The summer games settlin.., p.1
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       The Summer Games: Settling the Score, p.1

           R.S. Grey
The Summer Games: Settling the Score

  The Summer Games: Settling the Score

  Copyright © 2016 R.S. Grey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This book is a piece of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Published: R.S. Grey 2016

  [email protected]

  Editing: Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading: Jennifer at JaVa Editing

  Cover Design: R.S. Grey

  Cover Model: Lance Parker

  Note to Readers

  Although this story is a standalone, it overlaps with the world first created in Scoring Wilder.

  Keep in mind that while Scoring Wilder was released two years ago, The Summer Games: Settling the Score actually takes place five years after that story.




  EVERYONE HAS HEARD the rumors about the Olympic village—not the details of the world-class amenities and supercharged meal plans, but the whispers about the trouble athletes get into once they’re off the track and in the sack.

  The committee passes out condoms like candy.

  The athletes are all sex-crazed maniacs.

  The games continue long after the gold medals are handed out.

  In 2000, the IOC officials dished out 70,000 condoms. They must have felt the walls shaking harder than expected, because they reportedly ordered 20,000 more after the first week of competition. For the Sochi and London Games, they upped the ante to over 100,000 prophylactics for the 6,000 competitors in attendance. If you do the math, that’s 16 to 17 love gloves per athlete, for an event that lasts less than a month. So, whispers or not, the message rings loud and clear: when the flame is lit, let the games begin.

  Kinsley Bryant, my mentor on the women’s soccer team, assured me that all the rumors about the village were true. She’d competed in the last summer games and lived to tell the tale, but this was different. Her first games had been in proper London-town. This time around, we were in sunny Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, a city well acquainted with debauchery. The moment we stepped off the plane, I could feel the excitement in the air. Tourists and athletes flooded into customs. The crowds were alive, in a rush, and speaking a million different languages all at once.

  Outside the airport, I drew in a heavy breath, trying to make sense of the circus. Street vendors shouted for our attention (“Pretty necklace for a pretty girl!”) and taxi drivers promised low fares (“We take you where you want to go! Cheap! Cheap!”). My first five minutes in the city proved colorful, loud, and intoxicating.

  “This way, ladies!” our team manager said, waving her hand in the air to usher us toward a row of waiting shuttles. I hiked my backpack up on my shoulder and dragged my suitcase behind me. I wanted to take my time and soak it all in, but they were already dividing us into groups and shoving us into the shuttles. We were heading toward the Olympic Village and my body hummed with excitement. What would it be like? Would I even be able to walk outside my room without coming face to face with some German rugby player’s überdong? Would they be shooting condoms at us with a t-shirt cannon like at basketball games, or would there be an attendant in each room with a silver tray full of magnums? “Boa tarde, here’s your room key and some lube.”

  Surely they’d be more discreet than that.

  “If we have to sit for much longer, my legs are going to shrivel up and I won’t be able to compete,” Kinsley said, drawing me out of my obsessive thoughts.

  She turned from her perch in the middle row and assessed the three of us crammed into the back of the shuttle. Nina, another rookie, sat beside me, quietly working away on a Sudoku puzzle. Michelle was on the other side of her, checking her phone. So far, they’d both proved to be bumps on a log. I had tried to get them out of their shell during the long flight from L.A., but it was no use.

  “I agree,” Becca said, turning around and propping her elbows on the back of her seat. Kinsley and Becca were both veterans on the team, but at that moment they looked like two detectives about to interrogate us. “I think we need something to entertain us until we get to the village.”

  Kinsley suggested a round of fuck-marry-kill, but since the other rookies lacked both homicidal and matrimonial tendencies, we ended up just going around the shuttle and choosing which athlete we would have sex with if the opportunity presented itself.

  “What about you?” Kinsley asked me, wiggling her brows for emphasis.

  I smiled. “Sorry, I don’t have a dick-directory going.” I figured there would be enough good-looking guys roaming the grounds that I wouldn’t have to worry about preparing a hit-it-and-quit-it list beforehand. “Old fashioned, I guess.”

  She arched a brow. “Seriously, not one guy comes to mind?”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll find one soon enough.”

  “Boo! You suck,” Becca chimed in. “Who’s next?”

  “Freddie Archibald!” Michelle exclaimed, finally glancing up from her phone.

  “Mmm, Freddie,” Nina agreed, pausing her Sudoku game long enough to stare wistfully out the window.

  I scrunched my nose. “Who’s that?”

  “He swims for Great Britain,” Michelle explained with a look of horror on her face. Apparently I should have already known who he was. “His full name is Frederick Archibald and he’s like British royalty or something. Total package.”

  With a name like that, I pictured a stuffy prince with a royal stick up his ass.

  “Okay then, what about you two? Who would you pick?” I asked, turning the tables on Kinsley and Becca.

