Author Note: Thank you to everyone who's been so supportive of Going for the Gold.
Just a reminder, this is CO-WRITTEN with tamelaine, so we are not plagarizing anyone's story.
This, chapter, however, was written by moi.
Songs are up on my profile.
EPOV
I ran a hand through my hair, mussing it even more, and took in Esme's frown as she reached over and tried to fix it.
"They aren't going to be taping me," I whined, embarrassed at my own reluctance to do this.
"No, but I don't want anyone thinking you're a slob, Edward," Esme said sweetly, her love for me reflected in her eyes. "I just wish you would get it cut more regularly."
There was no way that was going to happen. My hair was one of the few things I got to decide on for myself and hell would freeze over before I relinquished that one little tiny corner I'd salvaged from the life that was controlled by everyone else.
Even Esme, as much as I loved her, still saw me as too young, too incapable of taking care of myself. Maybe it was because instead of doing things normally, the way I'd lived my life since the age of twelve had been upside-down. In high school I'd had tutors. In college, my classes were all independent studies and I lived in my own apartment, and Esme took care of everything—cleaning, cooking, shopping.
Nothing about the arrangement had changed since graduation except that the "classes" were over. I lived alone, had few friends, and I spent my days sleeping, eating and swimming. After Beijing was over, I was going to do something to change the monotony of my days. I loved swimming but I felt like it, along with Carlisle and Esme, were slowly strangling me to death.
I knew they suspected I'd be changing some things around after the Beijing Olympics ended, but I didn't think that either my dad or my mom knew quite how much was about to change. I wanted to be independent, and to stop answering to all the people that were convinced they were needed to run my life.
Women were part of that equation and I forced myself not to think of Bella. Bella was just a stand-in for anyone in particular, I told myself, it didn't matter if the woman I started dating wasn't Bella. Except that in the last two days suddenly it was impossible of me to see any woman but her, and we'd had exactly one conversation. She'd never left my thoughts since, and when I'd seen her in the cafeteria yesterday, for about ten seconds I'd thought I was hallucinating. It wasn't until I saw her with Alice and her husband that I believed it was really her in the flesh and not just a miraculous figment of my imagination come to life.
I'd so desperately wanted to go talk to her, but I knew that if I did, news of that would reach Carlisle within an hour, and after my confrontation with Jacob, the last thing I wanted was a lecture from my father. So instead, I'd stupidly willed her to come to me, even though I knew it wouldn't work. She would never understand. Unfortunately I'd been right, and though for about half a minute it looked like it might work, she'd been called away by Alice, and the moment was broken.
"Now, Edward, it's just some journalists," Carlisle began and I interrupted him.
"It isn't just some journalists, Dad, it's four hours of them. I thought we agreed that it was presumptuous to give all these interviews when all anyone is going to want to talk about is the record." I couldn't help the angry metallic tone edging my voice. Why couldn't they just leave me alone? All I wanted to do was swim and get the hell out of here with my sanity intact.
"Edward," Carlisle said, his voice remarkably calm, "you're a famous celebrity. You're in huge demand. Ever since the World Championships we knew this was coming. Then the Trials elevated your image even more. There was no way to avoid this."
I told myself that agreeing with what Carlisle said was reasonable and fair. The only problem was that I hated press and I definitely didn't feel reasonable and fair at this moment. Theoretically, I could leave and while everyone would be upset, nobody would or could stop me. So what was preventing me? That tiny part of my brain that had done what I'd been told to do for the last fifteen years. Hard to override that kind of training, and as Carlisle liked to boast in interviews, I responded to training like nobody he'd ever seen. I'd always been proud of that fact before—now it just made me slightly sick to my stomach. In reality, my father had been boasting to the world about how easily he could control me.
"You'll be fine," Esme chimed in, ever the peacemaker.
I only wished that I could believe her.
"Just tell me I have the evening free," I begged.
Carlisle looked surprised. "Of course you do. You're going to sleep early."
That's right. No time for anything extraordinary in an extraordinary country during extraordinary times. Only time for routine and training. I barely prevented myself from rolling my eyes.
He'd clearly forgotten about the Opening Ceremony tonight, and feeling more than a little caged, I decided not to bring it up again, fearful of what I might say if I expressed how I really felt.
"Of course," I agreed, smoothly and readily. I ordered myself to do what he said, but the Edward inside that was dying to come out was becoming increasingly difficult to contain. Who knew what he would do with a whole evening free? Even I was afraid to consider the possibilities.
