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  THE GAMES

  Patricia McLinn

  Copyright 2010 © Patricia McLinn

  ISBN: 978-1-939215-03-1

  EPUB Edition

  Also available in audio

  Also available in print

  www.PatriciaMcLinn.com

  * * * *

  Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or errors in this book, please send them to me at [email protected]. Even with many layers of editing, mistakes can slip through, alas. But, together, we can eradicate the nasty nuisances. Thank you! – Patricia McLinn

  “Patricia McLinn wins gold with this sparkling romance! The Games is your ticket behind the cameras and inside the hearts of the winter Olympics.”

  – Carla Neggers, New York Times bestselling author

  “Fast-paced, vivid and true-to-life, Patricia McLinn’s The Games captures the personal drama and compelling stories of the greatest sports event on earth. It’s a gold-medal winner any fan of the Games will love.”

  – Christine Brennan, USA Today sports columnist

  “The Games accurately portrays the emotional roller coaster an athlete rides . . . The pride, excitement, disappointment, relationships, doubt, relief, joy and all of the pressures . . . all come to a head at the Olympic Games.”

  – Michael Weiss, U.S. Olympic figure skater and three-time U.S. Men’s champion

  “The Games is a wonderful book! All of the characters are so dynamic, so believable. The tension of the various competitions is nerve-wracking. The romance going on behind the scenes is explosive. . . . a story you won’t be able to put down, and one you’ll not soon forget.”

  – RomanceJunkies.com

  “If the aim of The Games is to give readers a vicarious Olympic experience that is lively, entertaining, and emotionally satisfying, it hit its mark dead center.”

  – Romance Reviews Today

  “I delighted in the ‘real world’ look at some Olympic heroes. . . . Ms. McLinn’s knowledge added the excitement of the Olympics to her wonderful book.”

  – CataRomance

  “Written with invigorating, breathtaking passion, I found myself jumping up and cheering for the wins, and sobbing out loud during the defeats. . . . The sensual romance . . . will also have you cheering, sighing, and all choked up throughout this wonderfully compelling read. This is an exceptional read, a winner worthy of the gold, and one I highly recommend!”

  – Romance Reviews Today

  * * * *

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Opening Ceremonies

  The Day Before: Friday

  Day 1: Saturday

  Day 2: Sunday

  Day 3: Monday, 6:19 a.m.

  Day 3: Monday, 7 p.m.

  Day 4: Tuesday

  Day 5: Wednesday

  Day 6: Thursday

  Day 7: Friday

  Day 8: Saturday

  Day 9: Sunday

  Day 10: Monday

  Day 11: Tuesday

  Day 12: Wednesday

  Day 13: Thursday

  Day 14: Friday

  Day 15: Saturday

  Day 16: Sunday

  Other Books by Patricia McLinn

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The Author gratefully acknowledges:

  First, those athletes who demonstrate the grit and grace of striving.

  In particular, I am extremely grateful to the following people for answering so many questions and for giving such wise answers (any errors are mine, not theirs):

  Nancy Johnstone, U.S. Olympic biathlete; Joan Smith Miller, U.S. Olympic biathlete; Wendy Fisher, U.S. Olympic Alpine skier; Robert Kyle Wieche, U.S. Olympic Alpine skier; Kirsten Culver, U.S. Olympic speed skier; Jenny Stone, U.S. Olympic Committee sports medicine and training; Maurice W. Stillwell, past-president U.S. Figure Skating Association; Jeff Cravens, U.S. Olympic Committee media relations at Albertville; Jim Johansson, U.S. Olympic hockey team; Rocky Marval, U.S. Olympic figure skater; and Rachel Mayer Godino, U.S. Olympic figure skater.

  They were invaluable in bringing The Games alive.

  Dave Shultz, who sent a rookie reporter out to cover figure skating, cross-country skiing and ski jumping – and got me hooked.

  Scott Hamilton, who even all those years ago at the Wagon Wheel in Rockton, Ill., was a gracious champion.