  Kinsley flashed her left hand with the big fat diamond sitting on her ring finger. “Sorry, can’t play if I’ve already won.”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes. Kinsley was married to Liam Wilder, a soccer god and an assistant coach for our team. They’d met when Liam started coaching her college soccer team before the last Olympic Games. Becca was also married to a soccer player—one of Liam’s old teammates—and between the four of them, they were quite a photogenic bunch. Every time I checked out at the grocery store, there was a sports magazine with at least one of their faces plastered across the cover. When I’d been called up to the Women’s National Team, they’d enthusiastically adopted me into their fearsome foursome. Moving from Vermont to L.A. had been a rocky transition, especially when paired with Olympic training, but Kinsley and Becca had proven to be the older sisters I’d never had but always wanted.

  “So do those rings mean you guys can’t come to a party with me tonight?” I asked with a sly smile.

  Kinsley narrowed her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Brazilian swimmers messaged me on Facebook. They’re hosting a themed party and I was planning on going.”

  “Count me out,” Nina said. “Jetlag.”

  Michelle nodded. “Same here.”


  Becca and Kinsley exchanged a worried glance over my party plans, but that wasn’t surprising. Over the last few months, I’d tried to convince them that I was an adult, but they still saw me as the wide
-eyed rookie from Vermont.

  I understood their worry; I didn’t have much experience with partying and I’d only really traveled abroad during the qualifying matches a few months prior. Not to mention, we’d all been fed the same spiel about Rio’s crime rates during a “Safety at the Games” seminar, but it wasn’t like I’d be out walking the streets alone at night.

  “Ever since you moved to L.A., you’ve been like a little sister to me,” Kinsley had said on the way to the airport. “I feel responsible for you.”

  Technically, I was Kinsley’s little sister on the soccer team, and though I appreciated her concern, I was ready to live a little. For so long I’d focused all my energy on soccer, but we had one week until our first match and I was ready to see for myself what kind of mischief the village had to offer. Viva Brazil!

  THE VILLAGE WAS spread out over seven compounds with high-rise condos and apartments lined up along one main road. The shuttle drove us toward the entrance of our building, and I counted the amenities along the way. There was a coffee shop beside a flower shop. Cafes were sprinkled in among a doctor’s office, banking center, salon, and post office. Anything we could possibly need was within walking distance.

  We arrived at a crosswalk and our shuttle paused to let the crowds cross in front of us. It looked like move-in day on a college campus. Athletes spilled out of cars and vans, sporting their national colors. Everyone was weighed down by their suitcases and duffel bags, tired from hours of travel. We were all there to work hard and represent our countries in the games, but now that we were all mixed together, there was an undercurrent of excitement in the air.

  “There he is!” Michelle shouted, tapping her finger against her window. “Freddie! Look!”

  I followed her finger, trying to discern a British athlete in all the madness.

  “Where?” Kinsley asked, shoving past Becca to get to the window.

  “That’s my boob, jerk. Get off!” Becca said, pushing her back.

  I tried to find him, but the sidewalk looked like an explosion of color. Athletes were weaving between one another and the second I’d spot what looked to be someone sporting British colors, they’d disappear back into the crowd.

  “I don’t see him!”

  Michelle groaned. “Look! He’s the tall guy with the brown hair!”

  “Right, Michelle, because that really helps,” Kinsley said, giving up and falling back onto her seat.

  I laughed, prepared to give up as well, but then Michelle screamed and pointed out the front window. “THERE! HE’S RIGHT THERE!”

  I wedged myself in between Becca and Kinsley and froze as Freddie came into view, framed in the center of the windshield as he crossed the street.

  God save the queen.

  “Damn,” Nina whispered, clawing her fingers into my arm so she could push herself up for a better view. Damn didn’t begin to cover it. Damn was a word for ugly peasants. This Freddie? The sight of him begged a rousing “good heavens” with a polite undertone of “new pair of panties, please”. His face was so handsome I blinked three times before letting myself believe I was looking at a real live human.

  “Look at his jawline,” Nina said in awe.

  “Look at those lips,” Michelle whispered.

  “He’s so tall,” Nina replied. “Oh my god…he’s so much better in real life.”

  I tried to ignore their assessments so I could take in his features for myself. He had rich brown hair and a pair of eyes that looked to be a few shades lighter. Caramel. His skin was tan and clean-shaven and anyone with a pair of eyes could see the muscles hidden beneath his button-down. But for me, it was the slow-spreading smile he aimed at the media liaison leading him across the street. That was the moment my stomach flipped.

  “I forget,” Becca said, turning around to look at the three of us in the back seat. “Is it ‘The British are coming’ or ‘The British are making me come’?”

  Kinsley laughed. “We never should have declared independence. Do you think we can take it back?”

  “Where do you guys think he’s going?” Michelle asked, ignoring them completely.

  “Probably to an interview,” Nina answered.

