Chapter 9.
"Sorry."
Virgil glanced up from adding a cube of sugar to his coffee and shrugged, "It's fine."
Gordon shrunk inwards slightly when Virgil reached for a second cube. His brother never put sugar in his coffee.
"No, really. I'm sorry."
A teaspoon was picked up.
"And I'm saying it's fine."
Blond brows knitted together in obvious discomfort.
"I don't believe you."
On the other side of the table, Alan raised his head from where he'd had it resting in his arms to mime a shushing motion.
"Seriously Gordo, don't give it a second though," Virgil insisted, oblivious to his waxy complexion and bloodshot eyes, "You're the one competing today. Not us."
Gordon felt a fresh wave of guilt engulf him as he peeked over at Jess, who looked closer to the dead than the living. She too has insisted that she was fine, but Gordon was harbouring doubt over her ability to manoeuvre a seven hundred and fifty kilo horse around a course of jumps on two hours of sleep.
The fact that she'd emptied a carton of apple juice over her cereal instead of milk served only to compound his doubt.
He'd ended up spending close to three hours on the phone to his dad the previous evening. He hadn't intended for it to be that long, but it had just kind of happened. Neither of them had been looking at the clock, and between Gordon relaying all the details of his Olympian life and Jeff patiently answering all of his questions about life on the moon, time had soon become meaningless. It was only when the first rays of dawn had peeked over the horizon that Gordon had managed to ground himself enough to end the call and return to his own bedroom.
Interestingly, despite getting by on the same number of hours as Alan, Virgil, and Jess, he wasn't feeling at all worse for wear. In fact, having his dad to himself for once had left him feeling energised and emotionally satisfied. His eyes itched a little, but the validation and confidence he'd taken away from their father-son talk was enough to outweigh any lingering fatigue.
Plus, Scott and John were on site, which excited him hugely. They'd touched down at four in the morning Nairobi time, which equated to two in the afternoon Tracy Island time. Gordon had a blood test at the same time that Jess had her vet inspection, so brothers one and three had agreed to rendezvous with him after his race so as to not be a distraction.
"What time are you on?" Virgil asked, draining his coffee in two gulps and focussing his bleary eyes on the equally bleary Jess, "And in what ring?"
"Seven-thirty," Jess replied, shovelling a spoonful of cereal into her mouth and barely filching as a combination of bran puffs and apple juice laid siege to her taste buds, "Vet checks are in an hour though, so I should probably get moving. All being well I'll book the treadmill for half an hour, and then round off with a light session of physio and an ice soak. Drawing blood into the legs before exercise is a great way of flushing out lactic acid."
Virgil quirked a brow, "That's quite the routine. What about the horse? Does he do anything to prepare?"
Gordon stifled a snort into his fruit salad as Jess pushed her chair back and stood up, groping for her carton of juice and accidentally seizing the salt shaker instead.
"That's all for the horse."
"What about you?"
"I have a banana in my bag."
-x-
Crash.
Bang.
Thunk.
Scott winced as John manhandled the last of Gordon's suitcases down the stairs connecting Thunderbird One's cargo bay to the ground, "You sure you don't want a hand? Or two, maybe?"
John gave a wheeze of exertion before bullying the final case down the last couple of steps, his face red with sweat as Nairobi's humidity got to work on him, "No thank you."
A sigh of resignation escaped from Scott as he surveyed the network of suitcases that John had brought. While he understood his brother's desire to be as organised as possible, did Gordon really require so much spare underwear?
"Eugh, get off!" John spat, smacking his arm when a mosquito with a death wish began mapping the uncharted territory of his arm, "Bug spray. Scott, we need bug spray, stat!"
"Didn't bring any," Scott replied, surreptitiously scanning his own arms for any unwelcome visitors, "I'm sure Gordon has some that we can borrow."
Apparently, such a suggestion fell well short of what John considered ideal. Smacking his arm one more time for good measure, he squatted down, selected a case with practised ease, and began fossicking through the contents, throwing caution to the wind as pairs of underpants and spare pillowcases sailed over his shoulder in his hunt for citronella oil. Four pairs of pants and a bottle of shampoo later, he located his prize. A liberal amount was spritzed over his torso, closely followed by half a kilo of sunscreen that was smeared across every inch of skin not covered by clothing. As the cherry on top, a wide brimmed hat of sorts was then extracted from the same case and jammed atop his head with an air of comical finality.
Scott held in a snort and nearly choked on it. Though John's actions were perfectly in line with what every health professional within a twenty mile radius would recommend, no amount of seriousness could take away from the fact that his brother looked as if he was about to start backpacking his way across Australia.
