A love story during the 2012 Olympics

When a girl with something to prove falls for a boy with nothing to lose, will their goal of winning gold burn hotter than their love?

Recognition . . .
Aleesha Singh never dreamed shed make Canadas Olympic track team by replacing a popular member. Though her selection and cover girl looks stir up controversy, somehow shes got to find a way to bond with a squad rocked by injury and infighting, even as her rising star carries the hope of a nation.

Redemption . . .
As a fifteen year old swimming phenom at the 2008 Beijing Olympics, Mihail Teslas fame was overshadowed only by the dominating performance of Michael Phelps. In the four years since, hes sued his family to become an emancipated minor while struggling with drugs and doubt. Now hes got a ticket to London, where his critics and competition await.

Copyright 2012 Camille Leone This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are invented by the author or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author.

Mihail, July 18th Heathrow Airport

In 1975, a British journalist and a French filmmaker recorded their trek into a remote Balkan village. As luck would have it they managed to get actual footage of a bride kidnapping. Their guide and interpreter was my grandfather. The bride, who wound up escaping with my grandfathers help, was my grandmother. At least thats what my father told me when I searched for a country to sponsor my Olympic quest. Up til then my father and I werent speaking over a little thing like me taking him to court. But that story is for another day. Anyway, with the help of YouTube and ten million hits, my grandmothers homeland of Bov welcomed me with open arms. In my heart I am a Serb from Mostar, a beautiful place in Bosnia where I was born. But dont quote me because I only have my fathers word to go on. Im here now in London, at Heathrow airport with a mob of reporters acting like Im the scalper who sold them bogus tickets to the opening ceremony. And theres this guy, this English reporter trying to be funny. He keeps bringing up stuff that has nothing to do with why Im here. English says, You were voted one of the sexiest Olympians at these London games by ESPN. How do you feel about it? Its great. If I lose, at least Ill still be sexy. My answer gets a few chuckles and I feel less tense because its something my father, who everyone called Popo, would say. He never let them see him sweat, just like he never revealed if he was really Serbian. So for all I know I could be Croatian. Or Albanian. But today, Im the Serb from Bosnia whos competing in the Olympics for a tiny country that graciously accepted me as their own. And I will try to do my best to win, even though I am a team of one. Each time I try to leave these reporters are like little baby chicks with their mouths open, wanting to be fed answers, always wanting more. Someone asks if this time will be different than in Beijing, and if there was anything Id like to change from 2008. Not from before. But if I could choose my sport over again Id switch to tennis and make big money like Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer.

Where are you staying? English asks, and I smile, because I wasnt paying attention. I try very hard to avoid assholes. Where am I staying? I parrot. Ive done that through the whole interview. In the beautiful high-rise Olympic village. That scores me points with some of them. English asks if Im being serious. I say yes, most definitely Im being serious. He asks what I think about having no air conditioning in my room. I can take the heat I tell him, but I wont know how hot my room is until I get there. I suggest he should follow my tweets and Ill let him know. Then he slyly says he was mistaken, that UK athletes are getting air conditioning. Thats good for them, I say. What, does this guy think Im going to do a Mitt Romney and say its disconcerting? No way man. Im grinning because Im truly happy to be here, rain, snow, whatever. Ill take it. After being homeless at seventeen, a dorm room is like a luxury hotel. Its like my father always said, they look but they dont see. The last few years have been rough, but look at me, Im nineteen and Im back at the Olympics. While theyre talking and poking at me like some IOC doctor wanting a urine sample, Im looking over their heads. They want to know about Michael Phelps. I say hes a good guy, Ive spoken with him a little bit since Beijing, but we havent kept in touch. Everyone called me The Kid in Beijing. Michael never talked much. With eight medals he didnt have to. I lose quite a few reporters because someone really famous has caught their attention. Another question comes from English. Hes acting like this is a Barbara Walters special where me and him alone are talking. Do you really think you can compete against the likes of Michael Phelps, Ryan Lochte and Laslo Cseh? His question hangs in the air. He doesnt need to add, especially after coming in last at the World Championships two years ago, and how long youve been away? but he does. This is a bad question. Its good for him, but terrible for me. To them Im older and probably slower. My voice sounds too high even to my ears when I respond. That was two years ago. Ive worked hard to put that behind me and move forward. And I hope I can still make Serbia and Bosnia proud, even though I didnt make their team. English isnt satisfied with my politically correct answer. While everyone is nodding okay, sure, good answer, his face is puckered, like hes taking a dump. So I ignore him, hoping hell run over to the American basketball player whos signing autographs and winking at the crowd. A blonde with a deep tan kisses the American on the cheek. Shes even browner than he is,