  There was no doubt he had the looks for TV, but more than that…he was intriguing. Frederick Archibald was an entity unto himself, and as the shuttle pulled forward, I stared back at him through the window and wondered if maybe Michelle and Nina were right. There was definitely something about Freddie Archibald, and if I were going to make a list of sexy athletes in Rio, it’d start with him.



  “WELCOME TO GOOD Morning America. I’m Nancy Rogers, joined this morning by Frederick Archibald, the enigmatic British swimmer with no less than sixteen gold medals to his name.”

  The camera panned to me and I waved to the audience. The studio lights made it hard to see five feet from my face, but I could just make out Thom, my teammate, standing beside the cameraman having a laugh.

  “Welcome to the show, Freddie,” Nancy continued, angling her body toward me. “When did you first arrive in Rio?”

  “Just two days ago, actually. Flew over with a few of my other teammates.”

  “I would have thought you all would just swim over! Kidding of course!” she screeched, drawing from the well of manufactured enthusiasm only available to middle-aged morning show hosts.

  I took a patient breath before offering a small smile. “Would be a bit cold, that.”

  “Well nonetheless,” she started, eying my physique. “I’m sure you would have been able to manage it. Your workouts must be so very grueling.” Is she hitting on me? “Tell us, do you plan on breaking the records you set during the London games?”

  Fucking hell, I’d forgotten the kinds of questions they asked over in the States. What did she suppose I wanted to do? Lose?

  “You’ve got it, Nancy. That’s the plan,” I said, deadpan.

  She smiled, a fake sort of grin that made her face lopsided.

  “You know, Freddie, your reputation definitely precedes you—even ‘across the pond’,” she tittered. “You’re known to everyone as the ‘bad boy’ of swimming.”

  The camera zoomed in on my face as I glanced to Nancy and frowned. “Was that a question?”

  She stammered and adjusted the lapel mic on her blazer. I wasn’t making the interview easy. It was thirty seconds in and I was having a go at her, but there was no point in dancing around it. I didn’t like press. I didn’t want to do interviews. My manager had insisted I take the interview, so this was what she’d get—ten minutes of awkward air time.

  “You’re right. Silly me. I meant to ask, how does it feel to be the ‘bad boy’ of swimming?”

  I laughed. “You’ll have to ask my mate, Thom. He chats up ladies far more than I do.”

  It was a lie, but I needed some way to diffuse her question. Who actually refers to someone as the bad boy of swimming? I’d never get laid again if I went about saying that.

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re being modest.”

  I didn’t reply and she had to rifle through her cue cards to find the next question.

  “Uhh, Freddie…” she stammered, eyeing the camera tentatively before turning to me. “It’s been four years since your last Olympic games and I understand that a lot has changed for you since then. Would you mind going into a bit of detail about the announcement of your—”

  I shook my head to cut her off. I knew my manager had passed along a specific list of topics that were off-limits. “Nancy, this interview was meant to be about swimming.”

  She smiled wider. “And it will be! I promise, it’s just that our viewers are dying to know what your plans are with the lovely Caroline.”

  I stood and reached for my mic. “Sorry Nancy. Until my races are done in a few weeks, my focus will be in the pool and nowhere else.”

  I passed my mic to the cameraman as I walked off the studio set. Thom wouldn’t stop laughing until we were back outside—the wanker. They
probably couldn’t air the segment. It was less than two minutes, but I didn’t care. The media were vultures. They’d write what they wanted to whether or not I pretended to be a well-mannered gentleman.

  “Freddie, do you think you’ll try to swim even faster this time around?” Thom echoed, doing his best impersonation of Nancy.

  “Exactly!” I laughed and shoved his shoulder. “Of course I’m here to break my bloody records.”

  “Did you really mean what you said to her?” He looked concerned. “About only focusing on the pool?”

  “What? Have you already got plans for us or something?” I asked, reaching for my mobile. There were already three missed calls from my manager—she’d want to berate me for walking off the interview—but I skipped over them, content to ignore her.

  “There’s a few swimmers heading over to Brian’s place, but I think we should stop in at this party the Brazilian swimmers are having. Blokes’ve got a theme and everything.”

  Sounded ridiculous. “What’s the theme?”

  “Says ‘Rubik’s Cube’ on the Facebook invite.”

  I paused and turned to him. “Are they taking the piss?”



  WE’D ONLY BEEN in Rio for a few hours, but Kinsley, Becca, and I had already begun to settle into place. We were sharing a condo on the same floor as the rest of the team and though the three of us each had our own room and bathroom, we’d probably be joined at the hip the whole time anyway. Even then, they sat in my room watching me rifle through my clothes instead of unpacking their own things.

  “What exactly is a Rubik’s Cube party?” Becca asked.

  “It’s simple: everyone wears different colors—red shirt, blue shorts, green socks, whatever—and once you get to the party, you have to swap clothes with people until you’re wearing all of the same color.”

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