  Christine Brennan, who was always encouraging. And colleagues in sports departments at the Rockford Register-Star, Charlotte Observer and Washington Post, who let me handle lots and lots and lots of winter sports stories. Especially Mike Doyle, Sherri Winans Glennon, and Kay Coyte.

  Athletes and coaches from the Rockford, Ill., area, who taught many lessons about competition, sportsmanship and people.

  My family, who got me started on sports in the first place.

/>   A long list of writing buddies who heard about this story. You know who you are because now you’re hearing about new stories. A special thanks to Pat Van Wie, Ann Majors and Debbie Pfeiffer, who gave me a stern talking to in a bar in New Orleans.

  Fran Baker, who turned belief into reality.

  Thank you all. Let The Games begin.

  * * * *

  OPENING CEREMONIES

  “Mesdames et Monsieurs, l’equippe Olympic des Etats Unis!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the United States Olympic team!”

  Red, white and blue, they marched through an archway that vibrated with their eagerness, then burst into the open floor of the oval stadium. A roar rose, the sheer volume of it enough to set a sea of hand-held flags fluttering. All for them.

  In return, they spilled into the frosting night the essence of themselves. Youth, exuberance, skill, endurance, dedication, determination, hope, anxiety, excitement. Stirring and stirred.

  Energy crackled through each movement as voices admonished them to “Keep those lines straight!” with little effect. Lines? Lines sat as static, dull things. This burned with motion and emotion.

  A culmination of years distilled into the first of a handful of moments. Moments that would flash past at speed beyond sound, yet would cover a world, and last a lifetime.

  Emotions.

  Rikki Lodge figured some scientific machine ought to exist to chart the waves of emotion swirling around her. Maybe the gadget that measures electrical flow. Lord knows, she felt the current. The Olympics! At last. If she wasn’t the grand old lady of her contingent, she might give into the urge to do a cartwheel just for the joy of it. Come to think of it, that might be the only way the TV cameras would zero in on a biathlete. Even at the Olympics.

  The Olympics.

  A shiver skipped up her backbone, and she grinned at herself. You’d think someone who’d competed as long as she had and at as many dots on the world map wouldn’t react to one more. But how could anyone ignore all the reminders that this was different, this was special. If the hometown sendoff and the team outfits hadn’t reminded her, there’d still be these other athletes from all the other sports and countries. She wasn’t even rooming with biathletes, so how could she possibly pretend this was just another meet?

  The American team curved around the track’s first turn. Behind her, and to the left she caught sight of the men’s hockey team. A few faces she’d recognized from newspaper and television coverage when she saw them two days ago while they all got accredited and outfitted. The dark, intense face that stayed well behind the youthful group of players mugging for a TV camera, belonged to Lanny Kaminski.

  They’d never met, yet from what she’d read, Rikki Lodge felt an affinity with him. Like her, he was the oldster on a team of youngsters. A man who’d clung to his dream long after most his age – their age – embraced more ordinary lives. And now here they were with one, final, shot. Good luck, Lanny Kaminski, she thought. We’re both going to need it . . .

  Luck.

  It came to those who touched the Olympic flag. Even non-believers didn’t scoff at the superstition. As the rippling field of white with rings of yellow, blue, green, red and black passed just above the athletes’ section, they stood. Stretching arms, straining fingers, climbing on seats, for a touch before the flag rose out of reach.

  Kyle Armstrong’s arm dropped to her side; her fingertips’ contact with the silky material had been so brief she doubted it had happened.

  She had always counted on luck as her companion. Now, she felt deserted. Not alone, no never alone. Not as long as other members of the ski team surrounded her. She didn’t even have to think about where she was going, she could just go follow the force of their flow. Kyle had skied with these people, traveled with them, eaten with them, lived with them. Even when she wanted to she couldn’t be alone. Never alone with Rob Zemlak watching her.

