FURY: A Rio Games Romance (2 page)

L
ogan Lowery didn’t sprout
a hair on her head until she was nearly five months old. Not even peach fuzz. Which didn’t do a thing to wipe the smile from her face. If ever a baby was happier than Logan Lowery, there’s no record of it. She slept through the night for the first time when she was just five weeks old, and on the rare occasion she did find reason to cry, it was a small, sweet sound. The nurses told the Lowerys Logan had “a pretty cry.”

When her hair finally arrived, it seemed to be making up for lost time. The blonde curls piled up overnight, and no matter how they were styled, wrapped, or tied, they had a mind of their own and spilled into Logan’s face, causing her squeals of delight.

She decided at just a day past eight months old that crawling wasn’t getting her where she needed to be quickly enough. So she pulled herself up and began to cruise along the sectional and around the ottoman in the Lowery living room. After a week of that, she figured it was time to walk.

Chuck Lowery’s heart broke with every split lip, black eye, and bruised cheek, but Logan’s reach far exceeded her grasp and she spent a month falling down more than she walked. No matter how terrible the tumble, however, she gritted her teeth (well, gums, mostly) and got right back up to try again. Stumbling became walking, then running and climbing, but no matter what toy was put in front of her, she always looked for a ball.

Daddy may not have gotten the boy he’d planned for, but there wasn’t a boy for a hundred miles, or up to a year older than Logan, who could keep up with her.

She grew quickly, but never lost her coordination. By the time Chuck and Tracy signed her up for basketball and tee ball, even the parents of
boys
she played against demanded to see her birth certificate.

“She can’t possibly be five years old!” they insisted.

But she was. She’d simply inherited the athletic genes of both her parents and had a ready supply of bats and balls of all sizes. And she did what Lowerys had always done on the diamond and court; she dominated.

Schoolwork didn’t come quite so easily, despite having two parents who were educators. Logan was just too full of energy to sit still long enough to pay attention. Each day was a sprint, from the moment she woke up in the morning to whenever she collapsed at night, usually downstairs on the couch, from which Daddy would inevitably carry her up to bed.

She became the stereotypical tomboy, eschewing dolls and pretty things for bumps and scrapes, dirt and sweat.

At eight years old she noticed some kids kicking a soccer ball as she left a softball game (she’d hit two home runs) and she asked her parents if she could play that as well.

Soccer was one sport neither Tracy nor Chuck had played, and their knowledge beyond “you can’t use your hands” was limited. But they found the local league and signed her up, and the whirlwind of blonde curls that was Logan Lowery had discovered her passion. Basketball was a game of stops and starts, and softball only allowed for a handful of trips to the plate each game and even when she pitched there just wasn’t enough action for her.

Soccer, on the other hand, let her run, run, and run some more. Her coach quickly discovered that she was tireless and aggressive almost to a fault. He placed her at center midfield and told her she could go anywhere she wanted, as long as she was helping the team.

The cries for a birth certificate resumed as a new set of parents watched their daughters wilt under the intensity of Logan’s relentless pressure. Tracy had a copy laminated and carried it with her to all of her daughter’s games.

Although Logan still played softball and basketball, she really only made the concession to appease her parents. She knew quitting basketball would hurt her mother and giving up softball would devastate her father. The Olympic softball dream was something with which she was all too familiar, and her dad made sure she didn’t miss a pitch when the United States team was playing.

Her waning interest in sports other than soccer didn’t translate, however, to diminished success in those endeavors.

By the time high school rolled around, a ninth grade Logan was the finest all-around athlete at Montgomery High, regardless of gender or age. Her early growth spurt ended during middle school, and although 5’9” was still tall, it wasn’t freakish. She filled out into a mature athlete’s body, and although some guys were intimidated by her musculature, her ready smile, happy blue eyes, and blonde curls left her with no shortage of suitors. She went out with groups of friends, but there never seemed to be time for one boy or for any sort of relationship to develop.

Logan’s sophomore year was when all her father’s hard work paid dividends. After helping Montgomery High’s soccer team attain the best record in school history, and the basketball team to within four points of the state tournament, her buzz-saw pitching and powerful bat helped fill the hole in her school’s trophy case that Chuck Lowery had urged the athletic director to make room for way back when. A state championship on her resume brought recruiters out in droves, and the dream (if not Logan’s, then definitely Chuck’s) was blossoming nicely.

