Here Comes the Flood Page 10

  “Hi, guys!” Mindy said perkily, glancing back at the camera. “Congratulations. How does it feel?”

  She shoved her microphone at Isaac, so he said, “Great!” even though it took everything in him not to collapse.

  Thankfully, she moved on to Luke. “This is your third Olympics, Luke. You missed the gold medal four years ago by hundredths of a second. How does it feel to be back on top?”

  “Good, great!” said Luke, still panting.

  “Randy, this is your first Olympics. Now you’ve got a gold medal. And on a team with legends like Luke Rogers and, of course, Isaac Flood.”

  “I watched,” he panted, “the Olympics,” pant, pant, “when I was a kid.” Poor Randy really tried to draw in a breath, but he was also giddy enough to make that impossible. “I mean, I saw,” pant, pant, “Isaac’s first gold medal, you know? I was so inspired.” Wheeze, pant. “And now to be here with him?” Pant, pant. “Incredible!”

  Mindy turned to Conor. “When Isaac Flood won his first gold medal, you were four years old.”

  “Aw, don’t tell me that,” Isaac said.

  Conor laughed breathily. “Yeah. Crazy, right?”

  “Well, I have to kick it back to Nick and Dan in the booth. Thanks, guys! Congrats again!”

  Isaac and his teammates stumbled back to the warm-up pool. Isaac hopped in to swim a cool-down, but he just floated there for a few long minutes as Luke swam a lap and came back.

  “Are you dying now?” Luke asked.

  “Pretty much.”

  “That was an incredible thing you just did, by the way. I don’t think I could swim two final races in the same night.”

  “I’m pretty sure my muscles are melting.”

  “Come on, Flood. Do your laps, cool down your body, and try to keep upright when they put the big medals around your neck.”

  Isaac groaned.

  “You know what else this means, don’t you? Two gold medals in the same night?”

  Isaac did know. Prior to his arrival in Madrid, he’d been toxic. Going into the previous Olympics, there had been glossy media profiles, interviews on all the network shows, commercials, piles of endorsement deals. His face had been in nearly every Olympics promo spot the network had done.

  This year? Bupkes.

  Oh, he got the gear guaranteed to anyone who made Team USA, and he wasn’t alone among his teammates in not having endorsement deals or sponsorships.

  But he thought about that as he swam a slow lap in the warm-up pool, willing the burn in his body to fade. Phelps had still gotten endorsements for his last Olympics, and he’d had a DUI on his record too. But Isaac wasn’t Michael Phelps. He wasn’t as cute or charming. He wasn’t a leader like Phelps had been. Wasn’t really a team player. He’d cultivated a reputation for partying hard. The Bad Boy of Swimming, they’d called him, though he hardly thought he qualified as a bad boy. Aside from the DUI, he’d never gotten in trouble with the law. He didn’t have tattoos, save for the Olympics rings on his ass, something he’d done after his second Olympics, while drunk. At least no one could see that, since it was under his swimsuit. The media generally had treated Phelps well, like someone who made a mistake, but once it surfaced that Isaac had been a full-on alcoholic, it was over. Rather than partying, he’d wasted his peak years trying to drown himself in a bottle of vodka. He’d also somewhat famously taken home a one-night stand who had stolen one of his medals, although he’d gotten it back when she’d stupidly put it up on an online auction site. So maybe some of the bad press was deserved, although his mother often tried to tell him he’d gotten a bad break.

  But he’d just changed everything with less than a minute in a pool.

  When he climbed out of the pool, Adam and one of the other coaches were waiting for him.

  “How do you feel?” Adam asked.

  “Like I’m dying.” And Lord, he wanted a drink.

  “Here’s the deal. Medal ceremonies are in about fifteen minutes, so that’s how long you have to pull yourself together. Wear the warm-up suit with the red sleeves.”

  “I have a warm-up suit with red sleeves?”

  “It’s in your locker.”

  “Okay.”

  “We’ve gotten six media requests, but I imagine you’re wiped out now, so I’ve put them all off until tomorrow. But your first is the morning show at nine o’clock. You have to be there at least a half hour before that.”

