Baywatch fic: Learning to Breathe (2/4)
PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
-o-
The good news was that Brody slept most of the flight.
The bad news was that Mitch didn’t.
Instead, Mitch sat and worried.
He had never been further from Baywatch. Literally. Shit, he was going to Europe. What the hell was he doing on a plane to Europe? However, the metaphorical meaning was probably more telling. When was the last time he’d been in the ocean? When had he last been in tower 2? When had he saved a life?
That was it, though, wasn’t it?
That was what he was doing.
One way or another, he was trying to save a life.
In the ocean, he had to fight riptides. That should have made it harder than this.
It didn’t.
Damn it, Brody made everything harder.
He glanced anxiously at the younger man, still sound asleep, head tipped back and mouth a little open while the man at the window seat shuffled restlessly. Mitch considered getting up, finding Lawson further up in the plane. Lawson was the only person around Brody enough to have any sense of what was going on -- he had to have perspective.
Except Lawson didn’t give a shit. He didn’t want to talk about Brody’s so-called personal problems, and he deemed Brody’s physical well being only relevant when it impeded his times. That made Lawson a bad cohort in this.
In fact, it made him a risky cohort. The last thing Mitch wanted was to further upend Brody’s training schedule.
Or did he?
Maybe Brody needed it upended?
But how would he compete without it?
At this point, however, Mitch had to seriously consider whether competition was the most important part of this process. He knew why they’d started it -- he’d been the one to push Brody into the pool in the first place. Quite literally. But it wasn’t supposed to be a scorched earth campaign -- especially when the earth was Brody himself.
No matter how much Brody liked to downplay it, the headaches were becoming a significant issue. They were becoming more frequent -- Mitch had known that, but he hadn’t known until today just how frequent they were. Once or twice a month -- Mitch had deemed that kind of to be expected, considering the amount of physical exertion Brody had to put into his training.
Traveling did seem to make them worse, if Mitch thought about it carefully. Back at home, when they were at Baywatch, Brody never had issues. He was always at his best there, posting consistently solid times in training. More importantly, however, he seemed happier, more fulfilled.
On the road, with the extended support structure gone, Brody’s focus took its toll on him in more ways than Mitch had realized. Now that they were traveling overseas, Mitch feared that things were going to spiral rapidly out of control.
Mitch was Brody’s best friend and he would play personal trainer any day of the week. That said, he didn’t have the knowledge or expertise to know what to do. Lawson might, but Lawson was an unreliable asshole, so that was a no-go.
Then, Mitch remembered something from their itinerary.
Reaching down, Mitch retrieved his bag from under the seat, shuffling through it until he found the printed itinerary Lawson had produced for Brody. A lot of it was about training schedules and when there was pool access. Check in times and race starts were highlighted in excessive detail.
And there, a small notation at the start.
Routine physicals and drug testing.
It was a required element of most major competitions, and the world championships had it slated for the afternoon after they landed. Doctors and trainers were provided by the competition board, which meant that they were mostly neutral. At least, they weren’t connected to Lawson, which meant they didn’t have the same motivations.
Mitch had to hope that meant there would be an accurate assessment of Brody’s condition.
And that it would be confidential.
Nodding to himself, Mitch glanced at Brody again. They would figure this out, Mitch was sure of that. He folded the paper, putting it away again. He had promised Brody he’d be there for him, no matter what.
Settling back to try to sleep himself, Mitch reflected that when he made the promise, he’d had no idea just how much Brody would test him on that promise. He closed his eyes, resolved. Brody could test all he wanted, Mitch would hold firm.
Without a doubt.
-o-
Of course, it would be easier to hold firm without jet lag.
Mitch had slept marginally throughout the flight, but he’d spent most of it trying to keep his legs from cramping up in the small, confined space. The guy at the window seat had gotten a nervous bladder about half way through, resulting in numerous trips and down the aisle. Brody roused only a little for each movement, though his short legs were never a problem to climb over.
Mitch’s, however, were a huge impediment. He was getting up constantly, and people kept tripping over him in the aisle. By the time they landed, Brody yawned, rousing sleepily as Mitch glowered at nothing in particular.
“That felt good,” Brody concluded, and he did look somewhat refreshed.
It figured. Brody was contrary enough to find a cramp, crowded trans-Atlantic flight refreshing.
Positioning his seat in an upright position for landing, Brody blinked away the sleep from his eyes a few more times as he looked at Mitch. “Did you sleep much?”
Mitch wanted to say for Brody’s benefit.
All he could do was grunt instead.
“If it helps,” Brody said, sounding like he genuinely meant it. “I think my headache’s better.”
That was probably for the best, Mitch knew.
He just wished that Brody hadn’t somehow given it to him.
-o-
Things did not improve when they disembarked the plane. Retrieving the luggage was a time consuming and cumbersome process, and Lawson grabbed them a car, but he refused to spring for anything big, which left them scrunched together in the backseat of a cab with luggage on top of them. All business, Lawson hurriedly checked them into the hotel before insisting they check their luggage at the front desk and squeeze back into a different cab to head down to the aquatic center.
This seemed too fast for Mitch, but Brody seemed to think it was business as usual. Swimmers and coaches seemed awfully keen to get into the water, it seemed to Mitch, especially in new locations. As if somehow the water was different from one pool to another, as if the design of the structure made a difference.
As an ocean swimmer, Mitch couldn’t see it.
He’d fight Lawson on it, if he had to. But Brody’s general ambivalence made Mitch think maybe he was the one who was wrong in this case.
Besides, it wasn’t like they were the only swimmers checking in. In fact, they seemed to be behind the game, and the line was long. Lawson was so focused that he hardly noticed, but Mitch was starting to flag from the long flight and the obvious time change.
And if Mitch was flagging.
Brody was faring worse.
Much worse.
Mitch could see it in his disposition. The way he started to slump a little bit. The way his face lost its color. The way his eyes went sort of vacant when no one was talking to him. And the way he winced when someone got too close.
“Headache back already?” Mitch asked, keeping his voice low.
Brody startled somewhat. “What?”
“Your headache,” Mitch said, just as quiet but more purposeful. “Is it back?”
Brody shook his head absently. “It’s nothing.”
Funny, how each time Brody said that, Mitch started to believe it less.
-o-
Mitch was miserable, Brody was exhausted, but Lawson was hyped up.
“Look, this is good,” he said, handing informational packets to Mitch and Brody. “We have almost immediate pool access, and our training schedule is, like, perfect. We can easily maximize our time here, and we’ll be familiar with the landscape in no time.”
Brody nodded along, but there was no clear indication to Mitch that Brody had any idea what Lawson was saying. He looked almost like a zombie now.
“So as far as I’m concerned, we do this,” Lawson said, and Mitch had to wonder if this was pure adrenaline for Lawson or if he had someone found a source of coffee not known to Mitch. “The sooner we get in the pool, the better.”
Brody was still nodding along, when Mitch realized something. “But what about the physicals?” he interjected.
Lawson made a face. “The what?”
“The physicals,” Mitch said. “Aren’t they standard? Don’t we need to be signed off before we hit the pool?”
Lawson made another face, this one even more annoyed than the last. “Those things are so useless.”
“But they’re required,” Mitch said. He nodded to the packet in his hand, as if that corroborated his statement. He had no idea. He didn’t care. “We have to get signed off.”
It wasn’t in Lawson’s nature to take Mitch’s word, but Lawson did know race protocol. Mitch had to give him that. “Okay, yes, fine,” Lawson finally relented, confirming Mitch’s speculation. “First we go over to medical, get looked over, signed off -- and then we’re in the pool. Two hours, tops.”
The two hours sounded a little overly optimistic, but Lawson had agreed. Mitch knew better than to pick a fight when he was getting what he wanted.
“Great,” Mitch said, and he squeezed Brody’s shoulder. Then, looking at Brody’s dazed response, Mitch had a further inspiration. “Though you know, we could save some time if we divide and conquer.”
Most of the time, Lawson hated everything Mitch said by the sheer virtue of the fact that it was Mitch who said it. But this time, his interest seemed to be piqued.
Mitch shrugged with a casual affectation. He didn’t want to push his hand, even if he was going to really push his hand. “What if you go back to the hotel, get our gear in the rooms, and then prep things for training,” he suggested, going with the part Lawson would like best first. “I’ll take Brody over to medical and get that taken care of. When we’ll done, we’ll meet up with you, ready to go.”
This was, of course, a very optimistic view on things. Mitch had no intentions of hurrying the medical process, and he didn’t honestly have a strong intention to make good time getting Brody to the pool. No matter what the doctor might or might not say about Brody, Mitch knew as his best friend that the kid could use a breather.
Mitch didn’t much like misleading people as a general rule. But he would do it for a greater good.
Also, he was increasingly convinced that Lawson barely qualified as people.
All that said, Lawson’s face lit up at the idea. “That’s brilliant,” he said, snapping his fingers. “You do that, and I’ll get us ready to swim. I’m feeling good about this, guys, aren’t you?”
Brody barely managed a smile.
Mitch nodded steadily enough for both of them. “You bet,” he said, squeezing Brody’s shoulder again. “The best.”
-o-
With a plan in mind, Mitch’s own adrenaline was starting to kick in, which gave him the enthusiasm he needed to drag a jet lagged Brody around the complex. They were in Germany, which meant that most of the signage was still in a language Mitch couldn’t read, but there were at least many helpful event workers who spoke English enough to get them where they needed to go.
They had to wait for their turn with a doctor, and Mitch was more than content to let Brody close his eyes in the makeshift waiting room. It was true, Brody had gotten a lot of sleep in actuality, but Mitch suspected that his exhaustion was more than sleep. The long days of training, the strict diet regimen.
