Day 8
“SO, OKAY,” Ginny was saying, “it says here that the world record in this event stands from two Olympics ago. Isaac Flood swam the breaststroke lap in that race.”
It was Saturday night, and although most of the divers had gone off to find parties after practice—well, except for the women competing in the springboard finals the next day—Ginny, Jason, and Tim had gotten tickets to the last night of swimming. The Aquatics Center was packed, likely with people there to see if Isaac would win his sixth gold medal. A bunch of other American athletes were there. A tennis star fresh off her gold medal in women’s singles was seated in the adjacent section of the stands, and Tim recognized a bunch of basketball players and part of the women’s soccer team.
Tim had spent the previous night with Isaac again. Isaac had been so high on adrenaline that he’d wanted to have sex as soon as they closed the door to his room, and Tim had accommodated him, stripping him naked and pushing him into bed, where they made out like teenagers for a while and then exchanged blow jobs. Isaac passed out mere seconds after he came and then slept the sleep of the dead for the rest of the night, but Tim was content to lie next to him, phasing in and out of sleep as the night went on. It gave him time to fantasize about the kind of life they could build together if they could make this work once they got back to the real world.
Because Tim was determined now to make something work.
But for now, he was going to cheer Isaac on to victory in his last race.
He looked around the stands while Ginny babbled. Almost everyone in their section wore Team USA T-shirts—a good half of them were swimmers; Tim recognized them from seeing them around in training all week—and a handful of people had handmade Here comes the Flood! signs.
“The lineup for this race,” Ginny said, looking at her phone, “is some kid named Dylan on backstroke—I guess he won bronze in the 100 backstroke a couple of days ago—Randy Manning on butterfly, Isaac on breast, and Luke Rogers on free. That’s pretty killer.”
“Yeah, I overheard someone say the Americans are favored to win, and everyone thinks it will be by a huge margin,” said Jason.
“Takes some of the suspense out of it,” said Ginny.
“It’s the Olympics, though. Tom Daley didn’t make the finals.”
Ginny hissed. “Tom Daley didn’t make the finals” had become their code for “expect the unexpected.” Because sometimes the best diver in the world could qualify in first place in the prelims and then have a bad day and not make it out of the semifinals.
Jason waved his hand. “The race is starting.”
The race started with the backstroke. The American, Dylan Raines according to the scoreboard, kept up with the pace of the leaders. The tricky thing with the IM relay was that each country put up their best racer for each stroke, so it went by fast. Dylan was going against the gold and silver medalists from the 100 backstroke race earlier in the week. He got to the exchange in fifth, but within two seconds of the top four swimmers. Randy Quinn had won a silver in the butterfly, but he was young and didn’t have the elite training of the other swimmers on the relay team. A lot of people hailed Randy as the next potential Michael Phelps, and he did look good in the water, pulling ahead of the third- and second-place swimmers, putting the US team in second place by the time he got to the exchange with Isaac.
Tim sat forward, anxious for Isaac.
“It’s on now,” shouted Ginny.
A well-rested but still well-conditioned Isaac was lethal. Tim knew Isaac was tired, that his muscles were probably sore, that Isaac had pushed himself hoping to make his body go beyond its limits. That was the thing with being an elite athlete; one was always pushing himself to go faster, be stronger, push harder.
And Isaac did here. The first-place team when Isaac dove into the water was the team from South Africa, but the swimmer on the breaststroke leg was clearly not as good as Isaac, and the lead they’d gained evaporated. Then Isaac pulled ahead. Then he kept pulling. The audience screamed and shouted for him. It felt for a moment like the whole world was behind Isaac, was pushing him forward. Likely Isaac couldn’t even hear them—he didn’t seem to be surfacing for breath often, if at all—but by the time he got to the exchange with Luke, he’d gained a substantial lead.
All Luke really had to do was maintain the lead. Instead, he increased it.
Tim’s eyes were riveted on Isaac, though, who had gotten out of the pool and stood on the sidelines, his breathing so hard, Tim could see his chest heave from thirty yards away. As Isaac’s breathing calmed, he got closer to the edge of the pool and started cheering for Luke with his teammates.
The Americans won by almost four seconds.
“That wasn’t even close!” said Jason while everyone in their section of the stands went crazy.
Dylan, Randy, and Isaac hugged each other, then helped Luke out of the water, then hugged Luke.
And there it was. Isaac Flood had won six gold medals and one bronze during these Games. Having gotten to know Isaac this week, Tim understood just how significant that was, in a way maybe not everyone did. He wanted to get close to Isaac, to hug and congratulate him, but knew it would impossible now. He’d hook up with Isaac that night, though. They’d have to have some celebratory sex.
Isaac got herded into an interview off to one side of the pool. When that was over, he ran over to the stands, where his mother stood against the railing. He reached up to touch her hand, but she reached through the railing and hugged him. The image was broadcast on the huge screen next to the scoreboard. Isaac’s mother cried as she hugged his head to her chest, something she could only do because the stands were elevated—she didn’t look like a tall woman.
Would Tim ever get to meet her? Did he mean enough to Isaac for that?
As Isaac pulled away from his mother, he started scanning the stands. He knew Tim was there; Tim had told him he planned to sneak into the race. Isaac found Tim and they made eye contact. Isaac smiled, waved to the crowd, and then ran back to grab his stuff from the pool.
“He looked at us,” Ginny said, sounding breathless.
“He looked at Tim,” said Jason.
Ginny turned to Tim. “So it’s, like, a real thing. You’re dating Isaac Flood.”
“Shh. But yes. Kind of. I guess. I don’t know. It could be one of those temporary event-specific romances that burns hard and fast. I’ll go back to Colorado after the Games and my old life will be waiting for me without Isaac.”
“No, I don’t think that’s how it’s going to go,” said Ginny.
“No?”
“Nope. It’s too good. You’ll show up for the next Olympics married and have to do those fluffy news pieces about your epic romance and it will be super adorable.”
“Doubtful,” said Tim, though he smiled and wished that would turn out to be the case. “In order for that to happen, I’d have to marry Isaac, who I’ve only known for, like, nine days, and I’d have to make the Olympic team four years from now, which who even knows if I’ll be able to do.” He spoke softly. The crowd around them jumped and cheered, so he didn’t think they’d be overheard, but he was hyperconscious of the fact that the wrong person would report what he said to the media.
“How old are you, Timmy?” asked Ginny.
“Twenty-four.”
“Well, I’m twenty-eight, and as the older and wiser of us, I can say that you, my dear, will most definitely be able to make the next Olympic team, barring injury. Knock on wood.” She looked around as if she were trying to find wood to knock on, but there were only the plastic benches of the stands, so she knocked on Jason’s head.
“Ow,” said Jason.
“Well, from your lips to God’s ears,” said Tim. “I mean, you realize he’s going to have to do a ton of press now, so I may not even get to see him much.”
“Like you haven’t been spending every night together,” said Jason.
Ginny grinned triumphantly.
Heat flooded Tim’s face. “Fine. Whatever, guys. Plan our wedding. But, again, Tom Daley didn’t make the finals.”
“Nah.” Ginny grinned and threw an arm around Tim. “It’s too perfect. It will work out.”