  “Oy. That’s….” He glanced up at the clock. “Ten hours from now. And I still have to do a medal ceremony?”

  “Well, you have to stand on the podium to get your medals.”

  Isaac sighed. “All right.”

  “And be back here tomorrow at noon to do the 400 free prelims.”

  “Of course.”

  “Sheri will put together an itinerary for you.” Sheri was the assistant to USA Swimming. She generally handled logistics for the whole team.

  “All right.”

  Adam stared at Isaac for a moment; then he pulled Isaac into a hug. He slapped Isaac’s back a bunch of times. “You did good, kid.”

  “Thanks.”

  On the walk back to the locker room, he thought of Tim. Most likely he wouldn’t ever be able to cross the threshold of this locker room again without thinking of Tim. And he wanted Tim here. He wanted Tim in his arms. He wanted someone to share this with. The sentiment didn’t quite cancel out his desire for a drink, but it was still strong. On the other hand, he’d won not just one gold medal, but two, and he intended to make good on their agreement. As soon as his limbs started working like they were supposed to again.

  He found his locker, next to Luke’s, and got it open. A warm-up suit with red sleeves did indeed hang from the bar in the middle.

  “Good Lord,” Isaac said.

  Luke slapped his back. “Welcome to the rest of your life, Flood.”

  TIM WAS dozing when his phone beeping startled him awake. He glanced at it.

  Text from Isaac: Twice.

  A moment later Isaac sent a photo, a shirtless selfie with two gold medals hanging from his neck.

  “Oh my God,” Tim said aloud.

  He’d seen the individual medley, but then he’d gone back to his room to lie down for a little while, tired and irritated by the other guys crowding around the TV in the lounge. He’d completely forgotten that Isaac was scheduled to swim in the relay.

  Do you plan to celebrate tonight? Tim texted.

  A long delay passed before Isaac texted back. The guys from the relay team are. I should for team unity. Then I gotta rest because I have more races tomorrow.

  Tim found that disappointing, but then, he’d also been hoping Isaac would want to spend the night with Tim to celebrate.

  Miss you, Tim texted. Then he regretted it, because of all the needy, clingy things to say….

  But Isaac texted back a smile emoji. Then he said, Come to my room tonight. 308. I’ll text you when I get there.

  Tim grinned at his phone. Wouldn’t miss it for anything.

  Tim hauled himself out of bed and into the shower, wondering idly where Jason had gotten to. Probably hooking up with whoever had caught his fancy this evening. Their first event was the next day, but Tim had already decided spending the night with Isaac was more important than sleep, so he’d be a hypocrite if he called out Jason for doing the same. He’d track Jason down in the morning.

  About twenty minutes after Tim got out of the shower, he got the text from Isaac summoning him to room 308. It was one floor down from Tim’s room; the American delegation took an entire building in the college-dorms-on-steroids complex that made up the Athlete Village. The whole building was an explosion of stars and stripes, the bland white walls of the hallways festooned with flags and posters, and more flags hanging over the balconies attached to each of the suites.

  Tim took the stairs, which meant he passed two track runners who seemed to be running drills up and down the steps for fun.

  He got to Isaac’s room and knocked. Isaac opene
d the door and practically yanked him in. Then Tim found himself crushed against the closed door and kissed within an inch of his life.

  When Isaac finally eased off, Tim said, “Why, hello.”

  Isaac smiled. “Hi.”

  “Um, congratulations?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Two medals, huh? So you’re an overachiever.”

  “Two gold medals. You said I only had to win one gold medal.”

  “So I did. But you’re probably tired.”

  Tim had meant it sarcastically, but Isaac nodded. “I can barely move.”

  “Oh,” said Tim.

  “Believe me. If I thought I could muster enough energy to fuck you senseless, I’d be doing it right now. But I have to be up again in….” Isaac looked at his phone. “Six hours, Jesus.”

  “Practice?”

  “Morning television.”

  Tim laughed. “Really?”