except her skin is cracked and leathery. The American poses for photos with a big smile on his face. He glances my way, I nod and he nods back. His brows go down like he knows me but he doesnt recall from where. And he figures I must be somebody, because Ive got reporters in my face just like him. I mouth Ay, how you been? He smiles and actually comes over. We clasp hands and bump shoulders, grinning and laughing like we really are good friends. Now weve got mingling reporters talking in different languages and elbowing each other for position, reminding me of crabs released from a fishermans net and how they scramble madly to be on top. The American is a rookie on the Dream Team but hes still a big time NBA star. He leans in further, mumbling something in my ear. I only catch teammates punked me- and -ride to Olympic village. I keep shaking his arm and I say in his ear that its cool, my ride is his ride. English is watching all this. I finally get my wish for him to leave me alone, because hes asking the American what he thinks of Kobes statement that their team can beat the original Dream Team from 92, the one led by Michael Jordan, Magic Johnson and Larry Bird. My new friend glances toward a woman with a clipboard. Shes wearing an official jacket with looping rings on the back and her hair is sticking up in spikes. She holds out her arms and announces there will be no more questions, Mr. Naphtali Ahmed must get to the Olympic village. English tries to speak but she shuts him down by standing between us and him. Shes English too, and so ice cold its scary. I get stabbed once more in the back before I can escape with my new American friend, since English throws out a question thats more of an insult. It took me three years to learn American double talk, and it comes in handy with English sarcasm. Im sure we can all expect a repeat of what happened in Beijing, right Mihail? English is referring to what happened at the last Olympics games, which was really my first Olympics. Someone with a big mouth revealed how much we partied and a few people had sex. I was one of them. Okay, I was the one who bragged about it. Anyway its a long story and I can feel my father Popo rising in me. My American friend Naphtali is staring with very big eyes, wondering if Im gonna blow. I utter one curse, a little one. Jebo te voz koji te doneo which is basically Let the train that brought you f#%* you and one other, something about what Id like to do with his microphone to his eyeball. I have to catch myself from going completely Popo on him. Popos curses included the usual stuff like fornicating with an idiots goat, horse, mother,

father, children they had or were gonna have, religious icons and inventing crazy shit to lodge into body parts. If he was really mad hed aim a finger and spit on the the ground where the idiot or kreten stood. Im feeling pissed enough to give English a Dabogda thats a curse where I ask God to make it so because hes that much of an idiot. Since this is being taped I know it will be translated. See, this is what happens when you dont have a PR team. Naphtali gives me a conciliatory pat on the back. I dont know what you said, but I feel you. Miss Ice Cold calls English an Fing Twit. Me and Naphtali laugh, only I laugh louder and harder. I take a look back, just to see the guys face. He has his arms crossed and he looks ready to call in a tip to say Ive got drugs in my bag. Im sure that would make him very happy, just as happy as the thing that looks like a mascot waving to us as it dances. Its white with a large eye in the center. I wonder aloud if its supposed to be a walking tooth. Naphtali corrects me. The other ones over there. Theyre steel. Wow. Teeth of steel. They must represent victory over tooth decay. Miss Ice Cold gives us a lecture on what they really represent. While doing so she looks as if she wants to call us both twits. So wheres your limo? Naphtali asks once we exit the sliding glass doors. I point to a double decker bus with the sign in front that says Olympic vehicle. He laughs and then I laugh. When he realizes Im not kidding his laughter stops. Come on, are you for real? Sure, we both saw on twitter about the earlier buses getting lost. But everythings fixed now, so Im bouncing up the first step, loving every minute. I shake hands with our driver and Naphtali follows me on board. All we see are lovely smiling women, lovely Australian, beautiful African and gorgeous Japanese females. Yes, its good to be back at the Olympics.