The headaches.
All good things to talk to a medical professional about.
When Brody’s name was called, Mitch made to get up with him. Brody gave him a funny look. “You’re coming back?”
Mitch stopped short, blinking a little dumbly. “Sure,” he said. “Don’t you want me to?”
“It’s a physical,” Brody said, eyebrows knitting together skeptically.
“I sat by you in the hospital,” Mitch reminded him.
“Sure, but this is literally a routine physical,” he said. “Like, it’s nothing.”
That was probably a valid point.
Shit, it was a valid point.
Why had Mitch not thought of that?
Why was he thinking that Brody was his kid?
What the hell was wrong with him?
“Oh, well,” Mitch said, trying not to look like a total weirdo who was about to accompany a grown man to his routine physical. “Just, uh, be sure to tell the doctor everything.”
“Everything?” Brody asked.
“Your headaches, you know,” Mitch said. “You should talk about your headaches.”
Glancing over to the nurse, who was waiting expectantly with her clipboard, Brody lowered his voice. “The headaches aren’t a big deal.”
“They are to you,” Mitch said.
“Dude,” Brody said, shaking his head. “I don’t think you understand what it is this is about.”
“Your health, I thought,” Mitch said.
“They just want to know if I’m good to race,” Brody told him. “Everything else is personal details. They don’t matter.”
It wasn’t particularly a surprise to hear Brody say that. Not that he believed it, but he’d been conditioned to believe. As much as Mitch wanted to, he couldn’t put that all on Lawson. No, Brody had been conditioned by a lifetime of searching for a family to call his own. Stripped down emotionally, the rawest parts of Brody were exposed like this.
Glaringly obvious, like a headache you finally couldn’t deny.
Mitch smiled tightly, forcing himself to swallow. “Just tell them about the headaches,” he said again, because he’d left his place at Baywatch to do more than keep Brody sober. He’d left to keep Brody his. “I’ll be here when you get out.”
Brody nodded a little before finally going after the waiting nurse. Mitch sat himself back down slowly, resigning himself to wait. This was how it was, being on the road with Brody. He helped him train as best he could, but it was Brody who had to perform in the water.
So far, Brody hadn’t let him down.
Mitch just hoped that he had it in him to deliver for a little bit longer.
In the pool -- and out.
-o-
The checkup was exceedingly fast.
Mitch wouldn’t exactly call it hasty -- he had no idea what the criteria were, so it would be unfair to judge -- but he’d barely sat down with a copy of the local newspaper (that he couldn’t read, being in German), when it seemed like Brody was being seen out.
This was disconcerting to Mitch. A 20 minute physical was not going to provide comprehensive exploration of any issue, much less something as hard to track as headaches.
Brody, however, looked relieved.
For him, it was probably like a test he felt like he’d passed. A box to check off on his pursuit of Olympic glory.
For Mitch, it felt like a rapidly diminishing possibility.
Hastily, Mitch got to his feet, striding forward to intercept Brody before he got very far. He didn’t recognize the nurse with him, but that was when he realized it wasn’t the nurse. It was the doctor.
Mitch knew this because her coat was embroidered with an MD.
Convenient.
She was about Mitch’s age, but severe in her disposition. Her dark brows were thick and uniform, and her hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. She didn’t quite smile as she held out papers for Mitch, but he presumed that she was trying to look sociable for some reason.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a packet of papers at Mitch. “He said that you handled the paperwork.”
Her accent was somewhat thick, but her English seemed clear enough. Mitch accepted the packet, glancing at it without really seeing it. “He’s good to go?” he asked.
“No physical limitations that I can see,” she reported. “Blood work, urine tests -- all pending. He’s cleared to practice.”
“Great, great,” Mitch said, trying to make it sound like it was great. And not that it wasn’t. Because he wanted Brody to be healthy; he wanted Brody to race. He wet his lips, hesitating for a moment. Then, he looked up, smiling broadly at the doctor. “Thank you, Doctor….?”
He was going for charming.
She all but grimaced in reply. “Dr. Stangl,” she replied. “And it is merely my job.”
“Sure, sure,” Mitch said, stalling for time, stalling for a segue. “I, um, was curious what you thought about his headaches?”
She frowned at this, casting a look toward Brody. Brody stared blankly back, making no attempt at denial, or, well, anything. “This is a cursory examination,” she said. “We did not talk about headaches.”
“Right, sure,” Mitch said. “It’s just, I don’t know. He gets them frequently during training, and they’ve started to affect his times.”
Brody ogled him, and Mitch was aware that he was sharing potentially private information in a moderately public setting. Not that he tended to think that headaches were a top secret occurrence, but things were different in the world of competitive swimming. You didn’t want to give anyone an edge.
Of course, not addressing the issue gave everyone the edge anyway.
Mitch was going with this while he had the chance.
“I just thought maybe you could offer some insight into the causes and how to manage them,” Mitch continued easily.
Brody was turning red, jaw starting to stiffen. “The doctor was just on her way to lunch, actually,” he said, voice low and purposeful as he stared at Mitch. “She doesn’t usually come out.”
“Lunch breaks are very short today,” the doctor confirmed, but she gave Brody another studious look. “How serious are the headaches?”
“They’re fine, really,” Brody said. He took the papers from Mitch and made a sloppy smile. “Thank you.”
“That bad, then,” the doctor said.
“What?” Brody asked, incredulous.
“Athletes at this level often dismiss more serious issues and seek treatment for more minor problems,” she said, still appraising Brody.
Mitch stepped forward with renewed enthusiasm. “That’s why I wanted to ask about it.”
Brody was shaking his head, a little more vehement than before. “I’m fine, really,” he said. “It’s manageable, and I’m late for training.”
The doctor believed this less than Mitch did. She didn’t have any sentimentality to distract her. With a perfunctory nod, she produced her card. “Here,” she said, holding it to Brody. When he didn’t take it, Mitch reached out and took it for him. “For a more in depth appointment, you may call my office.”
“It’s not necessary,” Brody said, turning away in a flush and heading toward the door. “I need to practice.”
Mitch pocketed the card, making eye contact with the doctor one more time. “Your office?”
“Same day appointment, guaranteed,” she said, and this time when she smiled, it almost looked like she meant it.
“Thank you,” Mitch said. “I appreciate it.”
“Eh,” she said, shrugging. “We all have a job, and we all must do the job. But this, I think you know.”
Mitch smiled back at her, inclining his head before turning to follow Brody out of the room.
He knew.
He knew far too well.
-o-
Brody was either mad or embarrassed or both. Whatever his motivation, he was ready to comply with Lawson’s every demand with apparent enthusiasm. By the time Mitch had caught up with Brody, he was already in the locker room, half changed. Mitch tried to get a word in, but Brody put him off, making his way to the pool deck instead where Lawson was waiting for them.
If Brody was unusually enthusiastic in his compliance, Lawson was damn near giddy in his planning. He was practically effervescent, animatedly explaining the day’s training regimen in the context of their week of pre-race prep.
Mitch had been around long enough that he understood most of it now, but Brody was entirely in the zone. When Lawson said jump, Brody didn’t ask how high. He just jumped higher every single time.
Watching him, Mitch had to admit, it was impressive. Brody was on his game today, keen and capable. After several hours, Brody showed no signs of slowing down, and it was actually Lawson for once who looked too tired to continue.
“Awesome work today,” he said, clapping Brody encouragingly on the shoulder. Lawson could be a good guy when he wanted to be, which was the part that pissed Mitch off more than anything else. “More performance like that, and this thing is ours.”
Brody, tired and winded, still beamed. “It feels good,” he said. He looked at Mitch. “I feel good.”
Lawson beamed. “This might just work after all.”
Mitch had to concede for once, maybe they were right. Maybe this would work out. Maybe everything was okay. Maybe Mitch could be optimistic this time.
-o-
Maybe not.
Because, see, Mitch wasn’t exactly an optimist. People thought he was, because he was upbeat, friendly and positive. Mitch liked to frame things in the best possible light, but he wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t blind or obtuse. He could see reality, more plainly than most people. That meant that he was never an optimist.
He was a realist.
And as much as he wanted to believe Brody, he had to contend with the truth.
The truth was this: after a long day of training, Brody all but collapsed back in the hotel room. He didn’t want to go out for dinner, but he barely ate any of the room service Mitch ordered. When they tried to talk training, Brody was too tired. When he popped on the television for fun, Brody closed his eyes.
He flinched when Mitch made noise.
He turned away when Mitch turned on the light.
Brody didn’t say anything, and he hid it well, but Mitch could see the signs better now. Brody was in the grip of a headache.
As much as he wanted to tell Brody I told you so, he also wanted Brody to recover. They would talk about it in the morning.
Mitch took out the doctor’s card, looking it over again. He looked at Brody, already asleep in the next bed.
They would definitely talk in the morning.
-o-
Mitch talked.
Brody didn’t listen.
“Maybe we should take the day,” Mitch suggested. He had managed to get Brody out to breakfast, but he appeared to be miserable while he poked at his carefully prepared eggs and chicken.
“We just got here,” Brody said, parroting Lawson’s intonation almost a little too well. “We have to train.”
“No, we don’t,” Mitch said. He was hungry, and he had already consumed most of his breakfast. “I can talk to Lawson.”
Brody was almost too weary for this argument. “What would we do anyway?”
The sheer indifference in his voice was the most telling giveaway yet. Decreased appetite, slow movements, excessive grimacing -- Brody’s headache hadn’t gone away yet. If anything, it was worse.
