Page 27 of Let the Games Begin
“I knew you when you couldn’t get on funfair rides, and now you’re so tall I have to look up,” Coach Chikepe said.
Zeke was never going to be a kid going to the funfair with his dad again. As he saw Coach Chikepe’s wrinkles and gray hair, he realized just how much time had passed since they’d last seen each other, at his dad’s funeral. Zeke’s expression faltered for a second. Coach Chikepe must have seen it because he patted Zeke on the shoulder.
“Your father would be so proud of you, Ezekiel,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Zeke, feeling that low but constant grief rise up again.
“Truly. We used to sit around and talk for hours as we watched you kids run. Imagined all of the things you could do, and now look—you’re doing it! Above and beyond, we thank God,” said Coach Chikepe, radiating pride.
Zeke wasn’t sure his dad would beentirelyproud of him, but he brushed those thoughts aside. He took a photo with Coach Chikepe and then sent it to his family group chat to an almost immediate response from his mother, telling him to invite Coach Chikepe to dinner the next time he was in London. As Zeke walked across the Village, he bumped into another familiar face, Valentina Ross-Rodriguez. But this time it was a twenty-footphoto of her midleap. He smiled, took a picture of her photograph, and then texted it to her.
Zeke:we’ve got to stop meeting like this.
She replied straight away.
Valentina:guess who I’m celebrating your heats win with?
A photo came in of her and Haruki posing with that year’s Olympic mascot.
Valentina:we’re strategizing how I can use my 12% English ancestry to get British citizenship and become your team captain.
Zeke:well I have 0.1% English ancestry so you’re already further ahead than me
Valentina:will send over a draft of my hostile takeover plan tomorrow
Valentina:but more importantly, you’re definitely coming to my competition tomorrow night, right?
24Olivia
DAY FOUR OF THE 2024 OLYMPICS
“Olivia, I am in distress,” Arlo said from the other side of the call.
“Arlo, why are you in distress?” Olivia asked. She was now well accustomed to the dramatic start to all of Arlo’s walkie-talkie calls.
“My art class is falling apart,” he said.
The athletes were all so busy with practice and competitions that sometimes it was hard for them to get out of their heads enough to relax at the end of the day. So, the Village hosted a series of mindfulness activities in the Culture Hub every evening. One of the activities Arlo had helped organize was a life art class. He’d spent that afternoon working meticulously to create a beautiful set filled with fresh fruit and ornate jugs, and then formed a circle of canvases and chairs. But at the very last minute, just an hour before the workshop, the model Arlo had booked had called him up in tears saying that he’d been infected with a pretty explosive stomach bug and could no longer make it to the art class that night.
“I think I’m going to have to do it.”
“Can’t you book another model?” Olivia asked.
“Nobody. They’d have to go through the whole weeks-long Village screening and security process to even step through the gates,” said Arlo, defeated.
“I can do it for you,” said Olivia, trying to bring the kind of enthusiasm to the situation that Arlo usually brought. “I’d just have to stand there while they draw me, right?”
Arlo groaned. “It’s atraditionallife drawing class,” he said.
Olivia tilted her head to the side, not fully understanding what he meant by that.
“Traditional life… in the nude—well, mostly in the nude,” he said nervously.
So, instead, Olivia drove a buggy to the other side of the Village and went along with Arlo to the art class for moral support. She spent the entire walk to the Culture Hub trying to hype him up.
“Arlo, you’re an objectively handsome man,” she said as they power walked.
“In a village of men that look like literal Greek gods,” Arlo said, trying not to panic as he opened the door.