Aleesha, July 27th Opening Ceremony

Before the games I had 800 twitter followers. Now Ive got two thousand. So heres another tweet before Canada marches in. We look GOOD. Ive got my nails colored red and white. Each one has flatback rhinestones pasted on that form a little maple leaf, and my fingers are sparkling like a rubies. Just took a picture of my hands with my cell phone, and its trending on twitter. Not sure whats up with the grass and sheep and stuff, but once the industrial revolution gets going and the drums kick in and James Bond went and got the Queen, things picked up. There were dancing nurses who did the jitterbug and kids in glowing hospital beds, to top it off JK Rowlings read a bedtime story that turned into a nightmare with floatables . . . I recognized Cruella Deville, a hundred foot tall Voldemort inflatable from Harry Potter, and then a whole bunch of Mary Poppins clones floated in for a landing by their umbrellas. It reminded me of that scene in the Matrix 2 where Neos fighting hundreds of Agent Smiths. Go on girl . . . Mary Poppins scared the monsters away and everybodys dancing again. The kids are back in their illuminated beds while a giant baby . . . Memo to me . . . I gotta get a picture of the Lebron James in his beret. Hey! Theres Mr. Bean!! I was so busy talking and taking pictures that I missed the first country entering the stadium for the parade of nations. Theyre up to Aruba now. Aruba has four athletes competing, which I think is more than with Bov, the country Mihails representing. Theyre announcing the Bs . . .Bahamas, Belarus . . . Belgium, Belize . . . Bosnia . . . Canadas up next. Here we go, entering the Olympic stadium for the opening ceremony. Its about a quarter to eleven at night. The inside of the Olympic Stadium is lit up like a million little blue sapphires. Theres so many people Im guessing theres easily over 60,000. All I can see are mosaics of color and pops of light as cameras go off. Its so cool. Simon Whitfields carrying our flag. Weve got on red and white jackets and khakis, and were all waving and laughing and fanning little Canadian flags. My jetlag is magically gone, cause Im walking the field with about 200 of the best people I know. Some of the athletes are watching this on television, oops, I mean the telly because theyve got prelims tomorrow. Its a little chilly, but it feels good after how hot its been. People in the

stands are recording us and weve got our phones out recording them and everything else that can fit on our screens. After we walk around the stadium were herded into the middle to stand some more as we watch and cheer for the other countries. Bicyclists wearing illuminated butterfly wings circle around us, and it looks so beautiful because the lights are dim, everything looks electric blue. The Queen announces the games have begun, and Muhammad Ali is one of the Olympic flagbearers. Ive been holding my phone up so long that my arm feels like its gonna fall off. Whats really cool is how all the fluted torches slowly rise to combine into one gigantic Olympic torch, and then fireworks bomb overhead, in the open dome against the night sky. We can see scenes of previous Olympic winners on the big screens in the stadium and some people have tears in their eyes because its all so overwhelming. My heart is so full of pride. Paul McCartneys playing Hey Jude, and most of us are linked arm in arm, just rocking to the left and to the right with the music. We start moving through the crowd to say hi to the Americans and I finally get my picture of Lebron James! Kobe Bryant even let me take a picture with him, and now everybodys rocking out to the music. If I had to get up tomorrow morning I dont think I could. But Ive got to get up before ten, because I want to see the swim prelims. And I really want to cheer Mihail on. All I can think of is how great this whole thing would be if it were him and me taking in the sights and sounds. Id want to concentrate on the pageantry and hed be talking and Id have to tell him to be quiet. But he wouldnt, because he loves to talk. And I love hearing him talk, even when he sounds like the Count from Sesame Street. Thinking about him makes me cringe over the text I got from my mom, about the picture of me and Mihail splashed across the front page of the Toronto Sun, the UK papers, USA Today, CTV news and probably a million other places all over the internet. Were in the middle of the Olympic village and he has my face trapped in his palms. Hes hunched over, drawing me into him, kissing me. My hands are clutching his back as if Im hanging on for dear life, because I dont want to lose this moment. Canadas motto for the games is Give your Everything. That pic made a lot of people mad, and my best friend Steph sent me a screen grab of a message someone left on her Facebook page. Aleesha Singh giving her everything. LOL. Somebody give her a condom. Guess we can forget

