He changed into a new suit and pulled on the waistband. It was snug, but not problematically so. He walked over to a mirror and examined himself. He’d had his whole body waxed the previous day, but he’d likely have to do some touch-up work before his first race.
He’d let his hair grow wild during his brief retirement. It had felt odd. Unnatural even.
He ran a hand over his smooth chest. He turned sideways in front of the mirror and admired his body. He didn’t look half-bad for a recovering alcoholic. He was thinner than he had been four years ago, and not as muscular. Sleeker, maybe. Adam had put him on a tough diet, making the legitimate argument that he no longer had the metabolism of a twenty-two-year-old.
Isaac walked back out to the pool. Adam made him do some warm-up stretches. He closed his eyes and listened to his body as he moved.
The thing was, he felt good. Better than he’d felt in a long time. Four years ago he’d shown up expecting to win, as if it was his due. He’d reigned as the best swimmer in the world. He had nine Olympic medals and twenty world championship medals. He was the most decorated swimmer since Michael Phelps. He’d walked into the previous Olympics expecting them to drape medals around his neck. And he’d won a silver medal in the 400-meter freestyle with almost zero prep. He’d swum the 4 x 100 relay with a hangover.
He’d been a cocky asshole. And he’d felt like shit the whole time, physically. Constantly nauseous and achy. Not to mention, everyone kept telling him it was over. He wasn’t as fast as he’d been at seventeen, at twenty-one. This would be his last Olympics. It was time to figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life.
That was where his trouble began.
But now that trouble was behind him. He was here. He was in the best shape of his life. He was still swimming. He was sober. He felt good.
“Get in the water,” Adam said. “See how you feel.”
Isaac dove in and swam four laps without putting a lot of oomph into it, just to get used to the water temperature, the chlorine levels, the feel of the swimsuit, the peculiarities of this venue. He liked this pool. He could feel himself slicing through the water. He caught Luke slipping by him in the neighboring lane out of the corner of his eye and didn’t care. He did his flip turn, the way he’d practiced a thousand times with Adam, and he swam back again.
“Good,” Adam said when Isaac popped his head out of the water. “Get up on the block. On the clock this time.”
TIM WORE sunglasses on his way into the Aquatics Center, because even though most of the press had yet to arrive in Madrid, he’d grown accustomed to the paparazzi following him, and he’d grown fucking tired of it.
Tim found Donnie, his coach, standing at the base of the platforms. Donnie stared intently at a clipboard, and without even looking up, he said, “Suit up. I’ll get you in the rotation.”
“All right.”
A half hour later, Tim stood on a platform, ready to do the only thing he ever really wanted to do. Tim loved diving. He loved the thrill of it. He loved the physicality of twisting his body and making it conform to his will as he somersaulted through the air. He loved flying. He loved the sensation of entering the water just right.
Up here on the platform, no one knew who he was. No one else was here. So no one cared that he’d broken off an engagement right before the Trials. No one knew that Pat had seen Tim more as a meal ticket than a lover, that Pat had been mooching off Tim since his show had gotten canceled, that Pat had hoped being seen as an adoring partner in the audience at the Olympic Games would somehow revitalize his career.
Tim had left him as soon as he figured that out.
His heart still ached sometimes. The only time it didn’t was when he hurled himself off a diving board and into the waiting pool below.
So he dove. An easy one first. A simple forward pike. He jumped off the board, folded his body in half, and unfolded gracefully before entering the water.
When he got out of the pool, Donnie said, “Good. Keep your form tight. Your knees were a little bent on that one.”
Donnie got gruff when he was nervous, which was almost always the case when Tim or one of his other divers was about to compete. Tim embraced it, relished it, was glad to be critiqued on his dives and not his personal life choices.
Six dives later Tim felt invigorated more than tired, but his practice time was up. He retreated to the locker room, deciding to take a shower now, given the unlikelihood of having running water in his room.
Then a flashbulb popped in his peripheral vision.
