Chapter 33

A week after his return, Michael pressed his forehead against the cool glazing of his bedroom window. He stared past his reflection to the lights of Vancouver Harbor that marked shipping lanes in and out of the Pacific. There were city lights, too. Lights that marked out other people’s homes, other people’s lives. Car tails flashing red in the streets below or beaming their way across dark mountain roads in the far, far distance.

He couldn’t sleep.

It was the same every night.

Pushing away from the window, Michael walked past the black gym bag he’d dumped at the foot of his bed when he’d finally been allowed to come home and lock the doors. He hadn’t touched it since.

He could barely remember the press conference. He’d answered questions just like he’d been briefed by Howie and his father, keeping the so-called facts of his “rehab” in Australia to a minimum.

“How do you feel now, Michael?” one reporter had asked. “You look well.” He’d looked up and recognized the journalist straight away, one of the few female sports writers he’d encountered in his career. “Any news of a comeback for the next Olympics?”

An actual question about his sport. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been asked one, and his reply had been the only truthful answer he’d uttered throughout the entire press conference. A simple, “It’s not very likely.”

He hadn’t trained seriously for nearly a year and a half, and as he pulled fresh workout clothes from a drawer, he knew a comeback at his age, with his shoulder, would be too grueling. He’d said goodbye to that part of his life for a reason, not that anyone believed him.

Michael made his way to the residence-only gym and pool two floors below his apartment, grateful that at this time, before daybreak, he’d have the place to himself for at least a couple of hours. It was his new routine. Wake in the small hours, stare foolishly out of his bedroom window, then work out. He’d swim a couple hundred lengths, sometimes more, then hit the weights.

Afterward, he ate muesli at his kitchen counter, showered, dressed and walked around Stanley Park, trying to figure out what he wanted out of life other than to be left alone.

Hair still damp from his shower, Michael zipped up his jacket against the fresh early morning air. Thankfully, the new concierge had given him the access code for the staff entrance to the back of the building, so now he had a way of avoiding the paparazzi who loitered out front. He knew what they were waiting for. The first pictures of Michael and Saskia back together again, holding hands on their way to grab an early morning coffee, preferably with tussled bed hair.

Howie and Nadia were negotiating plans for the grand Michael and Saskia reunion. The executives at Strive Sportswear were also waiting for their key stars to announce they were back together, especially since Michael had saved a woman’s life. He’d become the real-life hero they’d been looking for.

But Michael wasn’t interested. He was still ignoring calls, and since the press conference, he’d only spoken to Howie a handful of times, usually when he turned up unannounced at the apartment.

“Okay, Mikey,” he’d said the last time he’d stood at his door. “We’ll give you a few more days to kick the jet lag and get your brain into gear.”

Michael strode through Stanley Park now keeping to a brisk pace until he reached the water’s edge, his thick hoodie zipped up to his chin. He buried his nose in its warmth as a cool wind picked up through the bay. Those few more days would soon be up, but what would Howie do if Michael continued to ignore his calls and remain disengaged with the world?

The rumors of mental instability were still going strong. Perhaps Howie would begin to believe them? Perhaps his father would too.

“Michael Adams?”

Michael shifted his gaze from the water and wearily looked at the man who’d just spoken his name. He was dressed in jeans and a red puffer jacket, and wasn’t holding a notebook or a phone, not that that meant anything. It took Michael a few seconds to realize the man had extended a hand. Reluctantly, Michael got his out from his pocket and shook.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a reporter,” the man said, reading his wary look. “I saw you win gold in London.”

Michael nodded. Right. A fan. He tried to smile. “That was a good year for Canada.”

“You cost me twenty dollars in a bet with my brother.”

Great. Small talk. “If I’d known, I would have aimed for silver.”

There was an awkward silence.

“You must be sick of all this.” The man’s grin turned sheepish. Apologetic. “But would you mind if I took a photo? I’m just on my way to see my brother, and I know he’s gonna get a real kick out of this.”