“We could go to the doctor,” Mitch suggested, preferring to address the issue head on at this point. “Deal with that headache you’re having.”
Brody closed his eyes for a second. “I’m fine.”
“You’re full of bullshit,” Mitch said. “And you can’t blame this on a lack of sleep. You’re the only person here not jetlagged, and you look the worst of everyone.”
Eyes open again, Brody mounted a feeble protest. “The training--”
“I can’t change the training,” Mitch said. “But we might be able to get you something to deal with the headaches.”
Without the stamina to put up a fight, Brody shook his head warily. “I just have to get through this competition,” he said. “Then we’re going home for a while. I just have to get through.”
Mitch was all about persistence, and he definitely wanted to reinforce to Brody the importance of finishing the shit he started, but the point had its limitations. “You can’t maintain this.”
“I have so far,” Brody said, even though the defiance seemed to use the very last of his energy reserves.
“Brody, come on,” Mitch said, because he didn’t want this it be an order. He wasn’t trying to make his a conflict. He just wanted to help. “Let me help you.”
For a second, Brody looked like he might cry. Like he might break into a thousand little pieces for Mitch to pick up.
But Brody was stronger than that. The last six months, the last year -- hell, his whole life. It’d all be training Brody not to break.
Until he couldn’t keep himself together anymore.
Mitch suspected Brody might be close to that point.
He just wasn’t there yet.
His face collected, and he drew himself up a little taller in his seat. “Just get me through this race,” he said, poking at his food without taking a bite. “That’s how you can help.”
“Brody--”
Brody put down his fork, notably still not taking a bite. “We should go,” he said. “Lawson doesn’t want me late.”
Mitch didn’t argue.
Somehow, he suspected, he wouldn’t need to.
-o-
Mitch had a hell of a habit of being right.
Because while Brody was early to practice, his performance was abysmal. He started off slow, and things just got worse. Lawson’s enthusiasm from the day before turned quickly to ire, and he was practically fuming on the deck while Brody struggled through the training routine in the water.
About an hour in, Mitch was ready to call it.
Two hours in, Brody was ready to almost pass out.
It was three hours, however, when Lawson finally told Brody to sit out to talk. He took a breath, aware that they weren’t alone, and he tried to smile for the benefit of the other people nearby. “If this is some attempt to make the competition underestimate you, you need to tell me now,” Lawson said. “Like, right now.”
Brody swallowed, shakily reaching for a towel as he stood on trembling legs. “I’ll spend the rest of the time in the weight room,” he said. “I promise.”
Lawson laughed, nervous and anxious. “So it’s not a trick?”
“Lay off,” Mitch said, stepping somewhat closer to Brody.
Lawson glanced around nervously, adjusting his stance as he clearly tried to temper his anger with his desire to communicate how pissed off he was. “We’re less than a week away,” he said, voice wavering so much that it sounded like he might cry. “You can’t do this shit less than a week away.”
Brody nodded weakly, but he wasn’t making eye contact. Mitch wasn’t sure if that was because he didn’t want to or because he couldn’t at this point. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”
Lawson’s breathing hitched, and Mitch watched as his hands curled into fists. Mitch took another step closer to Brody instinctively. “A week,” Lawson was hissing now. “All year you’ve trained, and you’re pulling this shit a week before the world championships.”
Brody was wavering now, so Mitch knew it wasn’t a question of choice. Pale complexion, diverted eyes, shaky stance: shit, Brody was barely keeping himself upright at this point.
“Maybe we should go back to the doctor,” Mitch suggested, very aware of the fact that Brody was starting to visibly teeter.
“Maybe we should go back to California where I found your ass,” Lawson said through gritted teeth.
“You’re more than welcome,” Mitch said, and this time he didn’t wait for things to worsen. He took Brody by the arm, steadying him with his presence alone. “Maybe they can upgrade your ticket to first class.”
Lawson was fuming, but other trainers were starting to watch now. With a measured breath, Lawson forced a smile. “You two finish up,” he said flatly. “I need to draw up some notes for tomorrow. Assuming, of course, that you’ll be up for it.”
It was a dark insinuation -- an unkind one.
Brody was too out of it to notice.
Mitch chose to ignore it.
Not for Lawson’s sake.
But for Brody’s.
“Great,” Lawson said, sounding like anything but great. “See you tomorrow.”
There was an implicit threat that didn’t mean shit to Mitch as Lawson stalked off. Instead, his focus was solely on Brody.
As much as he wanted to sit Brody down right then and there, he knew Lawson had a point. They were in public. Mitch wasn’t about to put the race over Brody’s health, but he also wasn’t going to sabotage Brody’s chances before he even had a chance to prove himself to the world.
Fortunately, Mitch was a trained lifeguard. Getting people to safety was sort of what it did.
Plus, Brody was tiny. He didn’t even need to lift Brody to get him where they needed to go.
“Come on,” he said under his breath, snaking one of his arms discreetly around Brody’s back as he reached down to grab their gear with the other.
Brody made a mumbled reply. “What?”
“Locker room,” Mitch said, wasting no time on making sure that Brody understood while he started leading them off. “Just follow me.”
Brody was confused, pain and weak -- but if there was anything ingrained into his head, it was to trust Mitch at all costs. Mitch had used that before.
He’d use it now.
With Mitch’s guidance, they made their way past the other swimmers. Mitch made a few polite polite head nods while he smiles the whole way back, not letting anyone see just how focused he was on his destination as he circumvented the rest of the path and cut straight to the locker rooms.
Not just the destination, Mitch reminded himself, pulling Brody a little tighter to him as they trudged along. He glanced down, looking at the top of Brody’s blonde tipped mop. The cargo, too.
As luck would have it, the locker room was designed for privacy with plenty of separate areas. Though several rooms were full, Mitch quickly guided Brody back to an unoccupied space. A few people looked twice, but Mitch kept Brody’s feet moving fast enough that no one got a good second look. It wasn’t until he was able to help Brody sit down that Mitch allowed his concern to show.
Kneeling down, he was almost eye to eye with Brody -- at least, he would have been, were Brody looking up. Instead, his head was still dipped forward, mouth open as he took rapid shallow breaths with his eyes closed.
It was as bad as Mitch had ever seen him.
Mitch’s stomach bunched into a knot. Maybe it was worse.
Gently, Mitch reached out, steadying the other man by the arms mostly to let him know that he was near. Victims often panic in desperate situations, and Brody wasn’t in the surf, but Mitch suspected he was drowning all the same.
“It’s just us now,” Mitch said, keeping his voice calm and low. Comforting. “You and me, Brody.”
Brody, eyes still shut, didn’t acknowledge him.
“So you got to work with me, buddy,” Mitch said. “Tell me how you’re doing.”
Brody still didn’t open his eyes, but he leaned into Mitch’s touch slightly. “I’m okay,” he breathed, the words just barely audible.
It was only mildly reassuring. Because the words were one thing. Brody’s entire demeanor right now was another. “You don’t seem very okay,” Mitch told him plainly. He tried to get a better look at Brody’s face. “It’s your head?”
Minutely, Brody bobbed his head forward.
Mitch prodded the conversation forward out of necessity. “Is it the same as before?”
Brody’s expression crinkled for a moment in obvious denial. “Worse,” he confirmed.
“Worse how?” Mitch pressed.
“Just, hurts,” Brody said haltingly. “Like, pounding. Behind the eyes. Around the back. Neck and shoulders.” He swallowed with a grimace. “Little nauseous.”
Mitch frowned at that. As a lifeguard, he had first aid training. But that was designed to keep people alive long enough for actual medical help. The question was, did Brody need actual medical treatment in an emergency setting? Mitch’s protective instincts wanted that, but he had to be rational. For Brody’s sake.
“Did it come on suddenly?” Mitch asked, fingers still on Brody’s arms. “Or has this been building?”
It was an answer he probably knew, but he couldn’t afford to make assumptions.
On the bench, brody took a small, strangled breath. “Building,” he said. “All day. Maybe longer.”
Maybe for weeks. Probably for months.
“And you didn’t take anything?” Mitch clarified. “Nothing today?”
Again, he knew the answer, but having Brody say it mattered. “No,” Brody said, barely shaking his head. “Not today.”
Or most days, Mitch knew. That wasn’t the point right now. The point now was that Brody had a debilitating headache. It fit the profile for his past headaches, but Mitch couldn’t be flippant about the possible causes. He knew that Brody was cognitively intact, and he was able to move on his own in minimal turns.
However, light sensitivity, nausea, neck pain, the works. Brody was probably well beyond the point of popping a few ibuprofen and calling it a night.
A hospital could help with the pain. There also might be some way to diagnose the cause of the headaches, benign or otherwise. They could also start to build a plan for prevention.
That said, it was the hospital. He wasn’t buying into all of Lawson’s PR shit, but there was some truth to some of it. Plus, it was impossible to say how Brody would respond. He could put up resistance if he felt threatened. His instincts during confrontation weren’t always the best.
That was to say, they were pretty bad.
Mitch couldn’t forget that Brody had gotten himself arrested for public intoxication when his birth mother strung him along. That choice had led to a risky plea deal that nearly got Brody killed. Twice.
Needless to say, Mitch had no desire to send Brody into an emotional tailspin.
He also had no intention of watching him suffer, much less torpedo his comeback.
There were still other practical considerations. If Mitch didn’t call an ambulance, Brody needed to be mobile sooner rather than later.
“Okay,” Mitch said, rocking back on his heels, hands still on Brody. “Can you stand?”
Brody’s small face of incredulity would have been hilarious if it didn’t make Mitch’s chest feel tight. “What?”