* * *

U
ntil the morning
that summer when the family gathered for breakfast, divvying up the
Dayton Daily News
over waffles and scrambled eggs.

“That’s bullshit!” exclaimed Chuck, dropping his coffee mug to the table like a gavel, surprising his daughter and wife, who threw him a disapproving glare.

“Sorry, honey. I just… you won’t believe what it says here. Baseball and softball are getting dropped by the Olympics! Starting in 2012, they won’t be in the Olympics anymore. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

With that, Chuck Lowery rose, head slung low in defeat, and stumbled off toward the stairs and back to his bedroom.

Logan and her mother looked at one another in shock.

“That can’t be right,” her mother said, walking over to the pick up the newspaper Chuck had thrown on the floor. “How can the Olympics get rid of softball? It’s one of the most popular sports played…”

But Chuck was right. According to the newspaper, the internet, and ESPN, his worst nightmare had come true.

No more softball. Which meant no more Olympic dreams for either Logan or her father.

D
espite the Olympic
dream having perished, Chuck Lowery, both the father and the coach, remained dedicated to his daughter and to her team. Montgomery High repeated as softball state champions during Logan’s junior year, and she was named state player of the year. She’d have her pick of colleges.

Logan’s plan for the future, however, didn’t include softball. She’d play her senior season, of course, but she had no plans to accept a softball scholarship.

The recruiting letters she cherished were from soccer coaches. The same letters her father eschewed in favor of those from basketball and softball coaches, Logan treasured. Ever the unselfish teammate, despite talent that meant she didn’t have to be, she kept her plans to herself in order to keep coaches showing up at her various events in the hopes that they’d notice some of her teammates and begin to recruit them.

Her scheme landed many of her teammates, in all three sports Logan played, squarely on the radar of coaches who would have loved to have Logan, but who found Montgomery High School’s sports program a fertile hunting ground.

On a family vacation to Myrtle Beach a month before her senior year of high school began, Logan gathered the courage to inform her father of her college plans.

They sat folding chairs on the beach, Tracy back in the room taking a nap, when Logan broke the news.

“Dad, there’s something we need to talk about. Promise you won’t be mad at me.” She couldn’t even look at him as she spoke.

“How can I promise that if I don’t know what it’s about, kiddo?” Chuck asked as he folded up the last of the beach chairs.

She pouted and batted her eyelashes until he relented.

“Okay, okay, not mad, now the suspense is killing me. Say what you need to say,” Chuck couldn’t even begin to guess what she was about to tell him.

Logan took a deep breath.

“When I get to college I want to focus on one sport. And even though I love it, and I know you want to see me play in the College World Series, it’s not softball,” Logan’s voice dropped to a whisper as she spoke the last three words.

Chuck looked deep into his daughter’s eyes, then reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “I know. I’ll never understand it, but I’ll always be your biggest fan. I know that deep down you’re a soccer player.”

Logan felt her eyes grow wet with tears. She knew she was breaking her father’s heart, but he wasn’t about to let it ruin either their trip or her future. “Daddy, how did you know?”

“I’ve known for years. I struggled at first, but I’ve always known it would be soccer for you. You get so much more excited for soccer than softball or basketball. And just the way you play. You play with… a fury. It’s not hard to tell that it’s your true passion. Whatever you do, just know how proud your mother and I are of you.”

Logan could hardly believe it. “Thank you. I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time but I never knew how. But it’s time I get serious about narrowing down my list of colleges. And Mr. Barton deserves a break,” she replied.

Poor old Mr. Barton had been the Lowery mailman since before Logan was born, and he’d suffered under the weight of her recruiting letters.

“I’ll miss watching you hit home runs,” Chuck Lowery’s voice trailed off as seagulls squawked nearby.

“Oh, I think I’ve got a few more in me, Daddy. You’re not getting rid of me so soon. We have another state title to win together. But is watching me score goals really so bad?”

He shook his head. “Your momma and I worked so hard to get you here, kiddo. How could I ever be anything but grateful for whatever you get to choose to do with your beautiful life? I love you, Logan.”

With that, the father and daughter stood and embraced.

Breaking the hug and stretching her arms above her head, Logan looked her father in the eye. “Race me to the water, old man. I’ll give you a head start.”

