“Push against my hand,” I instructed Paulo to move his heel into my palm for the third time.

He had another calf cramp. I massaged the underside of his leg with my free hand. The cramp was solid like a baseball under his skin. The sand was gritty on my fingers as I tried to ease the pain out of the muscle.

“God,” he cursed. He was such a baby. He had done nothing but complain since he hobbled over to the bench during warm ups.

“You have to stay hydrated and this won’t happen as often.” I sighed. I didn’t know how many times I had reminded him of how to keep his hydration and potassium levels up.

He never took my advice. Six months with Paulo and Sergio and neither one had adopted any of my tips. Not one.

He scowled at me and I dropped his leg to the ground. I didn’t want to help him anymore. I wasn’t even sure why I was part of Team Italy. What was the point of being the trainer when the players had their own opinions about treatment? They smiled and winked at me, but when it came to listening, they were deaf. Did they really think they could charm themselves into healing?

I grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and shoved it in his hand. “Drink this and stretch some more. Then you can get back out there for the rest of warm ups.” I had left my bedside manner back at the village. I did feel grouchier than usual.

Sergio tossed balls into the air, volleying with the coach. He needed Paulo on the court with him. The match was scheduled to start in another hour. Paulo’s calf should be fine by then, but I couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t cramp up again.

The sand kicked up around my legs as the ball bounced a few feet from me. I leaned over to toss it back into play.

I looked on the horizon as I heard the deep rumble of thunder coming from the ocean. Copacabana beach was beautiful, but it was windier than most places the team played. I didn’t like the dark clouds looming over the sea. It felt ominous and bleak as if it were some kind of omen. I wasn’t about to tell the guys that. It would only be one more thing they would dismiss from me.

Rain storms happened during matches, but with Paulo’s calf I worried rain could lead to more injuries. The sand would be more unpredictable, and he could lose his footing. He was the most careless athlete I had ever worked with.

I stooped over my trainer’s bag ensuring I had everything I needed in case there was another incident. The Americans would be here in another twenty minutes to start their hour of warm ups and I would need to keep the guys busy with stretches and cardio so they stayed loose for the game.

The fans had started to trickle into the arena, and I glanced up to see how many seats were already filled. I’d heard the entire tournament was sold out. Beach volleyball was one of the most popular sports in Rio. Add the Americans to the mix and it was the perfect recipe for ticket sales.

I sat on the bench with my back to the crowd and took a sip of water. Paulo practiced his serve. He hit it inside the corner line by inches every time. He was a pain in my ass, but he could play.

Sergio tried to return the serve and ended up face down in the sand. I waited to see if he was ok. He popped up, grinning at me. He knew I would freak out if anything happened before the match started. Their well-being was in my hands.

The sooner this match started, the better I’d feel about the gray clouds drifting closer.

I pulled my long blond hair off my neck and twisted it into a bun. Even when it was overcast, Rio was humid and sticky. It didn’t help that I had to wear a thick polo shirt. All Team Italy coaches and trainers wore the same uniform. It wasn’t very flattering for someone with curvy hips. The khaki shorts assigned to me were probably the ugliest things I had ever worn.

I pulled on the hem to flatten the pleats, but it was pointless. I had to admit defeat.

Sergio and Paulo ran toward me, their chests rising with rapid breaths.

“Warm ups are over,” they announced. “We’re off the sand for the next hour.”

I stood from the bench. “Ok. Let’s get started on some stretching. Paulo, how is your calf feeling?”

“Ow, bella.”

I rolled my eyes. He was a consummate flirt. “Are you going to be able to play on it?”

He nodded. “Can you work it out some more?”

“Sure,” I grumbled. “Let me get Sergio started on some stretches and then I’ll see what I can do to help.”

There wasn’t much room on the side of the court. I had barely glanced up when the Americans walked into the arena. The fans cheered, but I had to give all of my attention to my guys.

