Chapter 10.
"Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me."
John cringed as Scott steamrolled his way towards their seats, oblivious to the toes he was stepping on and knees he was knocking in his haste to get to his destination as quickly as was humanly possible.
"Sorry," John apologised to a mother and her young son who had flung themselves over the row of seats in front to escape Scott's bulldozing, "Our brother's competing, so we're a tad excited."
The woman gave a grunt of acknowledgement and mimed for her son to suck in his gut in order to allow John to pass.
"Forty six, forty seven, forty eight," Scott muttered, scanning the seat numbers and barely flinching when the toe of yet another innocent bystander crunched beneath his shoe, "Forty nine, aha! Fifty. Up here, John."
John, who was moving down the aisle at a snail's pace in an effort to compensate for his brother's feral behaviour, glanced up and nodded. Gordon's race wasn't due to officially start for another fifteen minutes, however the rate at which seats were being gobbled up for the men's one-hundred meter butterfly semi-final hinted that spectators and athletes alike were in for one hell of a show.
"How do you think he's feeling?" Scott asked, unscrewing the cap off a bottle of fizzy water, taking two long slugs, and then suppressing a burp, "Virgil said he didn't get much sleep last night."
"Probably like he's about to puke his guts up," John replied, dumping his butt in the seat next to Scott's, "That's unless he hasn't already, of course."
Scott gave a grim nod. It was a well-known fact within the family that Gordon had the weakest stomach and, consequently, was quite the prolific vomiter. While he'd never suffered a day's seasickness in his life, anything involving nerves, heights, or excessive speed usually ended with him either suspended over a toilet, or dangling his head out the nearest open window.
Though not one to vomit unless absolutely necessary, John could feel his own stomach tying itself in knots as he watched the countdown clock on the overhead scoreboard with dry eyes.
"There's Sam," Scott observed, pointing down at the cluster of seats at the front of the gallery, "I'm going to go down and say hi."
"Don't," John warned, holding an arm out as Scott made to stand up, "This is between him and Gordon. We have no business interfering mere minutes before the race starts."
Scott's eyebrows knitted themselves together to form his signature frown, "Don't be ridiculous. I'm just going to go and ask for a quick progress update. Gordon's never been away from home, so I want to know he's coping okay."
"He wouldn't have made it to the semis if he wasn't coping," John countered, using his torso as a roadblock, "Have a bit more faith in him, Scott."
Several heads pivoted in intrigue as Scott let out a puff of frustration that carried all the way to the water's edge, "This isn't about faith. This is about our brother who's never left home, who's competing at international level halfway around the world, who's wellbeing is in the hands of someone who's sole motivation is financial gain, and who we've been cut off from for the best part of a week. I don't care how well he swims when the world is watching, I want to know he's not sinking when the cameras aren't rolling."
"I don't disagree with any of that," John replied, his tone a stark contrast to Scott's rapidly escalating one, "But this is Gordon's moment and Gordon's turf. He's worked his butt off to make it this far. Athletic success is reliant on a healthy mindset, and a healthy mindset is a delicate balancing act, especially for a teenager. If the first thing he sees when he walks out is you and Sam arguing, everything he's spent the last few years working for will die quicker than Grandma's last batch of flapjacks. And don't look at me like that. You and I both know the only reason you want to go and speak to Sam is because you have beef with him."
Scott opened his mouth to refute John's claims, however couldn't dredge up a reply that was both articulate and factually sound. Okay, so Sam wasn't his favourite person in the world. Ever since he'd come on the scene, he'd made it his number one mission to steal Gordon away from the family. Maybe not in a literal sense, but definitely in a professional sense. No Tracy had been invited to a single one of his training reviews since the Olympics had come into the picture. To make matters worse, Jeff had been told, quite sharply, that Gordon was also forbidden from discussing his training when at home, lest any of the family offer him conflicting advice.
There could be no denying that Sam was highly controlling, and with Jeff away for the foreseeable future, Scott knew the responsibility of looking out for his brother's best interests lay on his shoulders. He had Grandma, Virgil, John, Penelope, Parker, and Kayo to call upon if he needed backup, but until that moment came, he was determined to tackle Sam mano a mano.
"If Gordon comes out looking upset, I'll back you up, but only once the race has finished," John offered, "I don't like Sam any more than you do, but Gordon's time here is more important than your pride. Until it's obvious that something's wrong, let's just focus on supporting him, okay?"
Soothed by his brother's offer of backup, Scott nodded and sank back down into his seat. He knew his opinion of Sam was marred by a smattering of jealousy. Being a strong swimmer himself, he'd originally been the one who'd helped Gordon with his training before he'd turned pro. They'd spent many a sunny summer's evening out in the pool working on stroke technique together, exchanging good natured jokes about tight swimsuits over Virgil's famous barbequed watermelon slices.
Then Sam had come into the picture, and barbequed watermelon and speedo jokes had become relics of the past. The safety of family that had sheltered Gordon throughout the tender early days of his career had been switched out for military-style workouts, a complete nutritional overhaul, and regular cram sessions on everything from biomechanics to the chemical composition of pool water. The entire Tracy clan had scaled back their involvement to little more than cheering their grandson/son/brother on at the various races he qualified for, and Team Tracy had quickly been whittled down to Team Sam and Gordon.
Scott missed being involved in his brother's career. Just because he had his own in the Air Force, it didn't mean he wasn't prepared to take all the time off necessary to support him. He knew for a fact that Virgil and John felt the same, although the latter disguised his discontent with the situation better than the former. Grandma had also made it clear that she was far from comfortable with entrusting Gordon's competitive wellbeing to someone who was neither family nor friend, and Kayo had offered to kick Sam where it hurt on more than one occasion.
