Settling the Score (The Summer Games #1) - R.S. Grey Page 0,2
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.
CHAPTER TWO
Freddie
“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.