“Sure.”

The man held up his phone, selfie-style. “This will make his day.” He took the photo then held out his hand again. “Thanks.”

And because they’d both stepped away in the same direction, they hovered next to each other for a few awkward paces.

“I come here most mornings on the way to see Tom, my brother,” the man was saying. “I saw you yesterday but didn’t have the balls to stop you.”

Michael looked away as the man talked, not wanting to prolong this interaction.

“You always look so deep in thought,” the man continued regardless. “I—” He broke off, chuckling. “We cracked up when you posted those things about Saskia. You don’t often hear such honesty.”

Honesty. Michael winced. But the man kept on talking.

“I heard about you rescuing that woman in Australia. If you ever need help in the water, I guess you can’t get much better than an Olympic swimmer, eh?”

This time, Michael didn’t even try to smile. He didn’t want to think about that day. It only brought to mind Evie’s face. The horror, hurt and disbelief in her eyes. They reached a crossroads in the park’s pathways.

The man stopped. “Tom’s at the hospital, so I go this way. He’s having his last chemo treatment today.”

Michael blinked. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope he’s okay.”

“He will be when he sees this.” The man tapped his coat pocket where he’d stowed his phone. “This will really make his day.”

Seriously? But all Michael Adams did was swim and model swimwear. What had he really contributed to society? “I can come with you if you want. If it’ll help cheer up your brother.” The words tumbled out of his mouth.

The man’s jaw fell open. “Are you kidding me?” He whooped. “He’d go frickin’ nuts.”

There had been adventures in traveling. Impromptu trips down dirt tracks, casual encounters on the highway, and loosely made let’s-see-where-this-takes-us plans. Michael strode down the corridor of St. Christopher’s as if he was still on the trail, taking a random path to see where it led.

But he missed Evie. She wasn’t next to him anymore, sharing the ride. Instead, he was striding side by side with the man he’d met in the park. His name was Ryan, and he wasn’t doing as good a job as Michael in ignoring the people who whispered and stared. I know, right? His gaping mouth seemed to say. Michael Adams. With me. Here!

“Tom! Look who I made friends with,” Ryan said the second he stepped into his brother’s room.

The man in the bed, Tom, had patchy hair and a tube injected into the vein of his left arm, which was attached to a bag full of an alarmingly bright and toxic-looking liquid. He looked up at his brother, then at Michael. Then back to his brother. “Shut up.”

Michael grinned and held out his hand. “I heard I won you twenty bucks.”

Tom shook Michael’s hand. “I always did back the winners.”

Ryan stepped closer. “How you feeling, bro?”

“Shit, thanks. You?”

“I got some stuff going on.” Ryan turned to Michael. “As you can see, my brother isn’t a morning person.”

A heavy silence filled the room and Michael sensed the horrific tension of a life hanging in the balance. Fuck. What the hell was he doing here? He regretted his decision to come but couldn’t leave now. This was real. He pulled a chair over from the corner of the room, and with no clue what to do next, found himself wondering what Evie would do if she were here. Evie with her easy chatter and her easy, friendly ways.

Michael leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs. “What’s the first thing you’re gonna do when you get out of here, Tom?”

Tom didn’t need time to think about his answer. “I’m gonna get fit, get healthy, and I’m gonna live.”

That night, when Michael was back in his apartment, his father called on the landline. This time Michael picked up.

“Your hospital visit is all over social media,” Bobby began. Michael hadn’t bothered to look at his phone since yesterday, but he’d been expecting something along these lines. “Howie tells me his phone hasn’t stopped ringing all day with requests for benefits and appearances. Clever stunt.”

It hadn’t been a stunt but whatever. “Is there something you wanted, Dad?”

“Yeah, now that you ask, there is. I want to know when you’re going to start pulling yourself together. You’ve still not signed the new Strive deal. Saskia’s still threatening defamation so why lose everyone a lot of money when we can earn it? Michael, are you listening to me?”