Tim didn’t even stop to look at who’d snapped the photo or what the target had been. He’d been through this enough in the past year that he knew better than to look. Instead, he put his head down and beelined into the locker room.
As he headed to the showers, he nearly collided with a broad swimmer’s chest.
“Hey, whoa there.” The man before Tim put his hands out and clasped Tim’s arms.
“Sorry. Wasn’t paying attention.”
“Hey, you’re Tim Swan, aren’t you?”
Fuck. The guy had an American accent too. Tim didn’t want to look up, but he did slowly.
Isaac Flood.
They’d never actually met, despite being on the same Olympic team four years before. Not for any particular reason; their paths just hadn’t crossed. Well, and the swim team was super cliquey and tended not to mingle with the other athletes.
“Hi,” Tim said. “Yes. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You were lost in your own head. I get it.”
Tim took a step back and tried to get his bearings. Good God, Isaac Flood was a big man. He had to be six three or four, with wide shoulders and arms that seemed three miles long. He had a broad chest and pale skin. His rich brown hair was tousled from being under a swim cap. He had gorgeous, depthless blue eyes. Tim had long thought Isaac Flood was sexy, but seeing him now, he realized he’d had no idea.
Tim took a deep breath. “Yes. I was lost in thought. Sorry for bumping into you. You’re Isaac Flood.”
“I am indeed.”
Tim nodded. “Maybe you’re the best person I could have run into. I mean, because you get why…. That is, you get so much media attention that you…. See, there was a photographer near the pool and….”
As Tim stammered, Isaac lifted an eyebrow.
“Forget it,” Tim said.
“You’re hiding from the media.”
“You could say that.”
“Dude, I know exactly what that’s like. I spent four weeks in rehab. The press wasn’t allowed within a certain radius of the facility, and I still spent all four of those weeks looking out for reporters hiding in bushes or whatever.”
Tim let out a breath. Of course. Isaac Flood, of all people, would know how Tim felt. “I wish I wasn’t so jumpy. I’m trying not to let it affect me.”
Isaac tilted his head. “So, what? The media is following you because you’re engaged to some actor. Who gives a shit?”
“Actually, we broke up six weeks ago.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be. And I don’t want to talk about it. All I know is that even the color commentators seem more interested in what I do with my dick than what I do when I dive. And frankly, I’m sick of it.”
Isaac pursed his lips and looked at Tim for a long, unnerving moment. He glanced around. They were essentially alone. Water ran in the shower area, behind a partition Tim couldn’t see around, so he assumed men were showering. But otherwise no one stood in eye- or earshot.
Isaac said softly, “Because you’re not returning Olympic champion Tim Swan, you’re gay diver Tim Swan.”
“That about sums it up, yeah.”
“And I’m not four-time Olympian Isaac Flood, but alcoholic fuckup Isaac Flood.”
Tim knew Isaac had an alcohol problem, because he lived in the world. Probably only one other aquatics athlete got as much attention as, if not more than, Tim, and that was Isaac. Because Isaac had been to three previous O
lympics. Because he’d been a cute kid once. Because he’d been on a Wheaties box. Because all of his endorsement deals had been pulled after he’d gotten the DUI.
And yet, here Isaac Flood stood.
Maybe Tim could learn something here.
“You coming or going?” Tim asked.
“From the shower? Going. Just finished. I figured I’d get one in because the water’s not running in my room.”
“Same here. I’m headed for the showers, I mean. But, uh, I hope we run into each other again.”
Isaac smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”
Chapter 2
AT HOME Isaac had a personal chef who prepared most of his meals. He’d been on a heavy diet of leafy greens, whole grains, and lean protein since he’d started training again. He’d resisted the diet change at first and found it hard to follow—too many rules, too few cupcakes—but he’d adjusted. And he couldn’t deny that the changes had made him feel like he was back in fighting form.
But the Olympic Village was sponsored by a fast-food chain, and they had outposts peppered throughout the area. Isaac hadn’t eaten a hamburger or anything fried in eight months, and he wasn’t about to start during competition. Especially not first thing in the morning.