  “Everyone wants to interview me. ‘Swimming’s bad boy wins two gold medals.’ That’s an actual headline.”

  “You’re a bad boy?”

  Isaac shrugged. His face sobered, and he added, “I really wanted to see you tonight, though. Is that strange?”

  “No. Not at all. I watched your first race. I wish I’d been there at the Aquatics Center to celebrate with you.”

  Isaac smiled. “I wish you’d been there too.”

  “Good thing we’re here together now.”

  “Yeah. I’m very glad you came down here. But is it okay if we just sleep?”

  Tim could the exhaustion in Isaac’s eyes. And it was only Day 2. “Yeah, we can sleep.”

  “You’ll recall that the agreement was not that we’d have sex immediately, but that winning a gold medal allowed me to dictate when and where. So, basically, not tonight, but as soon as my arms stop feeling like spaghetti noodles, it’s on.”

  Tim smiled and put his hands on Isaac’s shoulders. “Reasonable.”

  Isaac grinned. “Glad you think so.”

  Chapter 10

  Day 3

  IT HAD been a while since Isaac had done the interview circuit. A couple of years of being persona non grata would do that. Sheri came with him to the Olympic Broadcast Center. The drive over was lovely—the car took them through the Salamanca district, and Isaac realized he was seeing more of Madrid than he’d seen since the bus ride from the airport.

  Madrid had many sports venues peppered throughout the city, so some of the Olympic events were being staged miles away from each other. The car passed by the WiZink Center, or the Palacio de Deportes, as everyone called it, which the signage out front indicated was the home of Olympic Basketball. In a lot of ways, this section of Madrid could have been any European city Isaac had been to—London, Dublin, Paris, Berlin—but it also had some interesting architectural flourishes, from the curved balconies overlooking the street to the church-like towers atop many of the buildings. Isaac didn’t really have the vocabulary to describe it all, but he liked it and thought it was pretty. If only he had a camera.

  He could have turned on his phone, but since last night’s medal ceremony, every time he had, it buzzed nonstop with text messages, voicemails, and social media alerts. Isaac appreciated the outpouring of love, but it was too much to deal with right now.

  “They set up the broadcast center in an office building off El Retiro Park,” Sheri said. “The park is gorgeous, by the way. Sort of like Central Park in New York.”

  “Okay.”

  “You should walk around a little after the interview.”

  “I have to get back. I have a prelim race early this afternoon.”

  “Right, right. Next week, then, after the swimming is over. If you need a ride anywhere, let me know. Cab fare is on USA Swimming.”

  “I may take you up on that. I’ve never been to Madrid before.” Although he wondered if she’d even offer if he didn’t have those two gold medals currently hanging around his neck, tucked under his official USA windbreaker, because after a couple of years of living in a shitty apartment in a shitty neighborhood in Raleigh, he was in the habit of not conspicuously displaying anything someone might want to steal.

  There were some people, sports fans maybe, lingering outside the broadcast center, some of whom had posters and signs. One of the posters read Here comes the Flood! so Isaac supposed they had heard about his imminent arrival. Then it became clear all of the fans were there for him.

  “Holy shit,” he said.

  “Flood! Isaac! Can you sign?”

  He signed some of the things that were thrust at him, including the Here comes the Flood! sign, a couple of old T-shirts, and a few posters that showed his body, and then Sheri herded him inside.

  All of the nations broadcasting from Madrid had different studios set up throughout the building, including the American network, up on the sixteenth floor. A PA led Isaac and Sheri into a greenroom, where a sumptuous feast was laid out. It looked especially amazing because he had only had a yogurt for breakfast, and his stomach rumbled now. Earlier it had seemed more important to stay in bed, curled around Tim, than to get up. So he’d had to grab whatever was available from the snack bar in the lobby of his dorm building.

  Tim had looked so sleepy and happy that morning. His face was angelic in the early morning light. When Isaac’s alarm had gone off, he’d lifted his head, smiled at Isaac, and then gone back to sleep. His body was soft and warm and fit nicely against Isaac’s, so Isaac had been reluctant to leave. He’d gotten out of the building and met Sheri and her car just in the nick of time.