No, he wasn’t. He was staring out of his apartment window thinking about Tom’s words. I’m gonna live.

The silence between him and his father drew out until eventually his father sighed. “Mikey, are you okay?”

Michael came to. Something in his father’s voice bringing back memories of that last night in Australia when he’d had the weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want his father’s compassion. He didn’t want his pity, or his sympathy.

But it seemed his father was going to give it to him anyway.

“I haven’t seen you this vacant since your mother—”

“Leave it, Dad.”

There was a pause. “That British—”

“I said leave it. Look, Dad, I’m still jet lagged and could do with getting some sleep.”

“Yeah, buddy. Sleep it off, and in the morning, everything will be awesome, bright and rosy again.” There was another pause, dripping with his father’s sarcasm. “I called to say get your act together. Enough’s enough, Mikey. You’ve got commitments to fulfill. You’ve got obligations.”

“You gonna tell me to stop dicking around again?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yes.” But then his father’s voice softened, as if the memory of that particular talking to had brought back regrets. “Give me a break, Mikey. You became a champion. It’s time to start acting like one again.”

The next day, Michael woke before sunrise and stared out of the window. He swam and pushed weights. Ate muesli, showered and dressed.

And then he drove out to West Point Grey.

Howie’s wife, Diane, opened the door and hugged him the second she’d registered who was standing in her doorway. She showed Michael into Howie’s office, the smell of leather and waxed wood striking him as it always did the moment he stepped inside.

“You take care now, Michael,” she said. “I’ve warned Howie to go easy.” She reached up to kiss him on the cheek. “Come for dinner once you’re settled again.”

“Thanks.” But Michael knew he’d never take her up on the invitation. When Diane shut the door behind her, he crossed the floor and stood by Howie’s desk. “So I’m here.”

“So you are. Take a seat.”

Michael had been twenty-one when he’d first sat in this office. It looked different back then. The floor had been tiled, the walls painted white, and the chairs made of beige fabric rather than this soft brown leather.

He’d had his first Olympics under his belt then. His first handful of gold medals, and his first sponsorship deal. An insurance company specializing in policies for young drivers. It hadn’t made him a household name, but it had gone a long way to paying his coaching and competition expenses.

“Saskia’s people aren’t happy that you’ve declined her proposal,” Howie said. “A foolish mistake.”

“I want to proceed with the divorce.”

“Like I said, a foolish mistake.” Howie got to his feet and began to pace. Michael leaned back in his chair, hearing the creak of leather as he settled in for another Howard Davidson lecture on how to be famous and earn shitloads of money.

“Do you have any idea what’s at stake? Any idea of the amount of money we’re talking about? The possibilities and opportunities you’re turning away?” He turned on his heel and fixed a stern eye on Michael. “Do you have any idea whatsoever about what you’re actually doing these days?”

Michael turned away from Howie’s gaze and looked at a photograph of himself on the podium of his first Olympics. God, he missed those days. He missed being that person. That person with ambition and a dogged determination to achieve it. Why had he let it go? Why had he turned his back on what he’d loved most?

“What are you going to do without Saskia?” Howie was saying, pacing the room behind him. “She wants to make a go of this brand. She’s cleaned up. She’s stopped drinking, but you, Mikey, are still being a damn fool. Just stick it out for another few months. A year at the most.”

“No.”

“So what are you going to do long-term?” Howie was raising his voice now, the room vibrating with his frustration. “Open swimming pools and supermarkets?”

Michael may not have known what he’d wanted to do when he’d retired but he did know one thing—he’d handled it all wrong. He’d never wanted to live a life in the public eye, so why had he let himself become a celebrity pawn? All his life he’d wanted to compete. He’d wanted to win. He’d wanted to inspire.

“Actually,” his words tumbled out, “I’m looking to open my own chain of family-oriented fitness centers. It’s why I’m here.”

Howie stopped pacing. “You want business advice from me?”