“Standing, walking,” Mitch said. “We can’t stay here in the locker room.”
This was not an answer Brody liked. “It feels better being still.”
Mitch nodded along even if Brody couldn’t see the gesture. “I know it,” he said. “But it’s a locker room. We need to get back to the hotel so you can rest.”
With some effort, Brody swallows, eyes still closed. “Rest is good.”
“So I need you to walk,” Mitch cajoled. “I’ll be right next to you, but you’ve got to do it.”
Brody looked like he was about ready to cry. “Do I have to?”
His voice had that thin quality again, that small sound that almost made him sound like a child.
Mitch hated that voice. It made it so much harder to do what was necessary, which sometimes meant making Brody suffer a little more for relief in the long run. Brody was hardly in a state to appreciate the logic, however. Even if Mitch was in a position wherein he couldn’t ignore it.
“Unless you want me to call an ambulance to do it for you,” Mitch said. It wasn’t that he wanted to be cruel, but he couldn’t let Brody know how shaky his resolve was when it came to Brody.
Drawing a breath, Brody finally opened his eyes. It took a moment -- it seemed like a long moment -- for his blue eyes to shakily fix on Mitch. Their eyes locked, and the understanding passed between them for a time. Mitch was serious about this shit; so was Brody. This was where they were best, Mitch and Brody: together.
After the taut, silent exchange, Brody finally nodded. “I can walk.”
His voice was still weak, but there was something steadier now.
That wasn’t much.
But it was enough for Mitch.
“Okay,” Mitch said, offering Brody a smile. “Let’s do this.”
-o-
Brody’s resolve was impressive, but it wasn’t a substitute for actual strength. Cooperative as he was, Brody was still weak. In fact, as Mitch helped him to his feet, Brody felt almost fragile to him. It was a fragility that Mitch hadn’t quite seen before. He’d seen Brody at his emotional breaking point, and he’d seen him fighting for his life in the hospital, but the headaches had stripped Brody of his vitality in a way that none of those other incidents had.
It was disconcerting, to say the least.
Mitch knew now, more than ever, that this wasn’t an issue he could let slide.
First things first, however. He had to get Brody home.
With some help, Brody managed to get changed out of his swim gear, and by the time they were walking out to the hotel, he was moving by himself. He kept his head down, eyes averted, but he stayed close to Mitch’s elbow, following step by step back to refuge.
-o-
Getting back was no small feat, but it wasn’t exactly the refuge that either of them might have hoped. Back in their room, Brody legitimately collapsed on the bed, leaving Mitch with the difficult decision of what to do next. Brody needed to eat, that much was simple fact. Brody hadn’t worked as hard today as some days, but that didn’t mean his body wasn’t in desperate need of fuel.
Of course, that fact was easier to say than to actually do. Brody was in serious pain, wherein movement made him feel worse. He had mentioned nausea, and Mitch had to suspect that the idea of eating would be not what Brody wanted at all.
Still, there had to be a happy medium.
Or, you know, a medium. They were a little past happy right now.
As a man of action, Mitch did what he could. He retrieved fresh water and whatever food they had on hand. Brody did his best to comply when Mitch asked him to eat. However, a third of a bottle of water and a few crackers was hardly a substantial dinner.
Even so, Brody was so miserable in the process, that Mitch’s willpower ran out when Brody said he was full.
Sighing, Mitch sat back and faced the inevitable truth. “We should call the doctor,” he concluded.
Brody groaned. “I’m fine,” he muttered. He took another drink, taking a bite of a power bar for good measure. “See?”
Mitch didn’t see, but he wasn’t objecting to Brody eating a little more. That didn’t mean that Mitch could be dissuaded from this point. “We just have to schedule an appointment, get looked at,” he said as reasonably as he could. “She might be able to give you something to help.”
Brody swallowed his food, taking another drink as if to prove some kind of point. “Can’t we just let it go?”
This time, Mitch allowed himself to scoff. “Look at you,” he said, gesturing at Brody, who was barely propped up on the bed. “You can’t eat, which means you don’t have the energy to train. If you don’t have the energy to train, you’re going to lose your edge in the pool. If that happens, then this whole thing has been for what? Nothing?”
Pale as he was, Brody still managed to go a little whiter. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, unable to hide the tremble in his voice. “Mitch, shit. I don’t know what to do. I’m tired and it hurts--”
He broke off, squeezing his eyes closed. From the pain, from the emotion -- Mitch wasn’t sure.
He just knew that he couldn’t stand there and watch.
Crossing closer, Mitch sat down on the bed next to Brody. “We can talk about it tomorrow,” he said,, resigning himself to another night of indecision. He reached a hand out, not surprised to find the muscles bunched tight in Brody’s shoulders. “Shit, man. Come on.”
Brody whimpered slightly, but he melted somewhat into Mitch’s touch. Mitch started to rub, keeping his hands steady but firm, working around the stiffness in Brody’s shoulder and then inching up into Brody’s neck.
After awhile, he asked Brody to lay on his side, and Brody readily complied. Awkward though it might have seemed, Mitch knew how to work the muscles. As Brody’s trainer, he’d done this kind of work before, usually at the poolside. Some people probably would have gotten the wrong idea, seeing Mitch massage Brody in a bed in a shared hotel room, but Mitch didn’t have time or energy to worry about how it looked.
All that mattered was that Brody was relaxing.
Within 20 minutes, Brody had slipped into an uneasy sleep.
Sitting back in the chair, Mitch watched him. He was uneasy, too, which was why he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night.
-o-
Sleep used to be the magic reset button.
But Brody was too tired, too strained, too weak. Even after a modest breakfast in the morning, full of protein and healthy fats, Brody just wasn’t quite himself. Mitch knew it; so did Brody.
“Remember what we talked about?” Mitch asked as they finished up eating. “The doctor?”
Brody shook his head. He had recovered enough to make him feign confidence. “We’ve only got a week left, right?” he asked, loading his fork with another bite that he was clearly forcing himself to eat. To prove Mitch wrong, maybe. Because he knew he needed the fuel, possibly. A futile gesture, completely.
“You of all people know what can happen in a week,” Mitch pointed out.
Brody’s face darkened at the reference. Six months into his stay at Baywatch, Brody’s undercover plea deal had been slated to last a week. In that time, Baywatch had nearly fallen apart and Brody had been overdosed with drugs and left for dead. A week could be a hell of a long time.
Decidedly, Brody looked down at his food. “I didn’t train much yesterday,” he said. “I have to do it today.”
Mitch had to sigh. “You can’t put this off forever.”
Brody clenched his jaw, looking up at Mitch. Not really defiant; desperate, maybe. “Just until after the world championships,” he said, quieter now. “Back in California, back at Baywatch, I’ll do it, okay? I’ll do whatever you want.”
It almost seemed reasonable.
It would have seemed reasonable, smart even, if Mitch hadn’t seen Brody’s steady deterioration in the last week.
And yet, Mitch hadn’t come here to run Brody’s life. He had come to support him.
“As long it doesn’t get any worse,” he finally said. He raised an eyebrow at Mitch critically. “Is that a deal?”
Brody smiled. “That’s a deal.”
-o-
And then it got worse.
Brody started off in the weight room, but he was exhausted quickly, unable to carry his normal loads. He petered out before his reps were done, and he was already visibly shaky by the time they met Lawson at the pool deck.
Lawson was all business most of the time, but his demeanor leading up to a major competition was proving to be almost insanity. He had ambitious training plans with little margin for error on Brody’s part. When Brody was feeling his best, this often meant that Brody’s performance was pushed to its limits for the better.
But in his current state?
It was setting Brody up for failure.
And it was setting Lawson up for frustration.
Brody handled failure as well as one could.
Lawson, on the other hand, did not handle frustration well at all. In fact, you might argue that he didn’t handle it at all.
An hour in, it was obvious that Brody wasn’t going to live up to the standard. Lawson actually lasted another half hour before he simply couldn’t take it any longer. Teeth clenched, he asked Brody to get out of the pool. They made it all the way to the saunas before he all but exploded in the relative privacy.
“Are you kidding me?” Lawson asked.
Brody slumped down to one of the seats in the sauna. Mitch noted that no one else was using the facility for now, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Privacy had its benefits, but he also knew that an audience could temper Lawson’s approach here.
Given Brody’s current state, Mitch thought that might be for the best.
At any rate, it wasn’t a choice for him to make anymore.
Lawson actually threw his clipboard. “Are you kidding me!”
It wasn’t a question this time; it was an expletive.
Brody flinched, lifting his head wearily to look at Lawson. “I know, I know,” he said. “It’s my head, okay? This headache--”
“I don’t give a shit what it is!” Lawson yelled now, his voice resounding off the enclosed space. “It’s unacceptable, that’s what it is. It’s utterly unacceptable. I did not come all the way to Germany for this.”
Brody looked truly apologetic. “It’s messing with my vision,” he confessed. He looked over to Mitch, as if hoping for some kind of support. “I can’t even think sometimes.”
Before Mitch could come up with anything to intervene, Lawson was yelling again. “And what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Seriously, though. What the hell does that even mean to me?”
Brody looked back at Lawson, eyes wide. “I don’t know.”
The plainness of the answer only made Lawson more anger. He bit off a curse, and he shook his head. “Kill the headache, any way you can,” he said, but it was clear there was no affection in his voice. “Overdose on ibuprofen, try Tylenol. Shit, go get a few drinks until it takes the edge off. It always helps me.”
Brody was in pain, but he wasn’t so out of it that he couldn’t argue his point of view this time. “I’m sober.”