  And, well, maybe it was time to admit that he was falling for Tim.

  But that didn’t matter now, because he had to talk about gold medals with the perky blond reporter who anchored the network’s morning show.

  Sheri sat with him on a mustard-colored sofa while they waited for his name to be called. She said, “You nervous?”

  “A little,” Isaac said. He wasn’t “the race is about to start” nervous, but he was concerned he’d get tongue-tied or say something stupid.

  “Just answer the questions. They’ve been briefed that they’re not to ask about your past. This should be a breeze.”

  Well, there it was. On the one hand, Isaac didn’t need his dirty laundry aired, but on the other, his alcoholism was a key part of his identity now. It should have been a part of this story, but maybe it was better not to rock the boat. The USOC and the American media wanted to keep a glossy sheen on everything, allowing nothing controversial or scandalous to grace their airwaves. He’d read that officials from the World Anti-Doping Agency had been invited to ensure there was no cheating, which struck Isaac as a lot of theater and not actually an effective way to rid competitive sports of performance-enhancing drugs. But he could play along and give a few platitudes, keep it simple and shallow, and keep the turmoil to himself, even if talking about it might help someone watching on TV. Still, talking about this with anyone made Isaac feel naked, like that cop was pulling him out of his car while he was drunk all over again. God, he hated this whole thing.

  He nodded to Sheri.

  Another PA escorted him onto the set a few minutes later. A monitor in the corner indicated the network was currently airing commercials, so Isaac had a minute to sit and settle on the overstuffed white leather sofa. A large coffee table loomed in front of him. A coffee cup with the network’s logo on it sat on a coaster. It seemed to hold water, but Isaac would have killed for a hot, black cup of coffee. Maybe they had some in the greenroom that he could make off with.

  He shook off his craving and refocused on what he had to do now. The anchor walked over and settled into an armchair perpendicular to the sofa. “You ready?” she said.

  “I guess so.”

  “These are easy questions. Don’t sweat it. Okay?”

  “Let’s do this.”

  Green lights indicated the network came back on the air, and the anchor, who seemed to assume Isaac knew who she was since she didn’t introduce herself, said, “W
elcome back. I’m here now with American swimmer Isaac Flood, who has overcome a great number of obstacles to win two gold medals at last night’s swimming finals. One was in the 400-meter individual medley, and the second was as anchor on the four-by-one-hundred freestyle relay. Good morning, Isaac.”

  “Good morning.”

  “You get any sleep last night?”

  “Some. I have to race again this afternoon. I celebrated with the boys a little, but then I went to bed.”

  “You’re swimming a pretty intense program at these Games. How are you feeling after the weekend?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “It must have been hard to swim that second race so soon after the first.”

  “Honestly? I had so much adrenaline from the first race that it carried over to the second. I felt great during that second swim. Not so great after it, though. Still, I got a good night’s sleep, so I’m ready to get in the pool again.”

  “I bet your coach is happy to hear that. Adam Vreeland is one of three lead coaches for Team USA. He’s gained a reputation for training Olympians. You’ve been working with him since you were little, yeah?”

  “Yes, I started taking lessons with him when I was six.”

  “So you’ve been working toward this for decades, essentially.”

  “Yeah, I….” Isaac hesitated, not sure how much he should say. He thought he should be honest, but he didn’t want to piss off anyone who might be watching. USA Swimming had his back, but would potential sponsors? Because as much as it seemed to cheapen the experience, endorsements and sponsorship were the best way to ensure he had a source of income for the foreseeable future. “I’ve been working at this for a long time.”

  “This is your fourth Olympics. Does it feel any different this time?”

  “You know, it does a little. I’ll be honest, I coasted on a lot of success into the last Olympics. This time it feels more like a challenge. I’ve been out of the circuit for a while. I don’t know my competitors the way I used to. There are a lot of young guys coming up who are amazing. Strong swimmers, fast swimmers.” He let out a breath. “When everyone’s calling you the favorite, there’s a different kind of pressure.”