“No, I’m getting that from Brandon Wahlberg, thanks.” He’d emailed Brandon at dawn and had received a reply by the time he’d finished his weight workout. Brandon said he could set up meetings with financiers but warned they’d only back a solid and stable investment. Michael had read between the lines. “I need you to raise my public profile out of this rehab story you concocted. You say Strive wants a comeback hero? Bring it on. I’m here. But I don’t want to do it with Saskia.”

“What makes you so sure Strive would want you without Saskia?”

Michael wasn’t sure about anything, but those were his terms. “Ask them. See what they say.”

“Saskia will want in on the deal.”

“Saskia can want what she likes, doesn’t mean she’ll get it.”

“You’re so sure she’d let you get away with this? She’ll sue your backside for defamation and loss of earnings.”

Michael understood what Howie was telling him, but he had to try. He’d grown tired of the easy way out. “Like I said, bring it on.”

Michael spent the next two days meeting business and financial advisors, as well as managers of preexisting fitness centers. He contacted the organizations he’d helped in the past, arranging lunch appointments to ensure he had their support in this new business venture.

And in an attempt to reconnect with his old life and rebuild bridges, Michael also set up a meeting with his former coach, Frank, in the hope it would lead him to a better place mentally.

Frank stood as Michael approached the table. “It’s good to see you, Mikey.” He engulfed Michael in a bear hug. “You never answered any of my calls. I was worried.”

“Yeah,” Michael said, straightening. Frank was a good few inches shorter. “I’m sorry about that.” He’d ignored Frank’s calls just like everyone else’s, not realizing he’d also been shutting out good friends who cared about him. “Things were getting a little crazy for me. I needed a break.”

“I didn’t buy the rehab story.” Frank took the seat opposite and a waiter dressed in a long black apron came to take their drinks order. “How you doing?”

“Getting along.” But they’d only just sat and Michael didn’t want to start talking about himself so soon. “How have you been?”

“Much the same as always. Did you hear I’m coaching Sebastian Clarke now?”

“Yeah, I heard.” Sebastian had been one of Michael’s teammates in his last Olympic race, the 4x100 meter men’s freestyle relay in which they’d achieved bronze. After a poor start, Seb had brought the team up to being contenders for silver, but Michael hadn’t been able to keep up the pace. “The kid’s got power.”

“Reminds me of you at the same age.”

Michael nodded. Seb and he had some great training sessions together, and in the post race interview at his last Olympics, Seb had honored Michael by calling him his role model and hero. He was also the one who’d started the clapping and cheering in those moments before they were due to step onto the third-place podium.

Spectators had quickly joined in, knowing they’d just witnessed Michael Adams’s last race. Cheering turned to applause, applause to a standing ovation, and Michael had been overcome by emotion, so powerful that even now, reliving the moment, the hairs stood up at the back of his neck.

Michael shifted uncomfortably under Frank’s gaze, knowing he was reliving that last race, too. He didn’t want Frank to bring up his retirement just yet. The waiter came and placed their drinks on the table, two sparkling waters with a slice of lemon in each. Whoop whoop. And they both ordered salads.

“Glad to see you’re still looking after yourself.” Frank took a sip of his drink. “I heard about what you did in Australia.”

As Evie flashed into his mind, Michael paused in reaching for his own glass.

“Saving that woman from drowning. You were quite the hero.”

Ah. “I doubt she would have drowned. There were a lot of trees to cling onto and flash floods recede very quickly in that area at this time of year.” He took a sip of his drink, tasting the lemon tang on his top lip. “Strive are going nuts for the hero angle, but I don’t deserve it. What I did is all in a day’s work for thousands of emergency workers.”

“You always were too modest.”

They talked about the days of competition. The three Olympics they’d worked together toward, the after-parties and the celebrations. Methods of training. The best techniques for achieving top speeds in the water.

The old times came gushing back. Michael had missed this. He stabbed a piece of avocado in the middle of his salad, guilty and ashamed that he’d let go of the things that had once mattered, only to replace them with the things that didn’t. An empty life in the public eye.