about a medal. After that Steph kept texting nothing but positivity to boost my spirits. Aleesha just B UR BEST, Haters gonna hate. Its the very same message shed sent when I won a spot in the 400m during the Canadian track and field trials in Calgary, almost three weeks ago. I went from not having a snowballs chance in hell, to getting a ticket to London. Some fans were upset about one race determining who got on the team so I leaned on Steph for comfort then too, because by that time Mihail and I had broken up. Funny thing about that photo of us kissing. We werent part of any sex fest. Someone took that picture just after wed been caught off guard at seeing each other. I was so glad and relieved to see him, and he felt the same. After that we went our separate ways, as agreed upon before we even got to London. Im here for a medal, period. Preferably gold. Its like Steph says, if its true love then two weeks wont change how we feel. Ive known Steph since grade school. We met at summer camp, where we were just two of over a hundred kids sitting in the grass, listening to the counselors warn us about everything from poison ivy to staying away from the Matt Damon look-a-like counselor whose crazy girlfriend also worked there. There was this one girl I think her father was related to the Prime Minister she kept throwing her hair over her shoulders and looking back at us with a great big Euwww, after she caught Steph picking at a scab on her arm. When we got up to go into our cabins Steph and I decided to take her down, and weve been friends ever since. We love taking down totally full of themselves, think theyre so cute mean girls. It was our main thing in high school. When I told Steph about Mihail she already knew who he was. She sent me a link that had his whole biography in detail, about how he was the youngest swimmer at the Olympics in Beijing, and the rumor that his birth certificate might have been forged. I read everything, even her emails explaining why she hated him sight unseen because hed never be good enough for me. Our friendships possessive like that. I used to say Steph was the only female Id ever think about having a threesome with. Last fall she caught the bus to my college so me, her and Mihail could hang out together. We had a great time. Steph was flirty and funny and Mihail got along great with her. After her visit I changed my mind about the threesome. By the end of the opening ceremony Im wiping away tears, because my heart is so full. My parents are really proud and happy that I made the team, and Im feeling choked up over what all this means. My dad kinda knows the feeling, because he used to play professional football.

My dad has a great laugh. Sometimes I call him just to hear his laugh. Hes an American by birth, and my mom is his second wife. They moved to Canada when he signed with the Toronto Argonauts back in 1995. The next season Doug Flutie became their quarterback and the team won the Grey Cup back to back, in 1996 and 97. My dad carried me on field as they celebrated. Its always been weird to watch the footage of me as a two year old trying to chew on the announcers microphone as hes being interviewed. Ever since then Ive really never been out of the public eye. Theres pictures of me with my braces and frizzy hair, standing between my mom and dad with the both of them looking like supermodels. After my dad retired he had a popular radio show in Calgary. It truly sucks when you get a nose zit and the whole of Canada knows about it, because my dad liked to talk about me and his older kids by his first wife on the air. My mom was a first runner up in the Miss New Jersey pageant and she loves it when my dad says shes still a beauty queen. Shes in real estate so theyre renting a place near the Thames, a three bedroom, two bathroom flat in South East London. She started planning this a year ago, thats how certain she was that Id make the Olympics. Ive already called my family once today, just before the ceremony. I dialed my moms number, almost wishing her voice mail would pick up. I wasnt that lucky. Bon Shurrrrr Aleesha. I really love my mom, but she thinks shes fluent in French. At first it was cute until I got older and realized what she said most of the time wasnt even close to speaking French. I try not to sound snarky but it still comes out that way. Mom, really? Youre in a country where everyone speaks English, but youre trying to sound French? She ignores my snarkiness, calling me her Cheery Amor. I can hear people in the background and when I ask my mom if theyre having a party, she says theyre wagering whether the US flagbearer will dip for the Queen. Oh God, Ill never hear the end of it if they dont, I tell her. What does Daddy say? There were rumors that my dad bet on games when he was with the NFL. Hes no saint, but I dont think hed do that, even though he loves to gamble. I can hear my mom inhale before she answers and my anxiety level jumps. Shes back smoking after promising to quit, so I know somethings wrong. But she answers me in a carefree tone of voice. Let em pitch a fit cause we dont dip. Just in case we do though, your fathers promised an encore of his famous end zone dance if he loses the bet.