Jeff tolerated Sam's involvement on the condition that Gordon walk away if he stopped having fun. Just as Scott loved flying, Virgil loved engineering, and John loved space, Gordon loved swimming, and if Sam was a means to helping him get further in his chosen field, then he was happy to overlook the finer details of his involvement in favour of focussing on the bigger picture.
"Representing Japan, Yuto Matsuda!"
The applause spreading around the stadium snapped Scott out of his memory tour and back to earth with a jolt. Flicking his gaze upwards, he saw that the scoreboard had changed and was listing the order of the upcoming competitors. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Gordon's name second from last.
"I don't know if I can watch," Scott muttered, slapping a hand over his eyes as the next two athletes were announced and called out, "I never could have done something like this when I was fifteen. I'd have died twice."
John didn't answer, his expression inscrutable as he stared at the doorway through which Gordon was about to walk.
"Representing Germany, Klaus Steffen!"
"I can't do this," Scott blurted, standing up and trying to shuffle his way down the aisle towards the freedom of the stairs.
"You can, and you will," John replied, his tone offering no room for negotiation as he hooked a finger in Scott's belt and yanked him back with strength that belied his slender physique, "Now sit your ass down and support your brother, goddamnit."
Scott swallowed thickly, the anxious knot in his stomach dulling the resistance he usually felt towards orders that weren't his own. Brotherly loyalty overtaking his desire to bury his head in the sand, he returned to his seat and forced himself to focus on the next body walking towards the starting blocks.
"Representing Great Britain, Ian Parry!"
"He's next," John whispered.
"Representing The United States of America, Gordon Tracy!"
Scott felt his heart swell with pride as Gordon emerged into the harsh lights of the stadium, his Team USA jacket zipped up over his swimsuit. In true Gordon fashion, he immediately twisted his head around to scan the crowd, no doubt searching for a tell-tale flash of red that would alert him to John's, and in turn Scott's, location.
"GORDS!" Scott hollered, yanking John's hat off and brandishing his brother's red mane like a spotlight, "UP HERE!"
Deaf to everything aside from his own nerves, Gordon visibly wilted as his gaze scanned every part of the stadium bar the section his brothers were in. It was only when John gave a particularly animalistic shriek that he spotted them and, in a very restrained display of excitement, managed a small wave before shedding his jacket and clambering atop his own starting block.
"It's okay. He knows we're here," John panted, clasping his hands in relief as he watched Gordon secure his goggles and shake his arms to limber himself up, "He's looking good. No obvious weight loss that I can see."
Scott gave a small hum of agreement, the bulk of his attention locked on to one of the seats bordering the advertising panels around the perimeter of the pool.
Ever observant, John followed his brother's gaze, and instantly spied the reason for his distraction.
Sam had twisted around in his seat and was glowering at the pair of them. No doubt their screams were to blame for the attention he was suddenly paying them, or perhaps it had been the little wave that Gordon had thrown in their direction. Either way, he'd been alerted to their presence, and was making no bones about the fact that he obviously didn't want them there.
Scott was more than happy to give Sam a taste of his own medicine, and retaliated with a glare of such ferocity it was a small wonder the pool didn't turn to steam.
"Don't rise to it," John whispered, glancing at Gordon to see if he'd picked up on the tension between his coach and brother, "Remember, today isn't about you."
Scott twitched as a way of acknowledging that he'd heard John, but didn't tear his eyes off of Sam for a second. Olympic glory aside, Gordon still fell under the umbrella of family, and family was territory that Scott would never surrender, regardless of what the 'bigger picture' entailed.
Silence descended over the gallery as all eight swimmers poised themselves to enter the water, the muscles in their arms and legs taut as they braced themselves for the sound of the starting buzzer.
Scott and Sam glared on, unaware.
-x-
Jess gave an epic wheeze of exertion as she tightened her horse's girth, hissing in annoyance when the damn beast deflated its lungs and deliberately puffed its stomach out.
She wasn't having a good day. The treadmill had somehow managed to break overnight, so that part of her plan had ended up in the bin. Then a member of the South African team had snuck their mount into the ice bath ahead of her, so she'd been forced to use a cold hose on her horse's legs instead. Like a cavewoman.
Still, at least the physio part had gone well. For the horse, that was. Not for her. She'd somehow managed to get trodden on. Twice.
Anyone who thought horses were noble or majestic creatures could go and die in a fire as far as she was concerned. Sure, they were pretty to look at, but all equestrianism consisted of behind the scenes was getting your toes smushed, your shirt slobbered on, and horsehair down your bra at the most inconvenient of times.
Still, it could be fun. When the horse wanted it to be, of course.
Pausing to give the girth one last tug, Jess surrendered and made her way towards the veterinary tent to collect the results of the blood test she'd submitted earlier. She knew they'd be clear, but something about the way her horse kept sticking his tongue out made her wonder if he was secretly under the influence of alcohol. Or narcotics.
There was a car parked by the barn's entrance with a Team USA sticker proudly displayed on its back windscreen. The passenger door had been left open, presumably to keep the interior cool, and from within the sound of a live radio broadcast was blaring out. Several riders muttered in irritation when their horses startled at the noise.
Jess paused when her ears caught the words 'men's one-hundred meter butterfly' and glanced at her watch. Indeed, Gordon's race had started less than a minute ago, and from the sound of things, was proving to be quite a spectacle.
"We've got Matsuda coming up strong in lane one, but Steffen is breathing down his neck in four! Things look tight as we come into the last fifty, but we all know it's the finishing speeds that will make the difference. Into the last hundred, and it's a dead tie between Matsuda and Steffen, but Tracy is right on their heels in lane seven!"
Content to forgo collecting her results for another minute, Jess scurried back towards the car and listened intently as the eight swimmers waged war for a place in the Olympic final.
"Come on, Gordon! Show them how it's done!"