside them look like hobbits.
Though there were clearly differences in body sizes, there was no denying one fact: every single person was young and in the best shape of their lives. It was no wonder there were so many rumors about the Olympic village; hundreds of attractive athletes with energy to spare were bound to get into a little bit of trouble.
“What kind of juice are you going to get?” Kinsley asked, pulling me out of my survey of the room. We were nearly at the front of the line and I hadn’t even glanced over the menu.
“I think I want a smoothie.”
She laughed. “Well there’s like fifty of them, so—”
Kinsley was cut off when the girl behind us in line squealed so loud I nearly lost hearing in my left ear.
“HOLY SHIT,” she squealed, nudging her friend’s arm. “There’s Freddie!”
“Shut up! Shut up,” her friend chimed in.
My gut clenched as I glanced over my shoulder. The girls were a good deal shorter than I was, and when I spun to face them, the faint smell of chlorine spiked the air. They were definitely swimmers, and judging by their identical mannerisms, I guessed synchronized.
“Oh my god. He’s coming this way,” the first girl said. “Do I look okay?”
If Freddie was coming their way, he was coming my way. My heart pounded in my chest as I scanned past the girls to see Freddie walk up to the back of the juice line with what looked like a few other guys from his swim team. He hadn’t noticed me yet, which was for the best, because I couldn’t drag my gaze away from him. At the party the night before, it’d been dark, and the alcohol had cast him in hazy soap opera light. Here, now, in the food court, there was no denying his appeal.
I stood immobile, accepting the punch to the gut that came with the realization that Freddie’s good looks hinted at years of mischief managed through sly smiles and charming words. His kind brown eyes and endearing smile suggested he’d never been grounded a day in his life, but the chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones whispered that he probably should have been.
He was trying to look over the menu, but there was too much excitement surrounding him. A line of athletes began to form to the side of him as if choreographed beforehand.
“Could I get an autograph for my mum?”
“Freddie! Where are you staying for the games?”
“Can I see your abs?”
Question after question came his way, and I realized that whatever popularity Kinsley had, it didn’t hold a candle to Freddie’s. He drew attention like he was born for it, and as he smiled down and graciously signed autographs, I remembered that might well have been the case.
I used the crowd to conceal my gaze as I continued watching him, or at least I thought I did. I was openly gawking at him as he handed off an autograph and turned in my direction. His eyes locked on me and he smiled out of the right side of his mouth, a slow, cheeky smile that grew the longer I stared.
“Andie,” Kinsley hissed, trying to break through the spell.
I blinked once, twice. Freddie offered me a subtle wave, and then I spun around with cheeks on fire and embarrassment coating my skin.