Luckily or maybe unluckily, I wasn't given the opportunity. Rob, my business manager walked into the conference room and both Carlisle and Esme shot to their feet. I rose too, just a little slower, clearly not as eager for his presence.
"Esme, Carlisle, Edward," Rob said smoothly in his British accent, shaking hands all around. "I'm glad to report we have a full schedule today." I couldn't stop myself from rolling my eyes. I was not glad at all that there was a fucking full schedule.
"Lovely," Esme replied, charmed as usual by Rob's ingratiating Britishness.
"We'll start in five minutes, Edward, if you're ready."
Who was he kidding? I was never going to be ready for the next eight hours. I hated talking about myself more than almost anything else, and having endured this kind of thing before, I knew exactly what was coming.
I'd already decided to retreat and answer the questions as shortly and succinctly as possible. Nobody was going to go any deeper than I wanted them to.
"I'm ready," I said, not bothering to hide my displeasure with the situation.
Carlisle sighed and right before he and Esme left the room with Rob, he turned back to me and said, "Could you try to be at least a little nice to them?"
Oh, I was going to be nice alright. My manners were going to do Esme proud, but being cordial and polite had nothing to do with revealing anything deeper about me, my past or my future. I nodded, and Carlisle smiled, obviously relieved by my answer.
The first reporter was showed into the room by Rob. Not surprisingly she was female and very young—probably late twenties. Beautiful too, though definitely not my type. She was way too blond and way too much everywhere else to catch my more discerning attention. In any case, my taste ran more towards brunettes these days.
As soon as I'd hit puberty, the media outlets had started sending increasingly younger and more beautiful reporters to try to pump me for information. At first I'd been insulted. Did they really think that I thought only with my hormones? Of course, it must have worked in the past with other subjects, thus their assault on me. Still, I'd been annoyed then, and in the interim, my annoyance had only increased. For each interview, the outlets managed to dig out more and more women, probably hoping that someday one of them would really catch my eye and then I'd let it all slip.
They didn't know that there was one out there who probably could find everything out about me simply by putting herself in front of me.
"You must be Edward Cullen," the woman simpered with what she probably thought was a seductive charm, "I'm Elizabeth Jones from USA Today."
She could have been Jenna Jameson and I wouldn't have cared, but okay.
She held her hand and I shook it briefly as I could, and let go before she could develop any ideas about further physical contact between us.
"Would you like to sit down?" I asked coldly. Elizabeth looked at me with surprise, obviously expecting a lot warmer reception. She definitely would be found attractive by a significant percentage of the male population, so no doubt she was used to deference from whoever she interviewed.
This was probably going to be the worst interview she'd ever conducted. I smiled inwardly with relish at the thought of cockblocking her.
"Of course," she murmured, and I ticked that particular trick off the list. Often, the women would drop their voices to a mere whisper, likely trying to emphasize our privacy, or get me to move closer to them—or probably both.
I stayed silent. It was her interview, she was going to have to make an effort to ask me questions. If she thought I was going to help her delve deeper into my psyche then she was so wrong.
Finally, after arranging her recording device and getting her pad out, all in all an uncomfortably quiet two minutes or so, she'd cleared her throat and asked the first question.
"Edward, tell me what you think about Beijing so far?" Elizabeth tossed her hair as punctuation to her question and I nearly grimaced. Did she think I was going to fall at her feet at the vision of some blond hair? I was a lot stronger than that. Of course if the hair had been Bella's, I probably would have been mush at her feet.
I knew Elizabeth or her editors could care less what I thought about Beijing; the question was simply a lead-in to make me feel more comfortable. What she didn't know, but probably suspected, was that my tension wasn't going to ease.
"It's a beautiful city."
Take that and see if you can derive some deep psychological meaning out of it.
The rest of the interview went the way I knew it would go. This girl was too young and too inexperienced to really know what she was doing when the subject of the interview answered in flat, short sentences and monosyllables. She'd been picked in the hopes that her looks could deliver some dirt. Clearly, her brain had never been part of the equation.
I watched as she traipsed out of the room, head down, clearly crestfallen that she'd been unable to make any progress, and I tried to summon a molecule of sympathy for her, but failed. In the world of the press and their victims, the celebrities, it was win or lose. And right now the score was Edward 1, Reporters 0.
Two hours slipped by, and from reporter to reporter nothing much changed except that I became more lost in my thoughts of Bella, and the reporters and Rob grew more and more annoyed with my succinctness.