“Well, no wonder you have a headache!” Lawson raged, flinging his arms out in protest. “You’re sober and the worst racer here! That’s amazing!”
This time, Mitch did intervene. “Hey,” he said. “His sobriety isn’t the problem here. He needs to be sober.”
“No,” Lawson said, increasingly agitated. “He needs to win races. In case you forgot, that is why we’re here. To win races.”
Mitch was stepping forward instinctively. He never looked for a fight, but he wasn’t about to stand down from a cause he believed in.
And he believed in Brody.
Damn it, he believed in him more than just about anything else at this point.
Lawson was so angry that he hardly flinched. Most of the time, he was aware of the fact that Mitch could snap him in two. Angry as he was, he seemed ready to dare Mitch to try.
Mitch’s protective instincts were flaring so strong that he might be willing him take him up on that.
It was Brody, compromised and weak, that finally broke the dangerous stalemate.
He got to his feet, stepping his way between them. “I can do it, okay? I can win races,” he said, so emphatically that Mitch almost wanted to believe him. “I can.”
Mitch’s belief was pending.
It was, however, exactly what Lawson wanted to hear.
Easing back, Lawson turned his eyes from Mitch to Brody. He observed him with some doubt, but Brody had mustered up enough resolve to convince him, despite all evidence to the contrary, that he could come through.
“You better,” Lawson said. He reached down and retrieved his clipboard, gathering the scattered papers. He looked at Brody without compassion, without reserve. “Or you can find a different coach to drag your sorry ass back to the Olympics.”
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
-o-
The good news was that Brody slept most of the flight.
The bad news was that Mitch didn’t.
Instead, Mitch sat and worried.
He had never been further from Baywatch. Literally. Shit, he was going to Europe. What the hell was he doing on a plane to Europe? However, the metaphorical meaning was probably more telling. When was the last time he’d been in the ocean? When had he last been in tower 2? When had he saved a life?
That was it, though, wasn’t it?
That was what he was doing.
One way or another, he was trying to save a life.
In the ocean, he had to fight riptides. That should have made it harder than this.
It didn’t.
Damn it, Brody made everything harder.
He glanced anxiously at the younger man, still sound asleep, head tipped back and mouth a little open while the man at the window seat shuffled restlessly. Mitch considered getting up, finding Lawson further up in the plane. Lawson was the only person around Brody enough to have any sense of what was going on -- he had to have perspective.
Except Lawson didn’t give a shit. He didn’t want to talk about Brody’s so-called personal problems, and he deemed Brody’s physical well being only relevant when it impeded his times. That made Lawson a bad cohort in this.
In fact, it made him a risky cohort. The last thing Mitch wanted was to further upend Brody’s training schedule.
Or did he?
Maybe Brody needed it upended?
But how would he compete without it?
At this point, however, Mitch had to seriously consider whether competition was the most important part of this process. He knew why they’d started it -- he’d been the one to push Brody into the pool in the first place. Quite literally. But it wasn’t supposed to be a scorched earth campaign -- especially when the earth was Brody himself.
No matter how much Brody liked to downplay it, the headaches were becoming a significant issue. They were becoming more frequent -- Mitch had known that, but he hadn’t known until today just how frequent they were. Once or twice a month -- Mitch had deemed that kind of to be expected, considering the amount of physical exertion Brody had to put into his training.
Traveling did seem to make them worse, if Mitch thought about it carefully. Back at home, when they were at Baywatch, Brody never had issues. He was always at his best there, posting consistently solid times in training. More importantly, however, he seemed happier, more fulfilled.
On the road, with the extended support structure gone, Brody’s focus took its toll on him in more ways than Mitch had realized. Now that they were traveling overseas, Mitch feared that things were going to spiral rapidly out of control.
Mitch was Brody’s best friend and he would play personal trainer any day of the week. That said, he didn’t have the knowledge or expertise to know what to do. Lawson might, but Lawson was an unreliable asshole, so that was a no-go.
Then, Mitch remembered something from their itinerary.
Reaching down, Mitch retrieved his bag from under the seat, shuffling through it until he found the printed itinerary Lawson had produced for Brody. A lot of it was about training schedules and when there was pool access. Check in times and race starts were highlighted in excessive detail.
And there, a small notation at the start.
Routine physicals and drug testing.
It was a required element of most major competitions, and the world championships had it slated for the afternoon after they landed. Doctors and trainers were provided by the competition board, which meant that they were mostly neutral. At least, they weren’t connected to Lawson, which meant they didn’t have the same motivations.
Mitch had to hope that meant there would be an accurate assessment of Brody’s condition.
And that it would be confidential.
Nodding to himself, Mitch glanced at Brody again. They would figure this out, Mitch was sure of that. He folded the paper, putting it away again. He had promised Brody he’d be there for him, no matter what.
Settling back to try to sleep himself, Mitch reflected that when he made the promise, he’d had no idea just how much Brody would test him on that promise. He closed his eyes, resolved. Brody could test all he wanted, Mitch would hold firm.
Without a doubt.
-o-
Of course, it would be easier to hold firm without jet lag.
Mitch had slept marginally throughout the flight, but he’d spent most of it trying to keep his legs from cramping up in the small, confined space. The guy at the window seat had gotten a nervous bladder about half way through, resulting in numerous trips and down the aisle. Brody roused only a little for each movement, though his short legs were never a problem to climb over.
Mitch’s, however, were a huge impediment. He was getting up constantly, and people kept tripping over him in the aisle. By the time they landed, Brody yawned, rousing sleepily as Mitch glowered at nothing in particular.
“That felt good,” Brody concluded, and he did look somewhat refreshed.
It figured. Brody was contrary enough to find a cramp, crowded trans-Atlantic flight refreshing.
Positioning his seat in an upright position for landing, Brody blinked away the sleep from his eyes a few more times as he looked at Mitch. “Did you sleep much?”
Mitch wanted to say for Brody’s benefit.
All he could do was grunt instead.
“If it helps,” Brody said, sounding like he genuinely meant it. “I think my headache’s better.”
That was probably for the best, Mitch knew.
He just wished that Brody hadn’t somehow given it to him.
-o-
Things did not improve when they disembarked the plane. Retrieving the luggage was a time consuming and cumbersome process, and Lawson grabbed them a car, but he refused to spring for anything big, which left them scrunched together in the backseat of a cab with luggage on top of them. All business, Lawson hurriedly checked them into the hotel before insisting they check their luggage at the front desk and squeeze back into a different cab to head down to the aquatic center.
This seemed too fast for Mitch, but Brody seemed to think it was business as usual. Swimmers and coaches seemed awfully keen to get into the water, it seemed to Mitch, especially in new locations. As if somehow the water was different from one pool to another, as if the design of the structure made a difference.
As an ocean swimmer, Mitch couldn’t see it.
He’d fight Lawson on it, if he had to. But Brody’s general ambivalence made Mitch think maybe he was the one who was wrong in this case.
Besides, it wasn’t like they were the only swimmers checking in. In fact, they seemed to be behind the game, and the line was long. Lawson was so focused that he hardly noticed, but Mitch was starting to flag from the long flight and the obvious time change.
And if Mitch was flagging.
Brody was faring worse.
Much worse.
Mitch could see it in his disposition. The way he started to slump a little bit. The way his face lost its color. The way his eyes went sort of vacant when no one was talking to him. And the way he winced when someone got too close.
“Headache back already?” Mitch asked, keeping his voice low.
Brody startled somewhat. “What?”
“Your headache,” Mitch said, just as quiet but more purposeful. “Is it back?”
Brody shook his head absently. “It’s nothing.”
Funny, how each time Brody said that, Mitch started to believe it less.
-o-
Mitch was miserable, Brody was exhausted, but Lawson was hyped up.
“Look, this is good,” he said, handing informational packets to Mitch and Brody. “We have almost immediate pool access, and our training schedule is, like, perfect. We can easily maximize our time here, and we’ll be familiar with the landscape in no time.”
Brody nodded along, but there was no clear indication to Mitch that Brody had any idea what Lawson was saying. He looked almost like a zombie now.
“So as far as I’m concerned, we do this,” Lawson said, and Mitch had to wonder if this was pure adrenaline for Lawson or if he had someone found a source of coffee not known to Mitch. “The sooner we get in the pool, the better.”
Brody was still nodding along, when Mitch realized something. “But what about the physicals?” he interjected.
Lawson made a face. “The what?”
“The physicals,” Mitch said. “Aren’t they standard? Don’t we need to be signed off before we hit the pool?”
Lawson made another face, this one even more annoyed than the last. “Those things are so useless.”
“But they’re required,” Mitch said. He nodded to the packet in his hand, as if that corroborated his statement. He had no idea. He didn’t care. “We have to get signed off.”
It wasn’t in Lawson’s nature to take Mitch’s word, but Lawson did know race protocol. Mitch had to give him that. “Okay, yes, fine,” Lawson finally relented, confirming Mitch’s speculation. “First we go over to medical, get looked over, signed off -- and then we’re in the pool. Two hours, tops.”
The two hours sounded a little overly optimistic, but Lawson had agreed. Mitch knew better than to pick a fight when he was getting what he wanted.
“Great,” Mitch said, and he squeezed Brody’s shoulder. Then, looking at Brody’s dazed response, Mitch had a further inspiration. “Though you know, we could save some time if we divide and conquer.”
Most of the time, Lawson hated everything Mitch said by the sheer virtue of the fact that it was Mitch who said it. But this time, his interest seemed to be piqued.