“My kingdom for a green smoothie,” Isaac muttered to himself.
He had to ask three people for directions, but eventually he found himself in a cafeteria that at least had a station where he could get some eggs. He texted his chef to see what would be the best thing to eat, given the options, but then remembered the time difference. Tony would most certainly still be asleep. Still, within a few minutes, Tony texted back a potential menu.
Tony was worth every penny of his hefty salary. Isaac filled a plate.
Isaac found Luke seated at the end of a table, clearly flirting with Katie Santiago from their swim club, who was a bit too young for him. Isaac considered butting in and joining them, but then he saw Tim Swan sitting at a table by himself.
Little Timmy Swan. That’s what they’d called him four years ago. Isaac vaguely remembered that Team USA had been very excited about this diving phenom. Tim wasn’t that little, it turned out. He was shorter than Isaac, sure, but most people were. Tim was maybe five nine or five ten, and all lean muscle. While he wasn’t as bulky as most of the swimmers, Tim was svelte like a diver. Undeniably strong but… beautiful too.
Isaac’s libido had stood up and taken notice the moment Isaac had put his hands on Tim the night before in the locker room. He’d only done it to keep the kid from injuring himself, but then, pow. Tim had tan skin, hair so dark it was nearly black, and dark eyes that belied a certain amount of intelligence and thoughtfulness. And he was gorgeous—one of the most beautiful people Isaac had ever encountered in person. The lines of his body were masculine but finely drawn.
That all pulled Isaac right in.
Plus, he’d recognized in Tim a kindred spirit, someone who’d been in the spotlight and despised the glare.
So Isaac walked over to Tim’s table and slid his tray onto it. “This seat taken?”
Tim looked up, seeming startled. “Oh! No, please sit.”
Tim’s gaze remained on Isaac as Isaac sat in an appallingly uncomfortable plastic chair. He adjusted his seat, trying in vain to make his butt conform to the seat, and felt Tim’s gaze on him the whole time.
“I thought the swimmers had their own little breakfast club,” Tim said.
“Eh. I mean, Luke is the team captain, and he’s been saying that for team unity or whatever the fuck, we should eat all our meals together. But he’s clearly trying to get into Katie’s bikini bottoms right now, so I figured I shouldn’t interrupt him.”
Tim tilted his head. “Team unity? It’s not like you’re a soccer team.”
“I know. But Luke gave a whole speech last night about how we’re better together than apart.” Isaac shrugged. He thought a lot of the rah-rah team stuff was bullshit, but he played along because he didn’t want to ruffle feathers. This included making a spectacularly stupid video in which he lip-synched to a pop song about partying from a couple of years ago, which all of the swimmers participated in. According to Isaac’s mother, the TV station airing the Olympics in the States had already shown the video about seventeen times.
Isaac had come here to win. He’d have fun after his races were over.
“It’s not that I’m not patriotic,” Isaac said. “And I like my teammates. Even the cheerier ones. Hell, Luke is one of my best friends. We train together at home. So I’m not saying I’m a lone wolf. I’m just trying to stay focused, that’s all. And some of the nonsense is distracting.”
“I understand. The diving team is a lot smaller than the swim team, but we had to do all these photo shoots and stuff before we flew out here. Honestly? I hate photo shoots.”
Isaac laughed. “Yeah? But you’re so photogenic.”
Tim rolled his eyes.
Isaac hadn’t been joking, though. He’d seen the photos Tim had done with his actor ex when one of the girls Adam coached brought the magazine to practice. Tim had looked hot as fuck. Hotter than the actor. He’d been all tan skin and abs for days.
Isaac took a bite of his eggs and mentally chastised himself for getting turned on by his new friend. Such things would only be a distraction. He needed to focus.
“That’s a lot of food you’ve got there,” said Tim.
“I eat six thousand calories a day.”
“Jesus.”
“I burn it all off in the pool. I ate a lot more when I was younger, but it tends to stick around more now.”
“Where? Do you have a single ounce of body fat?” Tim made a show of looking around.