Dont let him do it Mom. Hell just injure his back again if he does the worm. She takes another long drag of her cigarette. You should try to stop by after the opening ceremonies. Ive got your room all made up. In my mind I can see an explosion of pink linen, a pink comforter, pink curtains, and its all because thats her favorite color. Never mind that I like blue, its her way or not at all. And Im pretty sure her three Pomeranians are snuggled on my bed right about now. Just dont let him do it, I mumble, wanting so bad to see the both of them just to calm my nerves. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. She hands the phone off, the click of her nails and palm covering the speaker. All I hear are muffled voices until the sound is the replaced by my dads radio announcer, smooth as honey baritone. Hey there tenderfoot. His pet name for me is followed by a chest deep, rolling laugh. My father is Ricardo Ricky Singh, former star wide receiver of the Dallas Cowboys. Hes bound for the Football Hall of Fame in two countries and is an internationally known celebrity. Every bio on me somehow includes his accomplishments. Mihail says its worse when your parent lives vicariously through you. I dont know. I think it can be twice as bad when people compare what youve done to your way more famous parent. Hey Daddy. Theres silence, as if hes wondering what else he can tell me after all his other pep talks. Maybe he wishes he could give me a bit of his confidence, like when he caught several gravity defying passes in Super Bowl XXVII. My favorite is the one thats his most famous, especially the way his legs are stretched out, making certain his feet are in bounds while the ball is clutched over his head in a classic photo, one that hes always signing at sports memorabilia shows. You know wed be just as proud even if you dont win a medal, he finally says. I know. Both my mom and dad have said that to me so many times that I think theyve forgotten repeating it. Or maybe they want to say it just enough, so that Ill keep it in mind. Weve got our tickets for the trial heats, and Ive got a big surprise for you. Ive already heard what it is. Youre gonna be one of the broadcasters right? CTV announced it this morning. No, thats for some of the mens events. I-

Im waiting to hear what else he has to say, but his whole train of thought changes. He asks about Mihail instead. Just dont throw away all youve worked for. I mean, who is this guy? Daddy hes really nice. Youll like him when you meet him. I did meet him. My breath catches in surprise. I cant say the next words defending Mihail fast enough as my dad rants. I met him and his father, when Sergei was bringing the kid around, doing interviews and proclaiming hed be better than Michael Phelps and Mark Spitz put together. I did an interview with him on my radio show, just after the Beijing Olympics. What a showboater. But that wasnt Mihail, that was his father talking. He wasnt doing anything to correct him. He took him to court, just to be free of him, doesnt that count for something? I counter. And he was only fifteen. How many kids have the nerve to correct their parents in public? A hoot of a chuckle is followed by his reminding me of how I argued with him on the air about his own stats compared to Jerry Rice. My radio internship was a short one after that. When he finishes retelling the story, and making it out to be more than it was complete with me rolling my neck and my eyes as I corrected him he starts back in on Mihail. So hes been hiding out in Canada all this time huh? And he just happens to latch onto my daughter in time for the Olympics. One day Ill have to tell him how Mihail and I got together. Ill sit down with him and finally reveal that Im not his little angel, and that I can be as calculating and driven as his exwife was, when she almost bankrupted him after their divorce. It was the type of story that made headlines in both Canada and the US. There was his ex-wife, his college sweetheart and the mother of my half-sisters, taking her scorned woman story to the press, holding my birth up as the proof of his infidelity. I was the child who broke up a happy home and a picture perfect marriage. And of course my mom was made out to be a whore. The only person who didnt really get burned was my dad. He seemed to be more in demand than ever, refusing to comment on his personal life to the media and fighting with Melinda, his ex-wife for custody of Mimi and Andrea, my sisters. Thank God my sisters and I are cool. They both tweeted and emailed me before the games. Im closer to Mimi than Andrea, even though theyre almost ten years older.

My dad has tried hard to keep us all together and friendly, even though Melinda still likes to cause trouble after all this time. He cant help but offer a bit more advice. Just qualify baby girl, thats all you need to do during the trials. Remember to run through the line but dont go all out and strain your calf muscle . . . I wince at that, even though theres nothing physically wrong with me now. But I can still remember the pain after my injury. I promise not to exert myself only if you promise me you wont try to do the worm. Aw . . . I keep my voice stern. Promise me Daddy. What if I just do a little popping and locking? Daddy- He starts sulking. Now you sound like your mother. Good. Because were both right you know. Everybodys ganging up on me. Between you and your mother, and the doctors- Doctors? I try to keep my voice calm but my mind is whirling. So you got your yearly physical, and you were given a clean bill of health right? Just gotta cut down on all that fried food. He didnt miss a beat, giving an answer meant to reassure. A lie is better than the truth, and I know my dad. To protect those he loves, hell deny stuff, even to himself. And like a chip off the old block, Im the same way.

