When Adam Met Evie

by Giulia Skye

  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, having limited energy reserved for dealing with the general public.

  “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.”

  Really? 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.

  He 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.

  “Sa
skia’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,” he heard himself say, “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?”

  He wasn’t sure about anything, but he had to give it a try and 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.

  Also, in an attempt to reconnect with his old life and rebuild bridges, Michael 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. A few back slaps later, he released him. “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 had 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 four-hundred-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 it, 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 got 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 felt he’d 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 eyes 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.