Page 8 of Ruck Me Harder

But first I need to go to work.

four

. . .

Viv

Tony Gonzales. I finally have a name to put to the face.

For the last three years, I’ve kind of glossed over the fact that my rock bottom happened at the Olympics with another Team USA athlete. I guess it wasn’t out of the question to run into them again.

But I didn’t expect it to happen now.

When I woke up naked and alone… I’ve never been so low. So used. I was in the prime of my career, celebrating the pinnacle of success at the motherfucking Olympics, and instead of celebrating that, I got wasted and hooked up with some dude I barely remembered who couldn’t even be bothered to stay for a damn minute once he used me to get his rocks off.

It was sex. A one-night stand. A hookup. There were no feelings involved. It was instant attraction, lubricated by the copious amounts of alcohol we both consumed.

And yeah, for some people, it might not have been a big deal. Even for me, six months prior, it might not have been a big deal.

But that night—and the morning after?

That’s a low I’ve never experienced before. It’s something I never want to experience again.

He didn’t take advantage of me. I consented. Fuck, I was more than willing.

Something about the way he left me, naked and alone, rubbed me the wrong way. It still does.

It impacted my play in the final match. Yeah, Team USA walked away with a silver medal, but we could have won gold. We could have done better if I didn’t have my head in the clouds, trying to process. I’m the reason our team failed. I’m the reason we didn’t win.

Maybe that makes me arrogant. As a co-captain, there was a responsibility on my shoulders that I didn’t uphold. I didn’t play my best, and I didn’t have the headspace to encourage my team to be their best, either.

I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since. I don’t need it in my life. Maybe it wasn’t the alcohol that made me feel that way, but it sure didn’t help. I don’t go to meetings; I don’t need a support group. I just don’t want alcohol in my life.

When I reach my apartment, I head upstairs and immediately run a bubble bath. I want to go for a run. I want to scream or yell or punch something. But I can’t. That wouldn’t serve me.

Sliding into the bath with a protein shake and a good novel helps. I get lost in the book for a bit. My friend Sadie is the author—Sylvie Hirsch is her pen name. She runs a book club and I’ve met some great friends there… including some with ties to the Boston Grizzlies organization.

See, it’s a good thing that Al and I never made it to our date, I tell myself. We have people in common. The sports world is too small. The city is too small.

Shit! I never texted him!

Sloshing in the tub, I pull out my phone and click on his contact. There’s a new message from him.

Cari mentioned you had to go. Sorry for running late. Rain check?

Deliberating for a moment, I finally text back:

I don’t think it’s a good idea. Your sister is my teammate. It could get messy.

Chewing on my lip, I watch the little bubbles dance for a moment as he types.

Fair enough. I’ll catch you around.

A second later, another message.

If I show up at a Revolution game, it’s because I’m cheering on my sister. Not trying to stalk you.

I laugh.