Finally, we reached the last scheduled reporter. My head was tipped back in my chair, waiting for her to come in, but when I heard the door open and close and looked up, it was Rob instead. I closed my eyes. I knew what kind of lecture I was about to get.
"You know, this is an incredibly childish stunt you're pulling. I want you to get your head out of your ass and get it together," he nearly growled at me. "The last reporter is a good friend of mine, from New York, so be nice."
"A friend?" I opened my eyes and raised one eyebrow at him. Maybe if Rob was involved with this one, there would be less schmoozing. I could deal with that.
Rob nodded abruptly, his mouth clamped together in a tight line. He was obviously furious.
"Fine," I grumbled, knowing that if I pushed him any harder, he'd tell Carlisle and Esme everything. So far they were mostly in the dark at how taciturn I was in interviews, as they'd chosen not to accompany me for the last several years. Every time Carlisle complained about getting poor press coverage, I felt a tiny twinge of guilt because I knew the problem stemmed from my decision not to share my privacy.
Rob shot me a warning look as he exited the room, and I tried to do my best "proper Edward" impression, but the charade dropped as soon as the door closed behind him. There was no way I was going to change my tactics now that they'd proved to be so successful.
Two minutes later, hell on heels walked in.
Gorgeous wasn't even a word I would have used to describe her. She was insanely beautiful. Insane because that's probably what she did to men—set them up with straitjackets and padded cells for life. She flipped one long wavy strand of hair over her shoulder, and god help me, it was a beautiful dark shiny brown that reminded me way too much of Bella. Her face could have given Angelina Jolie a run for the money though, and resembled nothing of Bella's sweet innocence. Good, I thought, there's one thing I don't like about her. And that she's obviously a piranha of the press variety.
This wasn't some green girl reporter—this woman was a tigress who knew how to get exactly what she wanted, no matter who got cut in the process.
She must have seen the apprehension written all over my face because her lips curled into a pre-massacre sneer, and amazingly even this didn't make her ugly.
"Hi, I'm Jessica Rabbitt, from US Weekly," she said as she melted into the couch more gracefully than any woman wearing four inch heels should be able to do.
I knew several things very quickly. First, I was in deep, deep shit. Second, what was a reporter from US Weekly doing interviewing me? The only answer to that question was that I was now not only up to my ankles, but my knees as well.
"Rabbitt?" I nearly squeaked. Cursing inwardly, I tried to paste on an expression of bored sophistication. Unfortunately, I think she saw right through it.
"Rabbitt," she confirmed, sharing a dazzling smile with me. "My parents had a bit of a sense of humor."
"Uh," I cleared my throat, wondering why my collar suddenly felt so tight and the room had become so unbearably warm, "hilarious."
"So, Edward, I have to tell you, I've been looking forward to this interview ever since Rob promised it to me."
"Oh you know Rob?" I asked innocently, hoping I could extract the fact that they were indeed together. Of course, a woman like this didn't know what scruples were, so it might not matter after all.
Think of Bella, I told myself, think of her sweet brown eyes, that incredible smile, and her witty intelligence. This woman came out of a cesspool, she's trashy and ugly and. . .nearly on top of me.
My breath nearly stopped in my throat, as she practically crawled over the leather of the couch, her slim black skirt riding up her legs. Ungh. This was not good on so many levels.
I backed up on my couch as far as I could without being unbearably rude. "So Jessica," I started, not believing I was about to start encouraging a reporter to ask questions, "what are your readers curious about?" Anything to get her off this particular track and onto a less X-rated one.
"That's an excellent question," Jessica purred, taking the opportunity to slip off her shoes and curl her legs under her—thereby making the skirt move up farther, exposing more of her undeniably shapely legs.
"Is it?" I replied, furiously trying to look anywhere but the generous expanse of thigh she'd just exposed.
"I wouldn't say that it's my readers who are so interested, Mr. Cullen. I'm positively fascinated by you."
I opened my mouth and closed it, not sure of anything I could really say in response to that.
Clearly though, she'd decided that my words were unnecessary, which was extraordinary odd for someone who was technically supposed to be interviewing me, as she continued, "For example, I'd like to know about your love life."
"My love life?" This was not a typical question, though I'd been asked it before. Albeit with a lot less charm and persuasion. And shapely thigh.
"I want to know all about you, Edward, and for someone of your intensity, I'm sure you must have some woman who can handle you."
I didn't miss a single innuendo she threw into that sentence, though it was mind-boggling how many she'd managed to include.
