had spread for him so willingly, yet seemed to have a mind of their own. She reminded him of Vannie. Many of them did. Maybe that was why he was beginning to feel a touch angry at
vainglorious Victoria
.
“Want another go … on goal, so to speak?” Victoria had followed his gaze down and along her body. She reveled in the power she held over supposedly strong and powerful men. This one was different though. He was smarter than she’d expected him to be.
“I don’t think so. Maybe your
‘string’
has finally ended here,” he said, returning her dazzling smile.
“What’s the matter? No more arrows in our quiver? Are we fresh out of joy juice?”
Will fought down the rage, forcing himself to laugh.
“There’s a game tomorrow, a rather important game. Maybe you’ve heard? You say you read the papers, dear Vic.”
“And sweet Lambkins wants to get up for that, but not for me?”
“Don’t,” he said. He’d
warned
her at least.
“Don’t what?” she taunted him. “Tempt you?” She wet a finger with her tongue, and placed it between her legs. “If you can’t do it, I suppose I’ll have to do it myself. Now
here’s
a juicy picture for the tabloids.
Victoria does herself! Will not able?”
With a roar, Will was on her, all over her. Victoria
woofed
out air.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Oh God, that hurts. That
hurts
.” Victoria Lansdowne tried to push him off, but he pinned her hands to her sides. “Please, dear Jesus,
stop!
Please, please, I’m begging you, Will! Stop it. I’m serious, stop.”
But there was nothing that could stop the Blond Arrow.
CHAPTER 35
O N THE AFTERNOON of the World Cup final the heat soared to ninety-three degrees on the sugary, white sand beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema. For a while, it was a quiet day, a national holiday in celebration of the World Cup. Rich and poor alike rested, saving their energy for the most popular sporting event in the world.
Then, suddenly, day melted into swarming, jungle-hot night. All of Rio de Janeiro seemed to pour outdoors to witness, and participate in, the national game of “futebol.”
The wide avenues of the South American city became a raucous and dangerous carnival. Auto horns honked out
Bra-sil! Bra-sil!
Along the Avenida Brasil and Castello Branco, university students defiantly wrapped themselves in the national flag. All buses and taxis were decorated with bright-colored streamers. Women danced impromptu in the streets, blouses clinging to their breasts, skirts swirling like hoops.
By seven o’clock, the crowd had converged on Rio’s legendary Maracana Stadium, police letting no one in without a ticket, though hundreds eluded them and entered the stadium to find what sight lines they could.
Inside, a hundred thousand frenzied Cariocas, waving multicolored banners and placards proclaiming sports victory and social revolution, let out cheers in cadence with the rhythm of ten thousand samba drums, and
twice
that many boom boxes.
At the end of a rampway, standing with the rest of his team amid the deafening noise, Will
listened
.
He could hear his own heart beat against the walls of his chest. He could hear …
“Numero nueve … De America … Will … Shepherd!”
came from the loudspeaker.
There were drawn-out boos at the announcement, shouts of
palhaco
, “clown.” But even in Rio, there were cheers for Will Shepherd. Some in the crowd treasured artistry over partisanship, and Will’s achievements were art. A quartet of shirtless men ran out onto the field. Each had the numeral nine painted on his chest.
The cheers continued as Will raced onto the field, his fist held high above his flying blond curls. His head was filled with sound and images, fantasies and dreams. He could hardly breathe.
He felt The Thrill travel through every part of his body.
No one could stop him tonight.
He was going to make sports history in front of half the world. No one would ever forget him after this special night in
vainglorious Victoria
.
“Want another go … on goal, so to speak?” Victoria had followed his gaze down and along her body. She reveled in the power she held over supposedly strong and powerful men. This one was different though. He was smarter than she’d expected him to be.
“I don’t think so. Maybe your
‘string’
has finally ended here,” he said, returning her dazzling smile.
“What’s the matter? No more arrows in our quiver? Are we fresh out of joy juice?”
Will fought down the rage, forcing himself to laugh.
“There’s a game tomorrow, a rather important game. Maybe you’ve heard? You say you read the papers, dear Vic.”
“And sweet Lambkins wants to get up for that, but not for me?”
“Don’t,” he said. He’d
warned
her at least.
“Don’t what?” she taunted him. “Tempt you?” She wet a finger with her tongue, and placed it between her legs. “If you can’t do it, I suppose I’ll have to do it myself. Now
here’s
a juicy picture for the tabloids.
Victoria does herself! Will not able?”
With a roar, Will was on her, all over her. Victoria
woofed
out air.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Oh God, that hurts. That
hurts
.” Victoria Lansdowne tried to push him off, but he pinned her hands to her sides. “Please, dear Jesus,
stop!
Please, please, I’m begging you, Will! Stop it. I’m serious, stop.”
But there was nothing that could stop the Blond Arrow.
CHAPTER 35
O N THE AFTERNOON of the World Cup final the heat soared to ninety-three degrees on the sugary, white sand beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema. For a while, it was a quiet day, a national holiday in celebration of the World Cup. Rich and poor alike rested, saving their energy for the most popular sporting event in the world.
Then, suddenly, day melted into swarming, jungle-hot night. All of Rio de Janeiro seemed to pour outdoors to witness, and participate in, the national game of “futebol.”
The wide avenues of the South American city became a raucous and dangerous carnival. Auto horns honked out
Bra-sil! Bra-sil!
Along the Avenida Brasil and Castello Branco, university students defiantly wrapped themselves in the national flag. All buses and taxis were decorated with bright-colored streamers. Women danced impromptu in the streets, blouses clinging to their breasts, skirts swirling like hoops.
By seven o’clock, the crowd had converged on Rio’s legendary Maracana Stadium, police letting no one in without a ticket, though hundreds eluded them and entered the stadium to find what sight lines they could.
Inside, a hundred thousand frenzied Cariocas, waving multicolored banners and placards proclaiming sports victory and social revolution, let out cheers in cadence with the rhythm of ten thousand samba drums, and
twice
that many boom boxes.
At the end of a rampway, standing with the rest of his team amid the deafening noise, Will
listened
.
He could hear his own heart beat against the walls of his chest. He could hear …
“Numero nueve … De America … Will … Shepherd!”
came from the loudspeaker.
There were drawn-out boos at the announcement, shouts of
palhaco
, “clown.” But even in Rio, there were cheers for Will Shepherd. Some in the crowd treasured artistry over partisanship, and Will’s achievements were art. A quartet of shirtless men ran out onto the field. Each had the numeral nine painted on his chest.
The cheers continued as Will raced onto the field, his fist held high above his flying blond curls. His head was filled with sound and images, fantasies and dreams. He could hardly breathe.
He felt The Thrill travel through every part of his body.
No one could stop him tonight.
He was going to make sports history in front of half the world. No one would ever forget him after this special night in
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