Mitch shrugged with a casual affectation. He didn’t want to push his hand, even if he was going to really push his hand. “What if you go back to the hotel, get our gear in the rooms, and then prep things for training,” he suggested, going with the part Lawson would like best first. “I’ll take Brody over to medical and get that taken care of. When we’ll done, we’ll meet up with you, ready to go.”
This was, of course, a very optimistic view on things. Mitch had no intentions of hurrying the medical process, and he didn’t honestly have a strong intention to make good time getting Brody to the pool. No matter what the doctor might or might not say about Brody, Mitch knew as his best friend that the kid could use a breather.
Mitch didn’t much like misleading people as a general rule. But he would do it for a greater good.
Also, he was increasingly convinced that Lawson barely qualified as people.
All that said, Lawson’s face lit up at the idea. “That’s brilliant,” he said, snapping his fingers. “You do that, and I’ll get us ready to swim. I’m feeling good about this, guys, aren’t you?”
Brody barely managed a smile.
Mitch nodded steadily enough for both of them. “You bet,” he said, squeezing Brody’s shoulder again. “The best.”
-o-
With a plan in mind, Mitch’s own adrenaline was starting to kick in, which gave him the enthusiasm he needed to drag a jet lagged Brody around the complex. They were in Germany, which meant that most of the signage was still in a language Mitch couldn’t read, but there were at least many helpful event workers who spoke English enough to get them where they needed to go.
They had to wait for their turn with a doctor, and Mitch was more than content to let Brody close his eyes in the makeshift waiting room. It was true, Brody had gotten a lot of sleep in actuality, but Mitch suspected that his exhaustion was more than sleep. The long days of training, the strict diet regimen.
The headaches.
All good things to talk to a medical professional about.
When Brody’s name was called, Mitch made to get up with him. Brody gave him a funny look. “You’re coming back?”
Mitch stopped short, blinking a little dumbly. “Sure,” he said. “Don’t you want me to?”
“It’s a physical,” Brody said, eyebrows knitting together skeptically.
“I sat by you in the hospital,” Mitch reminded him.
“Sure, but this is literally a routine physical,” he said. “Like, it’s nothing.”
That was probably a valid point.
Shit, it was a valid point.
Why had Mitch not thought of that?
Why was he thinking that Brody was his kid?
What the hell was wrong with him?
“Oh, well,” Mitch said, trying not to look like a total weirdo who was about to accompany a grown man to his routine physical. “Just, uh, be sure to tell the doctor everything.”
“Everything?” Brody asked.
“Your headaches, you know,” Mitch said. “You should talk about your headaches.”
Glancing over to the nurse, who was waiting expectantly with her clipboard, Brody lowered his voice. “The headaches aren’t a big deal.”
“They are to you,” Mitch said.
“Dude,” Brody said, shaking his head. “I don’t think you understand what it is this is about.”
“Your health, I thought,” Mitch said.
“They just want to know if I’m good to race,” Brody told him. “Everything else is personal details. They don’t matter.”
It wasn’t particularly a surprise to hear Brody say that. Not that he believed it, but he’d been conditioned to believe. As much as Mitch wanted to, he couldn’t put that all on Lawson. No, Brody had been conditioned by a lifetime of searching for a family to call his own. Stripped down emotionally, the rawest parts of Brody were exposed like this.
Glaringly obvious, like a headache you finally couldn’t deny.
Mitch smiled tightly, forcing himself to swallow. “Just tell them about the headaches,” he said again, because he’d left his place at Baywatch to do more than keep Brody sober. He’d left to keep Brody his. “I’ll be here when you get out.”
Brody nodded a little before finally going after the waiting nurse. Mitch sat himself back down slowly, resigning himself to wait. This was how it was, being on the road with Brody. He helped him train as best he could, but it was Brody who had to perform in the water.
So far, Brody hadn’t let him down.
Mitch just hoped that he had it in him to deliver for a little bit longer.
In the pool -- and out.
-o-
The checkup was exceedingly fast.
Mitch wouldn’t exactly call it hasty -- he had no idea what the criteria were, so it would be unfair to judge -- but he’d barely sat down with a copy of the local newspaper (that he couldn’t read, being in German), when it seemed like Brody was being seen out.
This was disconcerting to Mitch. A 20 minute physical was not going to provide comprehensive exploration of any issue, much less something as hard to track as headaches.
Brody, however, looked relieved.
For him, it was probably like a test he felt like he’d passed. A box to check off on his pursuit of Olympic glory.
For Mitch, it felt like a rapidly diminishing possibility.
Hastily, Mitch got to his feet, striding forward to intercept Brody before he got very far. He didn’t recognize the nurse with him, but that was when he realized it wasn’t the nurse. It was the doctor.
Mitch knew this because her coat was embroidered with an MD.
Convenient.
She was about Mitch’s age, but severe in her disposition. Her dark brows were thick and uniform, and her hair was pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. She didn’t quite smile as she held out papers for Mitch, but he presumed that she was trying to look sociable for some reason.
“Here,” she said, thrusting a packet of papers at Mitch. “He said that you handled the paperwork.”
Her accent was somewhat thick, but her English seemed clear enough. Mitch accepted the packet, glancing at it without really seeing it. “He’s good to go?” he asked.
“No physical limitations that I can see,” she reported. “Blood work, urine tests -- all pending. He’s cleared to practice.”
“Great, great,” Mitch said, trying to make it sound like it was great. And not that it wasn’t. Because he wanted Brody to be healthy; he wanted Brody to race. He wet his lips, hesitating for a moment. Then, he looked up, smiling broadly at the doctor. “Thank you, Doctor….?”
He was going for charming.
She all but grimaced in reply. “Dr. Stangl,” she replied. “And it is merely my job.”
“Sure, sure,” Mitch said, stalling for time, stalling for a segue. “I, um, was curious what you thought about his headaches?”
She frowned at this, casting a look toward Brody. Brody stared blankly back, making no attempt at denial, or, well, anything. “This is a cursory examination,” she said. “We did not talk about headaches.”
“Right, sure,” Mitch said. “It’s just, I don’t know. He gets them frequently during training, and they’ve started to affect his times.”
Brody ogled him, and Mitch was aware that he was sharing potentially private information in a moderately public setting. Not that he tended to think that headaches were a top secret occurrence, but things were different in the world of competitive swimming. You didn’t want to give anyone an edge.
Of course, not addressing the issue gave everyone the edge anyway.
Mitch was going with this while he had the chance.
“I just thought maybe you could offer some insight into the causes and how to manage them,” Mitch continued easily.
Brody was turning red, jaw starting to stiffen. “The doctor was just on her way to lunch, actually,” he said, voice low and purposeful as he stared at Mitch. “She doesn’t usually come out.”
“Lunch breaks are very short today,” the doctor confirmed, but she gave Brody another studious look. “How serious are the headaches?”
“They’re fine, really,” Brody said. He took the papers from Mitch and made a sloppy smile. “Thank you.”
“That bad, then,” the doctor said.
“What?” Brody asked, incredulous.
“Athletes at this level often dismiss more serious issues and seek treatment for more minor problems,” she said, still appraising Brody.
Mitch stepped forward with renewed enthusiasm. “That’s why I wanted to ask about it.”
Brody was shaking his head, a little more vehement than before. “I’m fine, really,” he said. “It’s manageable, and I’m late for training.”
The doctor believed this less than Mitch did. She didn’t have any sentimentality to distract her. With a perfunctory nod, she produced her card. “Here,” she said, holding it to Brody. When he didn’t take it, Mitch reached out and took it for him. “For a more in depth appointment, you may call my office.”
“It’s not necessary,” Brody said, turning away in a flush and heading toward the door. “I need to practice.”
Mitch pocketed the card, making eye contact with the doctor one more time. “Your office?”
“Same day appointment, guaranteed,” she said, and this time when she smiled, it almost looked like she meant it.
“Thank you,” Mitch said. “I appreciate it.”
“Eh,” she said, shrugging. “We all have a job, and we all must do the job. But this, I think you know.”
Mitch smiled back at her, inclining his head before turning to follow Brody out of the room.
He knew.
He knew far too well.
-o-
Brody was either mad or embarrassed or both. Whatever his motivation, he was ready to comply with Lawson’s every demand with apparent enthusiasm. By the time Mitch had caught up with Brody, he was already in the locker room, half changed. Mitch tried to get a word in, but Brody put him off, making his way to the pool deck instead where Lawson was waiting for them.
If Brody was unusually enthusiastic in his compliance, Lawson was damn near giddy in his planning. He was practically effervescent, animatedly explaining the day’s training regimen in the context of their week of pre-race prep.
Mitch had been around long enough that he understood most of it now, but Brody was entirely in the zone. When Lawson said jump, Brody didn’t ask how high. He just jumped higher every single time.
Watching him, Mitch had to admit, it was impressive. Brody was on his game today, keen and capable. After several hours, Brody showed no signs of slowing down, and it was actually Lawson for once who looked too tired to continue.
“Awesome work today,” he said, clapping Brody encouragingly on the shoulder. Lawson could be a good guy when he wanted to be, which was the part that pissed Mitch off more than anything else. “More performance like that, and this thing is ours.”
Brody, tired and winded, still beamed. “It feels good,” he said. He looked at Mitch. “I feel good.”
Lawson beamed. “This might just work after all.”
Mitch had to concede for once, maybe they were right. Maybe this would work out. Maybe everything was okay. Maybe Mitch could be optimistic this time.
-o-
Maybe not.
Because, see, Mitch wasn’t exactly an optimist. People thought he was, because he was upbeat, friendly and positive. Mitch liked to frame things in the best possible light, but he wasn’t a liar. He wasn’t blind or obtuse. He could see reality, more plainly than most people. That meant that he was never an optimist.