“How’s the shoulder?” Frank asked.

Here it goes. “A little stiff sometimes, but doesn’t give me any real trouble.”

“You could still fly through a fifty-meter sprint.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Try it. If you need a coach, just call.”

Michael didn’t want to get into this, but he’d been expecting the conversation to flow this way. The last time Frank had tried to persuade him back into competitive swimming, Frank had stormed out of the training gym. They’d smoothed things over since then but the cracks remained.

“You quit too soon,” Frank continued. “You had a bad year with your shoulder, but you quit too soon.”

Michael shook his head. “Everyone blames the shoulder.” He wiped the corners of his mouth and held on to his napkin until he was sure he wouldn’t fling it across the room. “Everyone seems to think I either gave up or was forced to retire. But I was done, Frank. Done with training. Done with diets and drills and competitions.” He’d been swimming since the age of eight. Since his mother had died. It had started as a way to manage his grief, a distraction from his horrific loss. And, man, he was tired. He’d had enough. “No one seems to believe I just didn’t want that life anymore. Why is that?”

Frank lowered his fork and to Michael’s surprise, began to seriously ponder the question.

“I don’t know, Mikey,” he said at last. “You tell me. When you retired, it was like your lightbulb had gone out and you’ve been sitting in the dark ever since, still to replace it.” Slowly, Frank started to nod. “Yeah, that’s it. Maybe it’s because we all know there’s still more of your talent to see, but we’re not seeing it.”

Partly buzzing by the possibilities of his new business venture, partly buzzing by the few hours spent reminiscing with Frank, Michael lay in bed later that night, unable to sleep.

Michael Adams had announced his retirement when things had gotten tough, when things had somehow lost their sparkle. When he’d no longer been at the top, he’d lost interest, and Michael could see how people like Frank thought he’d quit too soon.

And they were right, but not in the way they all thought.

Michael had wanted to quit swimming but like a petulant child, he’d gone about it the wrong way. He’d quit the sport, but he’d also quit the life that had surrounded it for so many years. All or nothing at all. Was that what he’d really wanted? And could it be that what had been missing from his life since he’d retired was a simple dose of balance?

He’d told Frank about his vision for the chain of family-oriented fitness centers and how he believed inspiring children to get fit started with inspiring parents to do the same. He had plans for a launch campaign—he’d call it Get Healthy, Get Fit, Get Living, and he’d start by targeting the workplace, getting parents moving first. By the time their lunch was over, Michael had gone some way to proving he was finally replacing that lightbulb but now, alone and back in the darkness, feelings of achievement and progression waned.

In the dim light, Michael’s gaze rested on the black gym bag in the corner of the room. Ten days since he’d dumped it there, and he’d yet to open it. He should just chuck the whole thing out, give it to the cleaner to dispose of with all the other trash from his apartment. But every day and every night, it was still there.

He told himself he could barely remember what the gym bag contained, but really he knew.

He reached for it now, unzipping it before he could change his mind. It was just a bag. Just stuff.

Pushing aside a few vests and shorts, some socks stained with red dust, Michael pulled out the cheap watch he’d bought in Derby, still set to Northern Territory time. He dropped it onto his bed, then came across his Australian phone. The screen was blank, battery dead. Just as well. There were photographs on that phone, images of Evie he didn’t want to see again.

But it was too late.

The images came back anyway and so did the glimpses of a dream he’d once had. It rushed toward him, swamping him. A dream of Adam and Evie, living in England. Of him opening the front door to the flat she’d often described to him, using his own key, calling out to her from a narrow corridor filled with the spicy fragrance of their evening meal. A dream of Evie standing in the small kitchen, lifting to the tips of her toes to kiss him, asking him about his day.

Stupid dream. Michael stuffed the phone back in the bag and slung it next to the wastebasket in the corner of the room. Yeah. He’d throw it all out tomorrow. He had other things to think about now. Other goals and new ambitions.

