trying to talk to him—Pat wouldn’t be listening. All right. Tim pointed in the general direction of the Athlete Village and said, “Drive me to the gym.” His fury was a tangible thing, sitting like a fire in his chest, burning and making him want jump out of the car. But the bus was pulling out of the parking lot, so if he didn’t want to wait around another half hour for the next one, he’d have to go back with Pat.
Pat started the car. “All right.”
“It’s over, okay? The answer is no. We will not be getting back together. Get that through your fucking skull.”
“Language, Timmy.”
“I don’t care. I’m furious, okay? I’ve never been this angry. I can’t believe you have the fucking nerve to come here and think that I would ever forgive you. Just drive me back, okay?”
“Fine.” Pat stomped on the accelerator and veered out of the parking lot.
MARCUS HOLT had been a morning show host for as long as Isaac could remember. His name might not have stuck in Isaac’s head, but he definitely looked familiar now that Isaac sat across from him. Holt had silver-flecked black hair and a deep tan, and for the interview he wore a yellow shirt with a navy blue tie, looking ready for the summer weather in Madrid.
The camera guys were still fiddling with their equipment, so Isaac asked, “Can I decline to answer a question?”
“We’ll edit this later.”
That was not an answer. “I just mean, there’s some stuff in my personal life I’m not willing to talk about on TV, so if you happen to ask about it, I want the right to say, ‘No comment.’”
Marcus seemed intrigued by that, making Isaac think he shouldn’t have said anything. “We can edit out parts you’re uncomfortable with.”
Right.
They’d already discussed that Isaac wanted this interview to be candid as far as his alcoholism and his Olympic experience went. Holt had argued at first that he wanted to keep things positive, but probably the part of him that had delivered hard news before cohosting a show that was mostly segments about cooking and pop culture had been snared by the idea of doing an in-depth interview with a guy like Isaac.
Isaac knew he had to put most of his energy into thinking through what he said before he said it. He felt a bit like he’d walked into a trap. The set was supposed to seem warm and homey. It was a little corner of the studio with big armchairs facing each other with a little round table between them. The walls were lined with shelves full of colorful books. Isaac looked at the spines while Holt conferred with the camera crew. Most of them were in Spanish; Isaac surmised some intern had bought out a used bookstore.
“Are we ready?” Holt asked.
“Yeah,” said Isaac.
Holt gave some kind of signal and then they were rolling. Holt asked a series of inane questions, probably to get Isaac to relax, but Isaac couldn’t seem to make his stiff body bend at all. He leaned back in the chair and tried not to look like he was uncomfortable.
“Relax,” Holt said.
“I know. I’m suddenly nervous.”
Holt smiled. “Pretend we’re just chatting and the cameras aren’t there.”
“This camera is kind of staring me in the face,” Isaac said, gesturing toward it.
“Deep breath. The first serious question I want to ask you is about alcohol. When did you start drinking?”
God, it was like group therapy in rehab all over. Except instead of sharing with seven other people in a private room, he was sharing with millions. “I was twenty-two, twenty-three,” he said. “I pulled a calf muscle in training that forced me out of the pool for a while. Before that, I trained constantly and never let myself party, but when I was injured, I gave myself permission to, I don’t know. Be a stupid kid.” Isaac let out a breath. “I also had this irrational fear that my career was over. A muscle strain like that, it was a minor injury in the scheme of things, but I managed to convince myself it wouldn’t heal correctly and I’d never be as fast a swimmer. I’d been in two Olympics at that point, you know? Many athletes only get one. I thought it was over.”
“So you started partying?”
“I was a dumb kid in a lot of ways. I had all this endorsement money burning a hole in my pocket. I grew up with a single mom who worked two