Isaac grinned.
Tim rolled his eyes again.
ISAAC FLOOD had an unselfconscious air about him that Tim couldn’t help but admire. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t know how hot he was, but that he did and didn’t think it mattered.
As they walked out of the cafeteria together, Isaac lifted the edge of his shirt and used it to wipe sweat off his forehead. “Dear God, it’s hot.”
“Only in the sun. It’s breezy in the shade.”
“Uh-huh.”
Being this close to Isaac’s body was a little intoxicating. Isaac’s skin looked smooth and soft—not a hair anywhere—and his sinewy frame was clearly strong. His body was a little freakish, granted—built like an inverted triangle with a ridiculously exaggerated wingspan—but Tim thought it perfectly made. Tim was strong and worked hard to keep lean enough to be able to throw his body around in the air, but he didn’t have a swimmer’s body. Tim wondered if Isaac had been born with that physique and realized he was well-suited to swimming, or if he’d carved his body to be a machine in the water. Some of both, probably.
“Aren’t you from one of the Southern states?” Tim asked. “It gets pretty hot there.”
“North Carolina. Yeah. Well, I’m from Florida originally. It gets really fucking hot there. I’d move north if I could. Minnesota. Somewhere it snows a lot in the winter.”
Tim laughed. “Summer Olympian loves the winter.”
“Don’t knock it. I hate being hot.”
The unintentional double entendre made Tim laugh, but he didn’t want to call attention to the fact that he thought Isaac was hot. In trying to hold back the laugh, he snorted. Then he gave up and laughed easily.
Isaac laughed too. “I just heard what I said.”
“It’s such a burden, being attractive.”
Isaac giggled—actually giggled!—and then said, “Yeah, well. I haven’t seen a lot of action since I got sober.”
The laughter died then. Tim had never been much of a drinker, but he could imagine craving the kind of oblivion that would come with consuming too much. He’d almost canceled the trip to Madrid on several occasions, not wanting to face the media, not wanting to be “that gay diver,” not wanting to think about Pat or any of the mess that had been their breakup. If there was some elixir, some pill he could swallow
to make it all go away… well, he wouldn’t because he loved diving too much, but he could certainly see the temptation.
“How long have you been sober?” Tim asked quietly. Because of course everyone knew about Isaac Flood and his DUI and his comeback.
“Eighteen months, six days.”
“That’s good.”
Isaac grimaced.
“What?” asked Tim.
“Usually when I say that, people are skeptical.”
“Really? They don’t believe you’re sober?”
“I fell off the wagon once after rehab. Honestly, just that one time. At New Year’s I was feeling sorry for myself, and I let a friend talk me into a party at a bar. The mere presence of alcohol proved to be too much of a temptation. It was awful. It was a mistake. But now it’s like everyone is waiting for me to do it again.”
“Do you still want to drink?”
Isaac did not look amused by this question. “I’m an alcoholic. I want to drink all the time. But I want to swim more.”
A woman with long, wavy hair suddenly jogged over. “Isaac!” Then she deepened her voice and said, “Here. Comes. The Flood!”
“Hi, Melissa.”
“Buenos días. Who’s your friend? Oh, wait, you’re Tim Swan, aren’t you?”
Dammit. “Yeah. That’s me.”
“Melissa Murphy, at your service. Once and future Olympic gold medalist.” She threw her hand at Tim.
Tim shook it. “Swimmer?”
“Did you not see all puff pieces they did about me at the last Olympics?”
Oh, this girl annoyed him now. He’d been enjoying talking to Isaac, even if the topics were heavy. Then this Melissa barged in, intruding on what had been a nice postbreakfast walk. “Sorry,” he said. “Too busy winning diving medals.”
She huffed. “Of course. Well, look out for me Monday. That’s my first race.”
“Okay,” Tim said, not wanting to argue about it.
“Melissa is kind of the swim team’s one-woman pep rally. She was the mastermind behind that karaoke video we all did.”
Tim had seen it. He nodded.
Here Comes the Flood Page 2