The Americans were the favorites to win. They always were. I hadn’t been with the Italian team long enough to have faced the other teams before on an international stage. I felt a sting of betrayal rooted in my chest. After all I was American. It seemed disloyal and unpatriotic to help another country win.

But this was my job. I was a trainer. I couldn’t help that my dream job took me to Italy.

Once I had Sergio in position, I turned to Paulo. He was guzzling water on the bench.

“Paulo!” I admonished. “Sips. Not gulps. You’re going to end up with stomach cramps.”

He shrugged as if my words meant nothing. He pointed to his leg.

I applied pressure with the heel of my hand. I could tell the muscle was still tight, but not nearly as badly as it had been. I began to point and flex his foot while keeping pressure on his calf. He winced every time I moved it.

The crowd was excited about whatever the Americans were doing behind me. The match hadn’t even begun and they were cheering for every bump or block. I tried to focus on Paulo’s leg and not the growing knot in my stomach.

Just this morning I had talked to my mother on video chat. She promised to cheer for the Italian teams, but I told her it wasn’t necessary.

“Of course I will, honey,” she said. “You’ve worked hard there. Everyone is so happy we have our own Olympian to root for.”

“Mom, I’m not an Olympian. I’m a trainer for Olympians,” I explained. “And they aren’t even Americans.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re in Rio, aren’t you?”

“Yes. True.”

“Then, let Four Corners be excited about you. Other than that guy your father went to high school with, who played for the Wranglers one season, there hasn’t been a single professional athlete out of this town. Ever. And besides, he just sat on the bench.”

Four Corners was a tiny town in the eastern part of North Carolina. Its biggest claim to fame was an award-winning barbecue sauce. I understood why the local paper wanted to interview me. But I wasn’t what the town considered a traditional woman. I lived in Europe for God’s sake.

My father popped into the corner of the screen. “Hi, sweetheart. How’s Rio?”

“Great, Dad.” I smiled.

They were both drinking coffee and waiting for the games to start.

“Have you seen much of the city?” he asked.

“Not really. My focus is on keeping the guys healthy. It’s going to be a lot of work to get through the tournament. I’ll have some time to sightsee at the end of the games before we fly back to Italy.”

“Hmm.” He seemed to think it over. My father was always like that. He was the quiet one while my mother was a complete chatterbox.

“Honey, can you wave at the camera or something during the game? It would be fun. I’m going to record the entire game,” she piped in. She kept moving the screen to show me my father’s face and then back to her own.

“Mom, I’m not going to do that. If I’m on camera at all it’s because something happened to Sergio or Paulo and that’s not a good thing.”

She looked disappointed. “All right. But I’m still recording it.”

The camera pivoted again. I was getting motion sickness talking to them.

“What about Eric? Have you seen him?”

My stomach twisted in two. Why did she have to mention what happened? I knew I would see him, but I wanted to put that humiliation behind me. I thought six months in Italy would be enough time for me to forget, but it wasn’t. I still had a sick feeling whenever it came up. That kind of rejection was hard to get over.

“No, mom. Not yet.” I needed to get off this call. “I have to go. I can’t be late to the beach. I have a lot of work to do with the guys.” I blew a kiss to them.

“Bye. We’ll look for you, Sierra.”

“Bye.” I hung up before my mother made any more requests.

I was lucky she hadn’t asked for autographs or a video chat tour of the building where I was staying in the village.

My parents were kind. And they were supportive. But it didn’t matter what they said, or how much pride they had in me. I couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that I was on the wrong side of the court today.

I looked in the stands while I worked Paulo’s leg and seeing the red, white, and blue flags made me feel more homesick than all the time I had spent in Italy.

“Bella, what is it?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.” I tapped the player’s leg. “I think you’re ready to go.”

He adjusted his sunglasses. “Grazie, bella.”

I watched as he took the court. The wind whipped around, shaking the net and stirring sand around my ankles. The storm was getting closer.