“I’ve never lost a footrace to a soccer player, and I don’t plan to start today!” Chuck exclaimed.

With that, father and daughter bolted toward the ocean, hitting the waves together and laughing as he pulled her under.

* * *

L
ogan’s
senior year began with her leading Montgomery High to its first state championship in soccer, and although she couldn’t duplicate the feat as captain of an inexperienced basketball team, her final season playing softball was a fairytale ending to her high school career. The team lost only two games and stampeded to a third state crown, cementing a legacy for father and daughter.

Chuck announced his retirement from coaching the Monday after they won the state championship.

As for Logan, she’d picked Xavier University, just down the road in Cincinnati, as her college destination. More high-profile schools had sought her signature, but she liked the smaller campus, the proximity to home, and the coaching staff, headed by a retired Dutch professional player named Kyle Hiddink.

Soccer and school were the order of the day for Logan Lowery, and her success on the field was starting to draw the notice of people in high places.

Logan was at her peak. A college athlete, an Olympic hopeful, and a young, vivacious girl with the world at her feet if she wanted it.

No one would have guessed the obstacle that would soon stop them all in their tracks.

“
H
elp is on the way
. Keep pressure on it. Your friend is lucky. His leg is in a lot better shape than his board.”

Jack O’Connor didn’t feel lucky. He and his best friend, Wyatt Sullivan, had only been in Fiji for a few hours and had barely arrived on Malolo Island when the attack occurred. Wyatt caught the first big wave and had a good opening run, but as Jack paddled out to get in position, something bumped his board, a bump that seemed more curious than hostile. Jack couldn’t see anything, but by the time he heard a female voice behind him scream “
Shark!
” it was already too late.

The impact was brutal, surfer and board both going airborne, board in pieces and Jack O’Connor leaking blood from a gash on his leg.

Defying fear, and maybe common sense, two sets of hands ferried Jack to the safety of the remote stretch of Malolo Island beach, dragging him from the water. She acted quickly, assessing the damage wrought by the razor-sharp teeth and deciding they’d missed the femoral artery.

The handsome American would probably survive his trip to the South Pacific, although with a nasty scar as a souvenir.

Once they’d reached dry land, the local girl had called for a friend nearby to summon an ambulance while she stayed with the strangers. She instructed Wyatt to press his towel on the wound to staunch the flow of blood, and she took hold of Jack’s hand and leaned over him, speaking softly. “Just hang on. You’re alright now. We’re right here with you.”

For his part, Jack couldn’t decide if he was alive or dead. He was in no pain, although he did feel cold, so he could be alive and going into shock, or, more likely, a shark had killed him. More likely, he thought, since he was clearly holding hands with an angel. When the girl looked into his eyes and smiled, his heart stopped and the breath caught in his throat.

He’d never seen such beauty.

She was dark, darker than the girls back home in Ohio who tanned in booths. This girl was golden. She had to be an angel. He managed to whisper his thanks to her as she placed a palm on his cheek. A flurry of activity swirled as the paramedics arrived, and suddenly she was gone.

Wyatt accompanied Jack to the medical center, where a doctor confirmed the girl’s diagnosis – deep, nasty gash, but Jack’s critical femoral artery was spared by less than an inch. He’d need many, many stitches, lots of pain pills, and plenty of bed rest, but he’d live. And he’d have a story to tell that would have the coeds back at The Ohio State University fawning over him.

Wyatt’s wealthy father financed the trip as a gift for the two friends before they headed off to grad school in the fall; symbolic since they had likewise planned to graduate from surfing American beaches to those in the South Pacific.

Wyatt had taken Jack along on beach vacations since the two were seventh graders, all over Florida and the Carolinas, with trips to California starting after high school ended.

During their college years, the pair became more serious about their surfing, spending chunks of the summers in Hawaii, all on Wyatt’s old man’s dime. Clearly, it was good to be the scion of the furniture king of southwest Ohio.

Wyatt and Jack could probably claim to be the two most accomplished surfers in Ohio by the time they left for Fiji, which as Jack would joke “is something like being the best tennis player above the Arctic Circle.”

* * *

“
W
elcome back
, Jack-O! How ya feeling, buddy?” Wyatt was relieved to see his best friend’s eyelids flutter open, and he was eager to find out what he remembered from the attack and the aftermath.