"Um, there isn't anybody right now." I decided that the simpler answer in this scenario was always better. I wasn't going to be able to get away with my typical monosyllabic answers because god knew I wanted to keep her talking and not crawling.
"Nobody?" Jessica said, shifting a little on the couch. I avoided looking at her legs, just because I knew the shirt had likely shifted as well.
"Nobody," I said firmly. I knew I had to take back control of this interview or there'd be one hell of an article published in US Weekly of all places.
Jessica's plump lips formed the beginning of a pout, but I frowned so sternly at her that she asked the next question before the pouting could continue.
"I've heard some rumors about a tattoo you got for Beijing, especially."
Great. Fucking fantastic.
"Yes." I knew I looked positively murderous but instead of being scared the way she should have been, unsurprisingly she was still smiling.
"I'd love to hear about it." I'm sure you would.
"It's a promise to myself to fulfill my goals and a future memento of Beijing."
"A description?"
This woman played some serious hardball. She didn't know the meaning of the phrase, "give up."
"The Olympic rings," I said shortly. "On my left hip."
"How about a live demonstration?" she cooed, and I felt a sudden and murderous rage rush through me. And in that moment, her thighs were no longer shapely and her dark hair no longer reminded me of Bella's. It suddenly looked fake and overly styled.
"Absolutely not," I nearly snarled back.
"Fine," she pouted, laughing a bit. "How about another question then. I know that even with the new Nike suits you've been wearing there is still a lot of uncovered . . .skin. What depilatory method do you use to stop the drag?"
My eyebrows shot together and I very nearly jumped off the couch, flung the door open and ordered her immediate exit. The only thing that stopped me was the thought that this woman would win. She was dying to see me lose control and be downright rude. No doubt she'd exploit that as much as she could in her godforsaken magazine.
"Waxing," I answered, the tone of my voice daring her to continue this line of questioning at her own peril.
"Oh!" she exclaimed with saccharine innocence, "doesn't that hurt rather badly?"
"No," I lied through my teeth. "Not at all."
"You must have an excellent technician," she replied, and I wanted to throttle her. Did the woman know how to utter a single word that wasn't dripping with sexual innuendo?
"That is absolutely none of your business." I hated saying that during interviews—it felt like such a cop out. I liked outwitting reporters more than simply shutting them down, but this one needed the latter before I dismantled her.
Jessica tried to pull the pout out again, but I was wise to her moves now. This interview was now officially over. Not that it had ever been much of one. I cringed when I thought that gracing the very-classy pages of US Weekly would be a breakdown of my love life, my tattoos, and that I had to wax. Great.
I got up, and she shot to her feet too, faster than I thought someone wearing half a skirt could really manage. I was almost impressed by her maneuverability, but I had a feeling I'd be more impressed with Bella's. Not only did my body like her—my mind did too. And my mind wanted to chuck this trampy bitch out a window.
"This interview is over," I said, with an unmistakable note of finality in my voice.
She couldn't even manage to work up to the pout, before I was across the room, flinging the door open. I handled it so roughly it crashed straight into the wall, and Rob appeared almost instantly, no doubt worried about the loud noise.
"What's going on?" he inquired, looking from my angered face to Jessica.
"Nothing," she answered, smoothly, "Edward was just being so good to let me know that my interview time was up." Jessica slipped back into her shoes, picked up her bag and glided out the way she'd came. When she approached the door, I took a noticeable step back. Who knew what kind of parting gift she'd try to bestow on me.
The worry lines on Rob's forehead smoothed out, and he turned to Jessica.
"I hope it went well," he asked expectantly.
"Wonderfully," she agreed, stopping right by him, and standing closer than I ever would have felt comfortable with. But Rob was clearly used to it, because he simply basked in her presence.
I retreated to the couch, not wanting to see any more of their interaction. The woman made me literally sick to my stomach. I closed my eyes and focused on my mental image of Bella.
Finally, she must have left as Rob re-entered the room and cleared his throat in front of me.
I cracked open one eye. "What?" I asked belligerently. There was no need to be nice to him after that ridiculous stunt. He'd obviously known exactly what it was going to be like, and he'd thrown me to the wolves anyway. So much for bros before hoes.
"I hate to ask this, but I received a last minute request for an interview with you . . ." he trailed off, voice apologetic, and almost timid.
"No," I snapped back, "I want dinner and my bed, in that order."
