Hooray, We’re at the Olympic Games

The sound of the wind and the cries of seagulls from the nearby sea were drowned out by the loud roar of the crowd gathered along the perimeter of the beach court. Photographers were snapping shutters, cameramen turning their lenses, spectators shouting names, clapping, whistling.

— Liz, come on, not again! Smile already! — Emmy’s voice, the girl wearing number 13 in tight purple shorts, came from right behind her ear. — We’re already in the semifinals, maybe stop being such a grump?

Liz, number 33 in blue shorts that felt especially tight today, emphasizing every curve, bit her lower lip and looked away.

— Are you serious? — she hissed, throwing a half-glance at Emmy. — They’re literally making us shake our asses in front of the cameras instead of actually playing sports!

— Well yeah, — Emmy giggled, winking at one of the photographers, — that’s the fun part.

Liz lowered her head, feeling her cheeks flare up as her fingers clenched into fists on their own. Emmy, as always, knew how to be relaxed, effortless. And Liz… Liz still felt like Liam inside — or rather, like someone who once was Liam.

— Fun? — she muttered through her teeth. — What is this, an ass championship?

Emmy laughed, took half a step closer and whispered in her ear, so close Liz could feel her hot breath on her skin.

— You’ve got a great ass, Liz, and it’s part of your career.

Her heart thumped heavily in her chest, and Liz flinched instinctively, her hands sliding down her sides, fingers almost brushing the firm, round cheek squeezed into the tight blue fabric. It all looked provocative, but this was just the standard team uniform for beach volleyball girls. And while during the match she tried to focus on the game, the "before" and "after" were the opposite — her appearance became the main thing, like she wasn’t an athlete, but a stripper at a bar.

Half a year ago, she was Liam Brock. A coach, a former semi-pro football player, a man with a short fuse and a broken dream. That very night, after a bottle of whiskey and a string of losses, he made a wish: "If only I could start over. I just wanna be the best athlete. On top. I’d give anything for another shot!"

And the next morning, he woke up… not in his bed, and not in his body.

Now her name was Liz Wells, rising star of beach volleyball. Years of "training," fake achievements, childhood photos, friends. The parents were the same, but it was like they’d had her later — and no one questioned this version of reality. Not a single person remembered Liam, and he was gone like he’d never existed.

— Hey! — Emmy snapped her fingers in front of her face. — Don’t zone out. Liz Wells, number 33, the main star and hope of all American beach volleyball! The girls say you might even be the youngest captain next year!

— Yeah, — Liz muttered, trying to force some kind of smile, but it came out stiff and fake.

— Listen, — Emmy leaned forward slightly, her breasts in the top marked with number 13 pushing up a bit — as casual as ever, like her body was just begging for a magazine cover. — I don’t know what happened to you these past six months, but… you used to be so different. Always out front, first in every photo shoot, loved the attention.

But Liz was saved from answering by the coach who walked up to them.

Both girls turned. Cole, a solid man with a tanned face and a goatee, was looking at them with a hint of irritation on his face.

— In five minutes — official semifinalist photo shoot. No drama, please. Smiles, cheerfulness, you're the face of the team, got it?

— Are you fucking serious? Are we athletes or what? — Liz snapped, turning to Cole. Her chest was burning, but her voice came out not angry — almost hurt.

Cole squinted, held her gaze for a second, then deliberately let his eyes drop lower — to where the blue shorts dug into her hips, outlining every curve. His lips curled into a barely noticeable smirk.

— We’re athletes, Liz, — he said slowly, — but we’re also a show. An Olympic one. On TV. Commercial. So smile, strike a nice pose, show off what you’ve got. Or do you wanna warm the bench? I don’t care that you’re our “star.”

— Are you... fucking serious right now? — Liz leaned forward, feeling the fury boil up inside, but held it back. — I busted my ass training. Not to shake it in front of cameras like some store mannequin.

Cole didn’t reply right away. He just nodded slightly, like he’d heard her — and didn’t give a damn. He turned and tossed over his shoulder:

— Don’t wanna be part of the show — don’t be. We’ve got plenty of girls ready to take your place. Think about it, Liz.

And he walked off.

— Prick, — she muttered, and just then she felt the fabric of her uniform ride up even tighter between her butt cheeks. She lowered her hands, tugged at the fabric to pull it out of her ass — and heard a camera click behind her.

Liz froze, pupils narrowing. She slowly turned and saw one of the NBC photographers — tall, wearing glasses, with a smug smile. He had already taken the shot, and when he saw her glare, he gave her a nod of approval and showed her the screen — a photo of her in an awkward pose, yanking the fabric from between her legs.

— Delete. That. Now, — Liz hissed, teeth clenched.

— Oh, what is it, let me see! — Emmy chimed in suddenly, leaning over his shoulder at that exact moment. Her voice was bright, almost cheerful, like they were talking about cupcakes — not a picture of Liz pulling wedged-up shorts out of her ass. — Wow! I want one like that too. So sexy!

— Are you kidding me? — Liz spun toward her, her face burning. — That’s… that’s humiliating, not “sexy”!

— Oh, stop it, — Emmy playfully tugged on her ponytail. — You look amazing. Those hips, that curve, the way you’re pulling the fabric, the angle. If I were you, I’d have already posted it on Insta. Too bad you made him delete it! Then again, it actually made you even more interesting. I wish I were the one the paparazzi drooled over like that...

— Don’t remind me, Em! I just managed to forget all that horror...

— Ha! — Emmy poked her in the side, making Liz flinch as her tits bounced slightly in the tight top. — What horror, babe? You’re a star. People are going nuts over your pics, especially since you got all “closed-off” and grumpy. Just yesterday my boyfriend sends me: “Look, it’s your buddy Liz! Great technique” — and attaches a photo of you mid-jump. Yeah, technique, haha, you can see everything in that pic. I almost got jealous!

— Seriously?.. — Liz winced, but something twisted inside her. Even when she played, because of that damn outfit and the way she looked, most people saw just that in her.

— Yeah, seriously! — Emmy turned, leaned slightly forward, and at that moment her ass in the tight purple uniform was practically right in Liz’s face. — Sometimes I think this whole “I’m a brooding mysterious bitch” act of yours is just a genius move to grab even more attention. Good job, if that’s what it is!

She turned around and, without asking, gave Liz a light smack on the ass. The slap was loud, solid — and followed instantly by another click from a camera.

— EMMY! — Liz spun around, eyes wide, mouth open. — Are you out of your mind?! They’re filming us!

— Exactly! — Emmy giggled. — Let them film! Do you know what you just did? You just gave the young generation an unforgettable night with their long instrument in one hand and imagination on full blast! — she finished with the same light, playful tone, as if talking about lollipops instead of horny teenagers.

— Emmy... — Liz almost groaned in shame, her face burning brighter than her number on the top.

Emmy didn’t say a word, just leaned her shoulder against Liz, smiling at the cameras and striking another pose. Liz clenched her teeth. Inside, she was crawling.

— Fucking wish... I used to be a man, for fuck’s sake — she muttered under her breath, not out loud, of course. — I wasn’t supposed to go through all this shit... I just wanted to be an athlete...

— What are you mumbling about? — Emmy turned to her and suddenly grabbed her wrist. — Come on. Enough whining. We’ve got a photo shoot. Let’s show them how stars can shine even through their shorts.

— You’re unbearable, — Liz hissed, but didn’t resist as Emmy pulled her toward the platform in front of the huge Olympic banner.

— Watch and learn while I’m still alive, — Emmy laughed, swaying her hips slightly, each move just exaggerated enough to look seductively playful.