The Thomas Flair - E.J. Russell Page 0,3
penance. “Anything, Solly. Just name it.”
Sol leaned in and patted Tony’s chest. “Kick some ass, Tony. Show everyone that famous Thomas flair. For me. For you. For all of us.”
The sea of faces in front of him, the lights, the noise, the voices—God, the shouting—that had followed him since the second medal ceremony sent Tony’s head reeling. He only wanted one voice, one face, and it would be hours before he could see Solly again.
It had just felt so wrong—with Sol there but not there, training with the team but not competing at Tony’s side, centering him, inspiring him, letting him fly.
But during Sol’s little pep talk last night, Tony had been certain he’d wanted to say something else. I can only hope it’s what I think it is. What I want too. That hope did more than anything the coaches, or the other guys on the team, or his fucking father could do to inspire Tony.
It had gotten him through both event finals, both medal ceremonies, all the subsequent interviews. It would get him through the awkward conversation with his father, which was inevitable since he didn’t have the excuse of training or competition to avoid him anymore.
Sure enough, dear ol’ Dad was waiting for him in the broadcast center lobby when Tony finished taping his last televised interview.
Tony sighed and trudged over to where his dad stood, arms crossed, glaring at him as if Tony had just gotten expelled from school rather than winning two silver medals at the fucking Olympics.
“Dad. Been waiting long?”
His father didn’t move. “You didn’t answer my texts.”
“We aren’t allowed cell phones on the competition floor.”
“That doesn’t account for the rest of the week.” He grabbed Tony’s arm and led him to a more central location, where everybody could see them together. Tony wanted to dive behind the nearest potted palm. “You need to show appreciation to the right people, Tony. People who matter. People who can do things for you.”
Tony lifted an eyebrow. “People like you, Dad?”
“To start with.” He glared at the medals hanging around Tony’s neck. “You could have been more aggressive today. Tried to get at least one gold.”
Tony’s jaw dropped. “Seriously, Dad? I wasn’t exactly picking daisies out there. My scores were higher than in any of my other rounds.”
His father narrowed his eyes, obviously considering whether that made any difference in Sports According to Glen Thomas. He grunted. “I’ll grant that’s a point. You posted the scores when it mattered.”
Tony stared at his shoes. “It mattered more in the team competition.”
“Don’t be naïve. You’d have shared the spotlight with everyone else then.” He scowled at a group of men that included the team coach and the US men’s high performance director. “I told them to put you on all the apparatus so you’d qualify for the all-around. I see I’ll have some heads to crack about that.”
Tony’s insides turned to ice. “What are you talking about?”
He didn’t spare Tony a glance, his gaze focused on the group that had started migrating toward the exit. “I called the head of the selection committee as soon as Sinclair was on the way to the hospital and told them in no uncertain terms that you should be named to the team.” He huffed in disgust. “They were considering Ashvili, of all the ridiculous choices. I reminded them where their loyalties lay. Who their biggest donors were.”
Tony clenched his fists, his nails driving into his palms. “What the fuck, Dad?” He’d comforted himself with Sol’s words, that he was the best choice because his skill profile matched John’s most closely. But if his position on the team was nothing more than the result of strong-arm tactics by his father, the old-boy sports network flexing its aging muscles, then Tony really had let the team down. But worse, he’d let Sol down.
“It’s called negotiation, son.”
“It’s called bullying, Dad.”
He chuckled as if Tony were being childish. “You’ll never get anywhere in the world if you don’t understand leverage.” His head came up, and he squinted at the group across the room. “And I need to go apply a little more. Wait for me here.” He swaggered across the room as if he owned the place and pushed himself into the circle, slapping the head coach on the back with a hearty laugh.
Tony turned away before he could see more evidence that his place, his relative success, his fucking medals had more to do with his father’s influence than his own ability. This could have