  She looked up. And slammed directly into Rob’s stare. His mouth smiled at the exuberance around him, but his eyes scowled. At her. He knows. Oh, God, he knows! She sat abruptly, but controlled the fear with will-power honed through years of hurtling down mountains. He couldn’t know. No one here did except her. And he didn’t watch her any differently than he watched the rest of the skiers he coached.

  Keep it in perspective, Kyle. If she could get through the next sixteen days. . . .

  Sixteen days.

  The flame, brought from Greece by hand in honored stages, would burn over the stadium for sixteen days, as it had over another stadium so long ago.

  From her spot in the stands, Tess Rutledge watched this Olympic flame flare to life. Memories of another one flowed into the present seamlessly, dangerously.

  Remember your reason for being here. No longer Tess Rutledge The Skater, she had come here to coach Amy through her first Olympics and to help the team. She searched the section where the American athletes sat. She recognized the distinctive auburn hair of Rikki Lodge and a momentary shifting of the crowd showed her Kyle Armstrong’s straight back. Tess sat taller, looking over heads, and there sat Amy Yost – as bright and vivid and alive as the red, white and blue she wore. She was the reason Tess once more sat in a stadium watching the Opening Ceremonies, listening to the pomp, and forming a minute part of the pageantry. The reason she had come back to all the reminders. Had come back, after years of meticulous avoidance, not to a place, but to a moment in her life.

  That’s what she had to guard against. She’d known he’d be here. If they should meet – and they would – she had to have a firm control on all this. To keep the years and the memories clearly separated. Because if she saw him –

  Fate could be as cruel as people. She learned that anew in the instant she caught sight of the man staring at her. A man from another world, another time, sitting close enough now that she could see the winter night’s breeze ruffling his blond hair, his too-long-remembered blue eyes piercing into her. Andrei Chersakov.

  Let the Games begin.

  THE DAY BEFORE – FRIDAY

  “Isn’t this great? When they said we were in a pod I thought gross, but this is just like an apartment.”

  At the sound of the youthful voice, Rikki Lodge straightened from folding newly washed clothes into the dresser in her room. Across the hall, the voice was accompanied by thumps of luggage hitting the bed and floor. That had to be Amy Yost.

  Three nights ago Rikki had found a namecard “Rochelle Lodge – Biathlon” tacked to a room door and moved in. Alone in the apartment, she’d wandered from door to door and checked namecards.

  A large room with a double bed, a desk and an arm chair had a single name on its card, but when Rikki read “Tess Rutledge – Ladies Figure Skating/Asst. Team Leader” the special accommodations didn’t surprise her. Tess Rutledge had been a familiar name for close to two decades, first as the darling of figure skating, then as a pro and most recently as an emerging coach.

  What was surprising was that she was staying in official housing at all. Rikki would have figured Tess Rutledge for luxury hotels.

  The other large room had two beds and two names: “Kyle Armstrong – Women’s Alpine Skiing/Nan Monahan – Women’s Alpine Skiing.” More familiar names, at least to a winter sports fan – that duo had ranked as among America’s best on the international ski circuit for several years now.

  Across the hall the final card read “Amy Yost – Ladies Figure Skating.”

  Rikki had heard that name, too, but only in the past month as U.S. figure skating’s surprising third Olympic qualifier in ladies singles. The media had loved the story of the late-comer to skating bursting onto the scene while remaining what so many referred to as fresh. She supposed that might explain Tess Rutledge’s presence in these pedestrian surroundings, since Amy Yost was her protégé, and this was her first Olympics. Give the kid another four years and she’d probably be like most of the top figure skaters, who jetted in before competing, stayed in luxury accommodations, and departed immediately afterward. Their Olympic experience was almost entirely what happened in front of the cameras.

  Amy had a mirror image of Rikki’s train-compartment room. Rikki didn’t mind the size. For the luxury of a private bath she would sleep in a closet. Come to think of it, she’d slept in spaces the size of the closet without a private bath.