The buzzer of his apartment door startled him and for a moment he stood still, wondering who it could be. It was past midnight and the concierge hadn’t called to inform him of any visitors.

The door buzzed again.

Heart racing and not knowing why, Michael walked through to the living room and flicked on the lights.

Another buzz.

It was ridiculous to think . . .

He gripped the door handle, ready to fling it open, but then checked the peephole and felt like a fool. A crazy, delirious fool.

Slowly, he opened the door. “What do you want, Saskia?”

“Is that a trick question, Michael?” she drawled. She was wearing a black jacket and dark denim jeans. Her hair was straight, sleekly swept to one side. Her cheeks looked flushed, her breathing heavy.

He studied her. “Are you high?”

“Of course, not. I couldn’t risk the elevator, so I walked up fifty damn flights of stairs.”

“You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Let me in.”

He was close to saying no and slamming the door, but he had to face her at some point and now, in the dead of night, was as good a time as any. He let go of the handle and walked to the windows, hearing the door click shut behind him.

“You’ve got five minutes.”

“Five minutes?” Saskia laughed. “Don’t be such an idiot, Michael. Nadia’s been in talks all week with Howie. I know he’s spoken to you and yet, you’re choosing to ignore the proposal.”

“I’ve declined your proposal. Many times.”

“You want me to sue you instead? Didn’t your lawyers tell you what damages you’ll be looking at?”

“Yeah, they told me.”

“You never were particularly bright.” She stalked over to him, her perfume stinking-up the space between them. “So let me explain it to you in really, really simple terms. You can’t cut me out of the Strive deal. I’m still your wife.”

“Not for much longer.”

“For as long as it takes for you to start repairing the damage you caused.” She turned to face him. “Tell everyone and anyone who asks that the pain meds you were taking for your shoulder warped your simple little mind, and I won’t sue. Take me out to dinner. Cocktails. Whatever. Be by my side at all the events we’re required to attend, and then, when we’re the happy couple again, I’m the one who’s dumping you.”

Michael stared at the finger Saskia was pointing at him, then slowly raised his gaze to hers. “Not interested.”

Saskia laughed again. “Poor baby, you still don’t get it.”

“I’m not doing it, Saskia.”

She turned and walked to the windows again, her reflection staring back at him. “You had quite the fun time in Australia, didn’t you? What did you enjoy more? The landscape or that girl I caught you with in the bushes?”

Michael tensed. “She’s a nobody.”

“Those awful clothes she was wearing. Took me a few moments to realize she was female.”

“Okay.” He made his way to the door. “Your five minutes are over now.”

“What’s her name?”

“I can’t remember.” Michael spread his fingers around the handle and squeezed. “You’ve gotta—”

“Evelyn Elizabeth Blake.”

Michael froze.

“Now you remember.” Saskia reached into her jacket and handed him two photographs. “She was born in the county of Kent in England. She’s an accountant. Her mother teaches music, and—oh—her father. Now, he’s a very interesting character.”

Michael stared at the images of him and Evie among the bushes the last time they’d spoken, his lips pressed to her forehead. He clenched his jaw so hard it ached. He’d witnessed Saskia’s volatile nature many times before, but this was the first time he’d ever become afraid—afraid of what he might do to her. He’d never hit a woman before and it was a test on his sanity that he was close to hitting one now. “Leave. Her. Alone.”

“Why?” Saskia trailed a finger along his chest. “She’s a nobody, remember?”

Michael gripped her wrist. “Leave her alone,” he said again. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Saskia’s lips curled. “Just as I thought. You might not care about the money, but you care about her.” She shook his grip away. “Six months, Michael. I’m not losing the Strive deal because of you.” Her gaze met his steely stare. “Our first dinner date is Saturday night. Wear a suit, don’t forget to shave and, for God’s sake, get a haircut.” She breezed past him and into the hall. “I’ll have a car pick you up at eight.”