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, “Welcome 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.”
“So you feel less pressure now?”
“It’s a completely different kind of pressure. I’m trying to prove something to myself. That I can still do this, you know? I worked really hard to get back into competitive form, and I feel great, better than I have in a long time. So, basically, I want to show that my career’s not over.”
“I’d say you achieved that. Two gold medals.”
“There’s still a lot of swimming left.”
“And we wish you the best of luck, Isaac. Next up, Doug and I will be cooking up some authentic Spanish dishes. Stay with us for complete Olympics coverage here in Madrid.”
“And we’re at commercials,” said the director.
Isaac nodded and stood, anxious to get out of there. Then a male reporter jogged over. Isaac recognized him as one of the other morning show hosts. “Listen,” the reporter said. Again, he didn’t introduce himself, probably assuming Isaac would know his name, but Isaac was terrible at names. “I’d like to do a more in-depth interview with you. Hopefully we can make time for it before the end of swimming so we can air it as a lead-in. I’d wanted to do the story before the Olympics, but the network vetoed it because they thought you’d crash and burn here.”
And because they were off the air, Isaac said, “I’m only a human-interest story if I win medals, huh?”
The reporter shrugged. “The network controls the narrative going into the Games. You’ve been around long enough to know that. We’re limited to doing a set number of these packages and can only do them for athletes we think will win.”
“Thanks for your faith in me.”
“Hey, I thought you’d do well. This is exactly the kind of story viewers love. You hit rock bottom and then climb back up to win gold? That’s an amazing story.”
“So if we do this, do you want to talk about all of it? The alcoholism, the DUI, rehab, the whole thing.”
“We can discuss that. The important part of the story is really you making a big comeback.”
Did Isaac want to talk about it on national television? Would discussing it work out for him in the long run? “Can I think about it?”
“Sure. Here’s my number.” The reporter handed over a card. Marcus Holt. “Call or text me and we’ll set up a time.”
“All right.”
Isaac pocketed the card and then a PA maneuvered him back to the green room. He poured himself a cup of coffee while Sheri clucked about how great the interview was. Then she said, “We gotta get you back. You have your stuff to go straight to the pool?”
“Yeah, my bag is in the car, remember?”
“Oh, right. Yes. I’ll have Raul take us straight to the Aquatics Center.”
Isaac pilfered an apple but didn’t have time to add milk to his coffee before Sheri led him back out of the network’s offices. But coffee was coffee, and he needed the caffeine fix more than he needed to dull the harsh taste of coffee brewed in a three-gallon urn.
On the ride back, Isaac said, “Marcus Holt wants to interview me.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Sheri’s whole face lit up. “That would be great for you.”
“Well, he wants to do an interview that talks about my comeback, so I’d have to get into everything. I’d have to talk about the DUI and rehab.”
“Oh. What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I brought it up. I can’t tell if it’s a good idea.”
Sheri tilted her head and appeared to think about it. “I don’t think it is. I mean, do you really want to air all that? The US Olympic team has already gotten its share of negative press. Like that gay diver who was dating the actor? You don’t want that kind of attention, do you?”
It looked like now was not the time to let Sheri know he’d spent the night with that gay diver. Even if they’d only slept in each other’s arms, and nothing else. “No, I guess not.”
“I mean, I can’t tell you what to do, but my recommendation would be to keep your head down and swim. Forget about the interview. You don’t need that kind of press.”
Some rebellious part of Isaac that bucked at people telling him when to shut up made him want to do the interview, but he said, “Okay. That makes sense.”
A FEW quick text messages led to Tim tracking down Jason. They met at the cafeteria for breakfast.
“Sorry for not coming back last night,” Jason said sheepishly as they sat down with their trays. Tim had opted for a vegetarian egg white omelet that looked delicious. Jason had a plate full of what looked like a variety of breakfast meats on top of a burrito.
“It’s okay,” Tim said. “I’m not your parent.”
“I ran into Becky Lowood last night. She’s that UK diver? The one who won the bronze at Worlds last year?”
“I know who she is, yeah.”
“Anyway, she came by the lounge after you went to bed. She’s good friends with Ginny and Kayla. So we got to talking. And then we kept talking… in her room. I mean, nothing really happened. We made out a little bit. But we didn’t, like, go all the way.”
Tim smiled. He found Jason’s little moments of immaturity charming. “It’s okay, Jason. I ended up going to see Isaac after he got back from celebrating his gold medals.”
“Isaac? Flood?”
“We’ve been hanging out. We’re friends.”
Jason tilted his head. “Friends or friends?”
“Unclear.” When Jason raised his eyebrows, Tim added, “I don’t know how public this is, so don’t go spreading it around, but he’s bisexual. I kind of thought something would happen last night, but he was too tired. Which is fine. Besides, it’s probably not a good idea to get involved with someone on the night before I have to dive.”
“I guess. You like him?”
“Yeah. I like him a lot. But don’t… I mean, I’m telling you this as a friend. Don’t tell anyone. Isaac and I have been hanging out and texting and we like each other, but I don’t really see it going anywhere. We live on opposite sides of the country.”
Jason grinned. “Who cares? It’s the Olympics, right? Everyone here has the dating apps on their phones turned on and is hooking up with everybody else. Ginny said the rhythmic gymnasts down the hall from her have been having a grand old time with a few of the guys from the Ukrainian rowing team.”
“Ha. Isn’t Ukraine one of our gymnastics rivals?”
“Isn’t the Olympics all about peace and love?”
Tim grinned. “I don’t know about all that.”
“It’s cool that Isaac won two races, though. How does he feel?”
“He’s doing well. He went to the broadcast center to do an interview this morning.”
“God, that’s so cool. Do you think we’ll be on TV if we win a medal? I mean, beyond the event broadcast.”
Tim had been all over the network’s programming four years ago, and he’d already filmed a package about his career heading into this Olympics. So he’d be on TV plenty, which meant Jason likely would too. “Yeah, probably.”
“My dad couldn’t fly down here because of work, so I hope he can watch.”
Tim nodded. “My parents are staying at the same hotel as most of the press. They keep running into reporters and, like, the retired Olympians who are here to do puff pieces on the news.”
“That’s amazing.”
Tim shrugged. It was amazing, but he’d gotten his fill of the press. “You feel ready for today?”
“Oh, yeah. I feel loose. Our practice dives this week have been pretty solid, yeah?”
“We’re good, yeah. I feel pretty confident. The trick, though, is to stay loose and calm. If you get nervous, you’ll tighten up and make mistakes. Maybe you don’t think you’ll be nervous, but I can tell you from experience that the pressure of competition? With all the people watching from the stands and the cameras and the Olympic logo everywhere? It can get to you.”
“I’ve got my headphones in my bag.”
“Good. And remember to jump up, not out, off the platform so we sync up better, like we practiced the other day.”
“Of course. I got it, Timmy. We got this.”
Tim appreciated Jason’s confidence. “Yeah. I think maybe we do.”