Mihail, July 28th

400 meter individual medley

I peed in the practice pool during warmups. I think maybe its a good sign. The walls are white, almost like a long hospital corridor. In the middle there is the aqua blue of the water. While I practiced I was calm. Once I came out of the water I got anxious again. I think we are all anxious and are ready for our final to begin. Some guys mentioned the picture of me and Aleesha making out, and I just smiled. When Ryan Lochte said Aleesha was hot, I smiled wider. Now Im sitting in the ready room, waiting to be introduced and watching television as the other swimmers walk out. I cant hear the announcer because of the music in my Beat headphones, which were free from Dr. Dres company. The surprise was they had them in the national colors of Bov, the country I represent. Kanye West plays over and over on my iPod. His song Stronger is the best motivator for me. I cant stay still, so I get up to walk around, nodding to the other competitors, repeating rap lyrics from the song out loud, not in English but Serbian. In the morning trials the times for the first two heats were slow. First place was 4:21.32 for heat one and 4:16:17 heat two. I was in the third preliminary heat for the 400im, in lane 8. I made it through to the finals, and Im thinking I need to go out faster, only not too fast. The ready room is empty as I walk out to applause and someone screaming my name. I dont want to grin but I cant help it. Im on the big screen and I wonder if my family is watching. I know Popos somewhere telling the crowd that I am his son. My pre-race routine consists of hitting my chest using a side fist with three fingers out, then placing a fingertip to my lips, giving a quick kiss and pointing up to the heavens. Three fingers represent my mother and two sisters. I pay respect to my grandparents at the end. Under 4:14, thats my goal. I bend like all the others on the starting block. Be quicker. Keep your head still . . . make a wide turn. Dont come up too soon. I said not too soon! Popos screaming in my head continues to nag me. Im not quick enough diving in. The blue stillness of the water is no longer tranquil. Its being wildly churned by eight men who want the same thing. We all want to win. Im on automatic, doing what my body has been trained to do. I keep pushing,

Butterfly. Backstroke. Breaststroke. Freestyle. Time was made up on the butterfly, but my backstroke has never been strong. My breaststroke is even weaker, but I push myself. I keep straining and think only of hitting the wall, flipping the turn as I begin to freestyle, kicking with legs that feel like iron by the final lap. I cant see anyone, and if I try to glance that could result in seconds taken off my time. I touch the wall. Im done. I keep looking up at the board, breathing hard and hardly breathing, hoping to see my name. Gold for Lochte, Silver for Pereira and Bronze for Hagino. I cant stop staring at the board. Tied for fourth with Michael Phelps. That is something. In Beijing I came in fifth. This time Im fourth. This time I was right with the great Michael Phelps. Im smiling. Michael looks stunned in defeat, but like a true sportsman he pats me on the back and tells me that I swam a good race. After hauling myself out of the pool I go over to congratulate Ryan. Theres a commotion in the seating area, and security has detained some guy whose voice is as irritating as it is commanding. Like a snake charmer puts a cobra under his spell, the troublemaker is allowed to continue on. He makes his way down the aisle, just three levels from where Im standing. My eyes follow the thick white hair that grows low on his forehead, the rumpled clothing and flag draped around his shoulders as if he is Superman. Hes good naturedly arguing with those already seated, fanning his ticket and special pass in their faces as he makes his way closer to the pool area. He stops to introduce himself to Aleesha and her friends, making a big show out of giving her a hug, exclaiming at how beautiful she is as her friends giggle and move one seat over so that he can sit down. Popo keeps an arm over Aleeshas shoulders as they both look in my direction and wave. At this moment I have the urge to pee again, this time on myself.