"Really, I wish there was an option to say no, but this is personal request of Alice Hale. From Nike."
I groaned but halfway through a thought struck me. Alice knew Bella. No, I told myself, you're just setting yourself up for disappointment. There is no way you could possibly be that lucky. You know you're going to have to seek her out—she's not going to come to you.
I closed my eyes again and nodded briefly.
"Great, excellent." Rob sounded extraordinarily relieved and I couldn't say I blamed him. You didn't want to piss off Alice Hale and Nike.
I heard him exit the room again, and even when the door opened, I stubbornly refused to open my eyes. Like a spoiled brat, I didn't want to look and know for sure that the reporter standing in front of me wasn't Bella. Until that decisive moment, I could still go on pretending.
"Edward?" a voice asked hesitantly. Too hesitantly. "Edward?" it asked again, and this time I knew the sweet timbre of that voice. I knew it almost as well as I knew my own because I'd spent hours reliving our one single conversation like a crazy person.
I opened my eyes slowly, taking in her slender form. She looked positively terrified and instantly I felt sorry for her. Shooting to my feet, I couldn't prevent my face from morphing into the biggest smile in my arsenal—the smile I usually reserved for gold medal wins.
"Bella," I exclaimed, utterly unable to control the delight in my voice.
She gaped at me and only then did I remember that I wasn't supposed to know her name. We'd never been officially introduced. Now she'd really think I was an obsessive stalker.
"Edward. . ." she stuttered out, a look of fear crossing her beautiful face. I felt an insane desire to put her at ease as fast as possible.
"It's so good to see you again," I chattered away, indicating the seat next to me on the couch, which no reporter but Jessica had come close to yet today. Even Jessica had had to vamp it up to even get near the empty seat next to me. Bella, however, was offered it like she didn't deserve to be anywhere else. Besides, I would never make her sit on the same couch that Jessica had sat on, unless it was disinfected first.
"You too," she said hesitantly, her eyes looking up into mine. I resisted an urge to grab her hand and drag it into my lap.
She still looked flustered and I was sure it was probably because I was treating the situation like a reunion instead of an interview. Truth was, though, I'd answer any question she liked. Even ones about waxing.
"Edward," she said in a rush, turning a most becoming shade of red, "I just want you to know, I am beyond sorry for all the trouble I've caused for you so far in Beijing and I also wanted to let you know this interview was never my idea—it was all Alice."
I held my hand up, not wanting to hear from Bella's lips that she hadn't wanted to come see me today.
"It's perfectly fine," I said, trying not to let disappointment creep in, "No big deal. My toe is completely recovered."
"And your lap?" Bella giggled, before catching herself and throwing a hand over her mouth. "Oh, I'm sorry. I've no idea what's come over me. I suppose we should start the interview."
"Of course," I replied, but then a sneaky but brilliant idea crept into my head and before I could even stop myself, I was opening my big mouth again and telling her all about it.
"I have to admit, I'm starving. Why don't we conduct the interview over dinner?"
Her jaw dropped. "Dinner?"
"You do need to eat, right?" I teased, trying to make the invitation a little more lighthearted to take the look of terror out of her eyes.
She nodded slowly, as if she were unable to believe that she'd heard what she thought she had. Or that I had said it at all.
That made two of us.
"And you don't have plans for the Opening Ceremony?" I inquired, praying that she didn't.
"Nope. And you're not going?" she asked in surprise.
"Unfortunately no. Carlisle doesn't think it's a good idea of me to stay out too late with a race in the morning. But," I added before Bella could offer any objection to dinner, "I think walking a little and finding some food would be good for me. I've been cooped up here all day."
"Okay," she replied, still clearly a bit hesitant. "Would that be part of the interview then?"
"Of course," I offered generously, hoping that I could trust her and that I wouldn't kick myself later for agreeing. Besides, I intended to grill her twice as hard as she could question me. I wanted to know as much about her as I could. I was dying to gorge myself on her presence.
I got to my feet and she followed, a little awkwardly. She was one of the clumsiest creatures I'd ever seen, and yet, it wasn't a turn-off. Instead, I found it kind of ridiculously adorable.
"Shall we go then?" I asked with as much gentlemanly flair as I could, offering my arm to her.
One edge of her mouth turned up in a smile, and if I wasn't mistaken her hand trembled a bit as I took it.
As we left the room, I knew I'd officially gone off the deep end, and if Carlisle found out about this I was so screwed, but already, with Bella's presence, anything I'd suffer was totally worth it.