There was only one thing, however, on Jack O’Connor’s mind. “Where is she?”

Wyatt did little to hide his delight. “That’s the Jack-O I know and love. Not ‘how’s my leg,’ not ‘thanks for the rescue,’ all you can think about is pussy. That’s my boy.”

“Shit, it’s not like that. She saved me. We have to find her. I know this sounds weird, but I swear I was
dreaming
about her.”

“Dude, they’ve got you hopped up on pain meds. I wouldn’t trust anything going on in here,” Wyatt rapped on his friend’s skull through his wavy blonde locks to emphasize his point. “At least not right now.”

Jack surveyed the damage to his leg, running his hands gently across the bandages, wincing when he hit the repaired flesh. “Any idea what kind of shark it was?”

“Probably a bull, but the water here is loaded with sharks, all kinds. Lucky for you, your board didn’t taste good enough to come back for seconds,” Wyatt replied.

“How long have I been out?”

“Four or five hours? Blood loss knocked you out initially, then they sedated you to patch you up.”

“Sorry to ruin our trip, bro, but I don’t think I’ll be back on a board anytime soon. Not that I have a board to be on anymore, anyway,” Jack offered.

Wyatt laughed. “You don’t expect me to sit here in the hospital or in our hotel room with you for the next two weeks, do you? I intend to be on the beach bright and early tomorrow. Besides, you’re ‘shark bite guy’ now. You’re a local celebrity. You’ll have plenty of volunteers to help nurse you back to health.”

* * *

T
he next morning
, Wyatt returned to the beach, intent on swallowing his fear and conquering the Fijian waves. Surveying the tide, he was aware of a presence sidling up to him.

He’d seen the girl who helped save his friend the prior afternoon, but he hadn’t really looked at her. As she approached, he drank her in, an exotic beauty beyond compare to the coeds back home in Ohio. She wore a black bikini top and jean shorts, her black hair a thick, wild, windswept mane. Her skin was more gold than brown and seemed to glow, rippling over tight, natural muscle.

Wyatt Sullivan wasn’t typically intimidated by anyone, especially women, but his voice had shriveled up deep inside when he tried to say hello. She stood next to him, watching the waves crash, surveying the set for herself.

“How’s your friend?” she finally asked.

Trying, but failing, to give off the cool, disinterested vibe he’d honed over the years, Wyatt cleared his throat to regain his voice before answering. “Oh, Jack? That was you yesterday?”

Her gaze never left the water as she nodded her reply.

“He’s in the hospital, they stitched him up. He’ll be ok. Probably won’t be doing anymore surfing, not this trip anyway.”

“Don’t they have bicycles in America?” she asked.

Perplexed by the question, Wyatt gave the native girl a sideways look. “Yeah, of course we do.”

“Then I assume Jack has ridden one, no?”

Wyatt nodded.

“And when he was learning to ride, he fell off a few times. Surfing,
real
surfing, is like that. If you let every little shark bite, jellyfish sting, or wipeout send you scurrying back to the beach, you just don’t get it. Surfing isn’t what you do, it’s who you are.” She smiled, but not at Wyatt. She was smiling out at the ocean, as if they were in on a secret that someone like Wyatt could never understand.

Wyatt watched as the gorgeous girl dropped a towel, wriggled out of her shorts, and made for the water with her board. He watched her paddle out, impressed by her guts. He’d wrestled with this moment ever since hearing Jack screaming and seeing the churning water near him run red in the aftermath of the attack.

Wyatt walked toward the water but stopped short as the first waves lapped at his toes. His feet sank and he let them. Watching the girl knife effortlessly through and between waves left him awestruck. Whatever skills he and Jack had developed paled next to the instinctual grace this Fijian goddess displayed.

Motionlessly, he watched her entire set and watched her emerge from the waves, glistening.

“Unless you’re planning to go out,” she said, motioning to the ocean. “Why don’t you take me to see your friend? I have to work this afternoon, but I have some free time now.”

Wyatt wasn’t going into the ocean, not in front of her. He knew how clumsy and awkward his attempts to surf would be, and any chance he had to score with her would be lost if she actually watched him surf.

Not like it wouldn’t be gone anyway once she visited Jack in the hospital, but she was so beautiful that he couldn’t help but hope.