He was a realist.
And as much as he wanted to believe Brody, he had to contend with the truth.
The truth was this: after a long day of training, Brody all but collapsed back in the hotel room. He didn’t want to go out for dinner, but he barely ate any of the room service Mitch ordered. When they tried to talk training, Brody was too tired. When he popped on the television for fun, Brody closed his eyes.
He flinched when Mitch made noise.
He turned away when Mitch turned on the light.
Brody didn’t say anything, and he hid it well, but Mitch could see the signs better now. Brody was in the grip of a headache.
As much as he wanted to tell Brody I told you so, he also wanted Brody to recover. They would talk about it in the morning.
Mitch took out the doctor’s card, looking it over again. He looked at Brody, already asleep in the next bed.
They would definitely talk in the morning.
-o-
Mitch talked.
Brody didn’t listen.
“Maybe we should take the day,” Mitch suggested. He had managed to get Brody out to breakfast, but he appeared to be miserable while he poked at his carefully prepared eggs and chicken.
“We just got here,” Brody said, parroting Lawson’s intonation almost a little too well. “We have to train.”
“No, we don’t,” Mitch said. He was hungry, and he had already consumed most of his breakfast. “I can talk to Lawson.”
Brody was almost too weary for this argument. “What would we do anyway?”
The sheer indifference in his voice was the most telling giveaway yet. Decreased appetite, slow movements, excessive grimacing -- Brody’s headache hadn’t gone away yet. If anything, it was worse.
“We could go to the doctor,” Mitch suggested, preferring to address the issue head on at this point. “Deal with that headache you’re having.”
Brody closed his eyes for a second. “I’m fine.”
“You’re full of bullshit,” Mitch said. “And you can’t blame this on a lack of sleep. You’re the only person here not jetlagged, and you look the worst of everyone.”
Eyes open again, Brody mounted a feeble protest. “The training--”
“I can’t change the training,” Mitch said. “But we might be able to get you something to deal with the headaches.”
Without the stamina to put up a fight, Brody shook his head warily. “I just have to get through this competition,” he said. “Then we’re going home for a while. I just have to get through.”
Mitch was all about persistence, and he definitely wanted to reinforce to Brody the importance of finishing the shit he started, but the point had its limitations. “You can’t maintain this.”
“I have so far,” Brody said, even though the defiance seemed to use the very last of his energy reserves.
“Brody, come on,” Mitch said, because he didn’t want this it be an order. He wasn’t trying to make his a conflict. He just wanted to help. “Let me help you.”
For a second, Brody looked like he might cry. Like he might break into a thousand little pieces for Mitch to pick up.
But Brody was stronger than that. The last six months, the last year -- hell, his whole life. It’d all be training Brody not to break.
Until he couldn’t keep himself together anymore.
Mitch suspected Brody might be close to that point.
He just wasn’t there yet.
His face collected, and he drew himself up a little taller in his seat. “Just get me through this race,” he said, poking at his food without taking a bite. “That’s how you can help.”
“Brody--”
Brody put down his fork, notably still not taking a bite. “We should go,” he said. “Lawson doesn’t want me late.”
Mitch didn’t argue.
Somehow, he suspected, he wouldn’t need to.
-o-
Mitch had a hell of a habit of being right.
Because while Brody was early to practice, his performance was abysmal. He started off slow, and things just got worse. Lawson’s enthusiasm from the day before turned quickly to ire, and he was practically fuming on the deck while Brody struggled through the training routine in the water.
About an hour in, Mitch was ready to call it.
Two hours in, Brody was ready to almost pass out.
It was three hours, however, when Lawson finally told Brody to sit out to talk. He took a breath, aware that they weren’t alone, and he tried to smile for the benefit of the other people nearby. “If this is some attempt to make the competition underestimate you, you need to tell me now,” Lawson said. “Like, right now.”
Brody swallowed, shakily reaching for a towel as he stood on trembling legs. “I’ll spend the rest of the time in the weight room,” he said. “I promise.”
Lawson laughed, nervous and anxious. “So it’s not a trick?”
“Lay off,” Mitch said, stepping somewhat closer to Brody.
Lawson glanced around nervously, adjusting his stance as he clearly tried to temper his anger with his desire to communicate how pissed off he was. “We’re less than a week away,” he said, voice wavering so much that it sounded like he might cry. “You can’t do this shit less than a week away.”
Brody nodded weakly, but he wasn’t making eye contact. Mitch wasn’t sure if that was because he didn’t want to or because he couldn’t at this point. “I’ll be better tomorrow.”
Lawson’s breathing hitched, and Mitch watched as his hands curled into fists. Mitch took another step closer to Brody instinctively. “A week,” Lawson was hissing now. “All year you’ve trained, and you’re pulling this shit a week before the world championships.”
Brody was wavering now, so Mitch knew it wasn’t a question of choice. Pale complexion, diverted eyes, shaky stance: shit, Brody was barely keeping himself upright at this point.
“Maybe we should go back to the doctor,” Mitch suggested, very aware of the fact that Brody was starting to visibly teeter.
“Maybe we should go back to California where I found your ass,” Lawson said through gritted teeth.
“You’re more than welcome,” Mitch said, and this time he didn’t wait for things to worsen. He took Brody by the arm, steadying him with his presence alone. “Maybe they can upgrade your ticket to first class.”
Lawson was fuming, but other trainers were starting to watch now. With a measured breath, Lawson forced a smile. “You two finish up,” he said flatly. “I need to draw up some notes for tomorrow. Assuming, of course, that you’ll be up for it.”
It was a dark insinuation -- an unkind one.
Brody was too out of it to notice.
Mitch chose to ignore it.
Not for Lawson’s sake.
But for Brody’s.
“Great,” Lawson said, sounding like anything but great. “See you tomorrow.”
There was an implicit threat that didn’t mean shit to Mitch as Lawson stalked off. Instead, his focus was solely on Brody.
As much as he wanted to sit Brody down right then and there, he knew Lawson had a point. They were in public. Mitch wasn’t about to put the race over Brody’s health, but he also wasn’t going to sabotage Brody’s chances before he even had a chance to prove himself to the world.
Fortunately, Mitch was a trained lifeguard. Getting people to safety was sort of what it did.
Plus, Brody was tiny. He didn’t even need to lift Brody to get him where they needed to go.
“Come on,” he said under his breath, snaking one of his arms discreetly around Brody’s back as he reached down to grab their gear with the other.
Brody made a mumbled reply. “What?”
“Locker room,” Mitch said, wasting no time on making sure that Brody understood while he started leading them off. “Just follow me.”
Brody was confused, pain and weak -- but if there was anything ingrained into his head, it was to trust Mitch at all costs. Mitch had used that before.
He’d use it now.
With Mitch’s guidance, they made their way past the other swimmers. Mitch made a few polite polite head nods while he smiles the whole way back, not letting anyone see just how focused he was on his destination as he circumvented the rest of the path and cut straight to the locker rooms.
Not just the destination, Mitch reminded himself, pulling Brody a little tighter to him as they trudged along. He glanced down, looking at the top of Brody’s blonde tipped mop. The cargo, too.
As luck would have it, the locker room was designed for privacy with plenty of separate areas. Though several rooms were full, Mitch quickly guided Brody back to an unoccupied space. A few people looked twice, but Mitch kept Brody’s feet moving fast enough that no one got a good second look. It wasn’t until he was able to help Brody sit down that Mitch allowed his concern to show.
Kneeling down, he was almost eye to eye with Brody -- at least, he would have been, were Brody looking up. Instead, his head was still dipped forward, mouth open as he took rapid shallow breaths with his eyes closed.
It was as bad as Mitch had ever seen him.
Mitch’s stomach bunched into a knot. Maybe it was worse.
Gently, Mitch reached out, steadying the other man by the arms mostly to let him know that he was near. Victims often panic in desperate situations, and Brody wasn’t in the surf, but Mitch suspected he was drowning all the same.
“It’s just us now,” Mitch said, keeping his voice calm and low. Comforting. “You and me, Brody.”
Brody, eyes still shut, didn’t acknowledge him.
“So you got to work with me, buddy,” Mitch said. “Tell me how you’re doing.”
Brody still didn’t open his eyes, but he leaned into Mitch’s touch slightly. “I’m okay,” he breathed, the words just barely audible.
It was only mildly reassuring. Because the words were one thing. Brody’s entire demeanor right now was another. “You don’t seem very okay,” Mitch told him plainly. He tried to get a better look at Brody’s face. “It’s your head?”
Minutely, Brody bobbed his head forward.
Mitch prodded the conversation forward out of necessity. “Is it the same as before?”
Brody’s expression crinkled for a moment in obvious denial. “Worse,” he confirmed.
“Worse how?” Mitch pressed.
“Just, hurts,” Brody said haltingly. “Like, pounding. Behind the eyes. Around the back. Neck and shoulders.” He swallowed with a grimace. “Little nauseous.”
Mitch frowned at that. As a lifeguard, he had first aid training. But that was designed to keep people alive long enough for actual medical help. The question was, did Brody need actual medical treatment in an emergency setting? Mitch’s protective instincts wanted that, but he had to be rational. For Brody’s sake.
“Did it come on suddenly?” Mitch asked, fingers still on Brody’s arms. “Or has this been building?”
It was an answer he probably knew, but he couldn’t afford to make assumptions.
On the bench, brody took a small, strangled breath. “Building,” he said. “All day. Maybe longer.”
Maybe for weeks. Probably for months.