"Right, let's move," John ordered, slinging a camel pack onto his back and taking an authoritative slurp of water out of the connecting straw, "I need to get out of this heat. Do you want some sunscreen?"
A wrist was flicked as Scott pulled out his phone and began to draft a text to Virgil. It was only a short walk to the Olympic compound, plus he looked good with a tan.
"Suit yourself," John muttered, slamming a bug shield over his face and zipping the case closed, "Reckon Virgil could come and give me a hand with all of this?"
"He's on his way now," Scott replied, fingers still tapping at his screen, "I'm just sending him our coordinates. Gordon's race is at half eleven and he's just come out of a blood test. He's having a quick chat with Sam and then heading down to the changing rooms. That should give us enough time to get this stuff up to his room before going and finding our seats."
"How's he feeling?" John asked, loading himself up with cases, "Going from one race to another in less than twenty four hours is no easy feat."
Scott hummed in agreement and stooped to pick up a case that was evading John's sweaty grip, "Swimming has always worked like that. No idea why, but that's probably why I don't make rules."
John was about to dredge up a witty reply, however was forced to suppress it when one of the cases in his hands broke free and splattered on the ground, its contents scattering across the parched grass.
Scott instinctively bent down to help, only to pause when he saw some of the items that had escaped.
"Seriously? You packed him a spare showerhead?"
-x-
"Look me in the eye, kid. How do you feel?"
Gordon swallowed and flexed his arms, "Okay, I think. Talking to my dad last night was really helpful."
Sam scowled, "I know you crave your Pa's approval, but don't forget you blew everyone else clean out of the water yesterday. Don't underestimate your skill, and whatever you do, don't give your old man the power to dictate how you perform, okay? You're here, and he's a billion miles away. Don't forget that either."
Gordon nodded and closed his eyes, hopping from foot to foot to get the blood pumping in his calves. Such a statement was nothing out of the ordinary for Sam. He often insulted him before tossing him in the pool as a way of galvanising him. It was an effective method, and he knew there was nothing personal in his coach's words, but it still stung a little to have his dad's absence weaponised.
"You may have won your particular race," Sam ploughed on, "But Trickett and Tao both won their heats and scored quicker times than you. Trickett's not in this semi, but Tao is. He's short, like you, and has explosive thigh power that lets him pull ahead on the straights. Do not, under any circumstances, let him get more than an arm's length ahead."
Nerves that hadn't been present two seconds ago suddenly took Gordon's stomach hostage, "But you always say to stay in my lane and ignore everyone else. Why the sudden change?"
Sam wafted his arms as if he were trying to disperse steam, "No change, kid. Stick to your usual stroke count, but keep an eye on Tao if you can. He's sneaky, but I know you're sneakier. If we can bump him out of the final, our lives will be much simpler. He's two lanes up from you in five. Now, don't look so panicked. I know you slaughter when you hit the water, so try not to overthink anything I've just said, okay? Just focus on getting from one end to the other as quickly as you can. Nothing we haven't done before."
Gordon felt his breakfast stage a revolt as he nodded again and moved to take his place in the queue of swimmers waiting to be called out. What he'd give to have one of his brothers with him to remind him that, despite the recognition and sponsorships that came with victory, winning wasn't the be-all-and-end all of competing. The friends he'd made and life experience he'd gained so far definitely outweighed a medal hanging around his neck. Still, Sam had a job to do, and Gordon was aware that his position as a billionaire afforded him the privilege of being able to fund his career with or without a bank full of prize money behind him. Sam, though well-respected and connected in the training community, still had a mortgage to pay. A fact he reminded Gordon of regularly.
Interest rates and credit scores aside, Gordon hadn't been lying when he'd confessed that his talk with Jeff the previous evening had done wonders for his confidence. As fond as he was of Sam, the only people he really cared about impressing were his family and friends. Scott and John were somewhere in the audience, and would no doubt share their father's sentiments about life experience over winning. Virgil had made it clear before he'd departed that Gordon's only priority should be having fun. Alan was too young to give much of a toss, but wanted his favourite brother back in one piece, both physically and emotionally. Jess had announced that she'd be expecting regular holocalls from him after they both returned home, irrespective of whether they won or fell flat on their faces. Kayo had reminded him of all the career opportunities that would result from him being an Olympic qualifier, and Grandma had playfully informed him that the camera did his derriere no disservice.
'No matter what happens tomorrow, whether you win, lose, or come somewhere in-between, I'm proud of you.'
Gordon closed his eyes and let his dad's voice drown out the remnants of Sam's appalling pep-talk as his first rival was called out.
"Representing Japan, Yuto Matsuda!"