Aleesha
When my grandparents used to say Oh you look just like your mother or The way your eyebrow rose is identical to your father I didnt believe it because I couldnt see what they saw. But looking at Mihail and his dad, I can see and hear their resemblance. Mihails taller than his father, but not by much. Theyre really animated as they talk, and neither one will let the other finish. I dont know what theyre saying most of the time because theyre speaking Serbian, but every now and then Mihail switches to English. I can tell Mihail is upset. Those sea foam green eyes of his are almost shut because he keeps frowning. Hes blushing more than the first time he tried to talk to me. Its like hes been standing on his head and all the blood rushed to his face. I make a move to leave, but Mihail calls out to me. Aleesha, I- Ill be with you in one moment. Stay right there please. Sergei jumps in. Yes, stay. Well all go sight-seeing, maybe get a little something to eat. He tries to lead Mihail by the arm, just like theyve been told their tables ready at some fancy restaurant. Mihail does a slow burn, jerking away. He tells me I shouldnt wait for him. His father tries to reason with him. Sta radis? I think I know what he just said. Mihail says that, but he adds mala to it when hes talking to me. Its either whats wrong with you or what are you doing? The cheers in the Aquatics Center are making the floor shake. Were in a small corridor but even the security guards and the ushers are glancing at the big screen. I didnt get to hug Mihail, or even tell him how good he did. His father was quicker than me, doing a funny little shuffle as he cut in front. Sergei hugged and cried and kissed Mihail. He said Mihails name, then repeated the hug kiss cry routine while Mihail stuttered out a few words. Id never heard Mihail stutter before. Now hes doing it a lot. Y-you shouldnt be here Popo. Mihails jaw is set, and hes answering through gritted teeth. I have a restraining order. His dad shrugs his shoulders as if to say so what? Its just a piece of paper. Only in America. Not in the UK. Here I am once again your coach. He holds the pass around his neck up proudly, and I swear he just might want to back off because Mihail looks as if hes ready to snatch it up and Sergei too.

You got a pass? What country would be foolish enough- The answer quickly dawns on Mihail. In the pool he was fighting to stay with the others. Now he just seems deflated. Sergeis beaming smile says it all. What good is an athlete without a coach? This is what I said to the officials in Bov. I said to them, This is my son. How can you not see that a son needs his father, the man who first saw his talent, the man who taught him everything he knows? Now come, well go somewhere just to talk with your beautiful lady. Maybe I give you a bit of advice about what youre doing wrong- Mihail spins away from his father, backing up from not just him, but me too. I c-cant. I cant do this. He looks over his fathers shoulder, directly at me. Aleesha Im sorry. Please know Im sorry. Mihails pushing past the others coming up the hallway, the swimmers in their street clothes. Hes rushing, trying to put as much distance between himself and his father as possible. His fathers right on his heels, but Mihail flashes his pass at a guard, and he escapes through a door meant only for the swimmers. And Im just standing there. I dont know what to do.

When I finally get back to my seat someone else is sitting there. Two guys actually, taking up the space Sergei and I vacated. Theyre both wearing US jerseys and theyre apologizing even though Im in no mood to talk. Somehow I end up sitting between them. One guy leans over and asks my name, while the other seems in love with his phone. Aleesha, I mumble, hoping hell catch the attitude in my voice. So uh, Im trying to catch my boys final but I think I got here too late, the guy with the phone pipes up. I figure hes talking about Michael Phelps. Or either Ryan Louchte. Yeah, youre too late. Ryan won about a half hour ago. Michael Phelps came in fourth, in a tie. I want to add with Mihail Tesla but I figure the guy doesnt know who he is, and probably wouldnt care. All most Americans want to know is whos competing from their country. I cant help wondering and worrying about Mihails state of mind. He wanted to win so badly. I wouldve been happy just to make it that far. At least thats what I keep telling myself. We sit there in silence, applauding while the female swimmers walk out and wave.

Damn, some of those girls are big. That observation pops out the guy on my left, inbetween corny pick-up lines to one of my teammates about how he likes her mouth, because he only likes to kiss nice full lips. Look at the shoulders on those girls. Massive. I swallow back a reply, because most people would say Im pretty big for a girl. The one with the phone covers his mouth as he laughs, then reaches around the back of my chair to show his buddy the text he just got. His friend stands up, and I lean back as he steps around me to leave. So what you wanna do? Guess he wasnt having any luck talking to my teammate. I think . . . I think Im gonna hang out here. His head nods my way. His friend looks at me, and gives a little knowing smile. Thats when I notice how tall he is. How tall both of them are. And I wonder . . . Okay Naphtali, Ill catch you later. Naphtali, as in Naphtali Ahmed, small forward for the Dream Team and Im sitting beside him? I flitch when he speaks to me again, since hes busy messing with his phone. So who do you like in this race? Huh? Somehow Ive forgotten how to speak. Dont go getting shy on me. I only stayed cause I wanted to talk to you. I, uh. His phone goes into his pocket and he turns his full attention on me. Im Naphtali by the way. I know who you are. Somehow I remember my manners and gesture towards my teammates. We all do. And I know who you are. You do? Sure, youre the girl whos going to dinner with me. I cant, Im sorry. Ive got curfew. Well be back in plenty of time. Hes got his elbows on his knees, and hes knocking against my arm as he flirts with me. So let me guess, womens basketball? Nope. Im blushing. I just know Im blushing. He knocks me harder, dropping his head so that I get to see the wavy swirl at the crown of his close cut hair. Soccer.

Wrong again. He leans back, squinting his eyes, and when they open wider hes staring at me as if hes trying to figure out a math problem. Table tennis. Hes so sure of his answer that I have to return his smile. Table- Okay, okay, badminton. I shake my head. So far hes batting zero, but he keeps guessing. Boxing. I wish. You look like you could go a couple of rounds. I laugh harder at that, but hiccup to a stop since another race is beginning. The gun goes off and for the next few minutes were cheering on our countries. I can feel his cell phone vibrating. He takes it out, looking at the message someone has left. He gives off another laugh, juggling his phone before he puts it away again. So, you wanna exchange phone numbers? Wasnt that one of your girlfriends? Naw, that was just my agent. Hes negotiating a deal with NIKE. Oh. I look over at my teammates. Theyre listening to every word we say. He never follows up on my girlfriend crack. All he does is go back to guessing what Im in the Olympics for. Youre a track star. When I turn back his way, his cell phone is just inches from my nose. Hes got my team picture up, the one I took just after Id sweated out my hair during practice. The one that made the rounds on the internet, where girls were leaving nasty comments like OMG! Be WEAVE it or not, shes going to the Olympics. Please delete that. Puhleese . . . He thumbs forward to another picture. Its his. We both break out in laughter. What the? Thats all I can manage before another fit of laughter takes hold. What was that? I dont know how they caught me with one eye open and one closed. I look high or something. Or something? No, you definitely look high. I glance down at the pass around his neck. Its not the same picture.

He gives me a wink, just like the one he does on his Mountain Dew commercial. Sliding his palms together as if hes trying to keep warm, I get another dinner invite. So check this out, if we leave now- Mihails still on my mind, no matter how cute and famous Naphtali Ahmed is. And I know Mihails gonna text me, and probably ask me to come where he is. Still, my voice sounds sad as I repeat that I still cant go. Naphtali doesnt hide his disappointment. And hes persistent. I missed my boys race and I cant even get a pretty girl to be my dinner date. He gives an exaggerated sigh. I hope thats not a bad omen. Americas gonna win the gold in basketball, I answer dryly. And Michael Phelps has another prelim tomorrow. Now my phones vibrating. I answer it in record time, cutting off whatever Naphtali was attempting to say. Hello lovely lady. I wish I didnt recognize the voice. I wish I could snap Whos this? But I cant. Sergei sounds too happy for a man whos just been rebuffed by his son. And hes in serious denial. I think our first meeting went very well. Now please lovely lady, I need you to do me one more little favor. No. No? He gives off a chuckle, as if my refusal is hilarious, especially since he knows I owe him. Okay, heres what I need you to do- I slap my phone off, wishing Id never agreed to anything with Sergei Teslas name on it. But I did. And now Ive messed up everything. Naphtalis watching the race. Ive got a weird feeling Im about to make a bad situation even worse. But I dont care. I need to do something to take my mind off Mihail, his father Sergei, but especially my dads health. Um . . . do you still want to get something to eat? He breaks out into one of the finest smiles on a man Ive ever seen. Naphtali Ahmeds not just handsome. Hes sex on a stick. And Id be a fool not to talk to him.

More updates to come! For background info on this kinda-sorta real time novel about the 2012 Olympics, click here: http://wikkidsexycool.com