“And you didn’t take anything?” Mitch clarified. “Nothing today?”
Again, he knew the answer, but having Brody say it mattered. “No,” Brody said, barely shaking his head. “Not today.”
Or most days, Mitch knew. That wasn’t the point right now. The point now was that Brody had a debilitating headache. It fit the profile for his past headaches, but Mitch couldn’t be flippant about the possible causes. He knew that Brody was cognitively intact, and he was able to move on his own in minimal turns.
However, light sensitivity, nausea, neck pain, the works. Brody was probably well beyond the point of popping a few ibuprofen and calling it a night.
A hospital could help with the pain. There also might be some way to diagnose the cause of the headaches, benign or otherwise. They could also start to build a plan for prevention.
That said, it was the hospital. He wasn’t buying into all of Lawson’s PR shit, but there was some truth to some of it. Plus, it was impossible to say how Brody would respond. He could put up resistance if he felt threatened. His instincts during confrontation weren’t always the best.
That was to say, they were pretty bad.
Mitch couldn’t forget that Brody had gotten himself arrested for public intoxication when his birth mother strung him along. That choice had led to a risky plea deal that nearly got Brody killed. Twice.
Needless to say, Mitch had no desire to send Brody into an emotional tailspin.
He also had no intention of watching him suffer, much less torpedo his comeback.
There were still other practical considerations. If Mitch didn’t call an ambulance, Brody needed to be mobile sooner rather than later.
“Okay,” Mitch said, rocking back on his heels, hands still on Brody. “Can you stand?”
Brody’s small face of incredulity would have been hilarious if it didn’t make Mitch’s chest feel tight. “What?”
“Standing, walking,” Mitch said. “We can’t stay here in the locker room.”
This was not an answer Brody liked. “It feels better being still.”
Mitch nodded along even if Brody couldn’t see the gesture. “I know it,” he said. “But it’s a locker room. We need to get back to the hotel so you can rest.”
With some effort, Brody swallows, eyes still closed. “Rest is good.”
“So I need you to walk,” Mitch cajoled. “I’ll be right next to you, but you’ve got to do it.”
Brody looked like he was about ready to cry. “Do I have to?”
His voice had that thin quality again, that small sound that almost made him sound like a child.
Mitch hated that voice. It made it so much harder to do what was necessary, which sometimes meant making Brody suffer a little more for relief in the long run. Brody was hardly in a state to appreciate the logic, however. Even if Mitch was in a position wherein he couldn’t ignore it.
“Unless you want me to call an ambulance to do it for you,” Mitch said. It wasn’t that he wanted to be cruel, but he couldn’t let Brody know how shaky his resolve was when it came to Brody.
Drawing a breath, Brody finally opened his eyes. It took a moment -- it seemed like a long moment -- for his blue eyes to shakily fix on Mitch. Their eyes locked, and the understanding passed between them for a time. Mitch was serious about this shit; so was Brody. This was where they were best, Mitch and Brody: together.
After the taut, silent exchange, Brody finally nodded. “I can walk.”
His voice was still weak, but there was something steadier now.
That wasn’t much.
But it was enough for Mitch.
“Okay,” Mitch said, offering Brody a smile. “Let’s do this.”
-o-
Brody’s resolve was impressive, but it wasn’t a substitute for actual strength. Cooperative as he was, Brody was still weak. In fact, as Mitch helped him to his feet, Brody felt almost fragile to him. It was a fragility that Mitch hadn’t quite seen before. He’d seen Brody at his emotional breaking point, and he’d seen him fighting for his life in the hospital, but the headaches had stripped Brody of his vitality in a way that none of those other incidents had.
It was disconcerting, to say the least.
Mitch knew now, more than ever, that this wasn’t an issue he could let slide.
First things first, however. He had to get Brody home.
With some help, Brody managed to get changed out of his swim gear, and by the time they were walking out to the hotel, he was moving by himself. He kept his head down, eyes averted, but he stayed close to Mitch’s elbow, following step by step back to refuge.
-o-
Getting back was no small feat, but it wasn’t exactly the refuge that either of them might have hoped. Back in their room, Brody legitimately collapsed on the bed, leaving Mitch with the difficult decision of what to do next. Brody needed to eat, that much was simple fact. Brody hadn’t worked as hard today as some days, but that didn’t mean his body wasn’t in desperate need of fuel.
Of course, that fact was easier to say than to actually do. Brody was in serious pain, wherein movement made him feel worse. He had mentioned nausea, and Mitch had to suspect that the idea of eating would be not what Brody wanted at all.
Still, there had to be a happy medium.
Or, you know, a medium. They were a little past happy right now.
As a man of action, Mitch did what he could. He retrieved fresh water and whatever food they had on hand. Brody did his best to comply when Mitch asked him to eat. However, a third of a bottle of water and a few crackers was hardly a substantial dinner.
Even so, Brody was so miserable in the process, that Mitch’s willpower ran out when Brody said he was full.
Sighing, Mitch sat back and faced the inevitable truth. “We should call the doctor,” he concluded.
Brody groaned. “I’m fine,” he muttered. He took another drink, taking a bite of a power bar for good measure. “See?”
Mitch didn’t see, but he wasn’t objecting to Brody eating a little more. That didn’t mean that Mitch could be dissuaded from this point. “We just have to schedule an appointment, get looked at,” he said as reasonably as he could. “She might be able to give you something to help.”
Brody swallowed his food, taking another drink as if to prove some kind of point. “Can’t we just let it go?”
This time, Mitch allowed himself to scoff. “Look at you,” he said, gesturing at Brody, who was barely propped up on the bed. “You can’t eat, which means you don’t have the energy to train. If you don’t have the energy to train, you’re going to lose your edge in the pool. If that happens, then this whole thing has been for what? Nothing?”
Pale as he was, Brody still managed to go a little whiter. “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted, unable to hide the tremble in his voice. “Mitch, shit. I don’t know what to do. I’m tired and it hurts--”
He broke off, squeezing his eyes closed. From the pain, from the emotion -- Mitch wasn’t sure.
He just knew that he couldn’t stand there and watch.
Crossing closer, Mitch sat down on the bed next to Brody. “We can talk about it tomorrow,” he said,, resigning himself to another night of indecision. He reached a hand out, not surprised to find the muscles bunched tight in Brody’s shoulders. “Shit, man. Come on.”
Brody whimpered slightly, but he melted somewhat into Mitch’s touch. Mitch started to rub, keeping his hands steady but firm, working around the stiffness in Brody’s shoulder and then inching up into Brody’s neck.
After awhile, he asked Brody to lay on his side, and Brody readily complied. Awkward though it might have seemed, Mitch knew how to work the muscles. As Brody’s trainer, he’d done this kind of work before, usually at the poolside. Some people probably would have gotten the wrong idea, seeing Mitch massage Brody in a bed in a shared hotel room, but Mitch didn’t have time or energy to worry about how it looked.
All that mattered was that Brody was relaxing.
Within 20 minutes, Brody had slipped into an uneasy sleep.
Sitting back in the chair, Mitch watched him. He was uneasy, too, which was why he wouldn’t sleep a wink that night.
-o-
Sleep used to be the magic reset button.
But Brody was too tired, too strained, too weak. Even after a modest breakfast in the morning, full of protein and healthy fats, Brody just wasn’t quite himself. Mitch knew it; so did Brody.
“Remember what we talked about?” Mitch asked as they finished up eating. “The doctor?”
Brody shook his head. He had recovered enough to make him feign confidence. “We’ve only got a week left, right?” he asked, loading his fork with another bite that he was clearly forcing himself to eat. To prove Mitch wrong, maybe. Because he knew he needed the fuel, possibly. A futile gesture, completely.
“You of all people know what can happen in a week,” Mitch pointed out.
Brody’s face darkened at the reference. Six months into his stay at Baywatch, Brody’s undercover plea deal had been slated to last a week. In that time, Baywatch had nearly fallen apart and Brody had been overdosed with drugs and left for dead. A week could be a hell of a long time.
Decidedly, Brody looked down at his food. “I didn’t train much yesterday,” he said. “I have to do it today.”
Mitch had to sigh. “You can’t put this off forever.”
Brody clenched his jaw, looking up at Mitch. Not really defiant; desperate, maybe. “Just until after the world championships,” he said, quieter now. “Back in California, back at Baywatch, I’ll do it, okay? I’ll do whatever you want.”
It almost seemed reasonable.
It would have seemed reasonable, smart even, if Mitch hadn’t seen Brody’s steady deterioration in the last week.
And yet, Mitch hadn’t come here to run Brody’s life. He had come to support him.
“As long it doesn’t get any worse,” he finally said. He raised an eyebrow at Mitch critically. “Is that a deal?”
Brody smiled. “That’s a deal.”
-o-
And then it got worse.
Brody started off in the weight room, but he was exhausted quickly, unable to carry his normal loads. He petered out before his reps were done, and he was already visibly shaky by the time they met Lawson at the pool deck.
Lawson was all business most of the time, but his demeanor leading up to a major competition was proving to be almost insanity. He had ambitious training plans with little margin for error on Brody’s part. When Brody was feeling his best, this often meant that Brody’s performance was pushed to its limits for the better.
But in his current state?
It was setting Brody up for failure.
And it was setting Lawson up for frustration.
Brody handled failure as well as one could.
Lawson, on the other hand, did not handle frustration well at all. In fact, you might argue that he didn’t handle it at all.
An hour in, it was obvious that Brody wasn’t going to live up to the standard. Lawson actually lasted another half hour before he simply couldn’t take it any longer. Teeth clenched, he asked Brody to get out of the pool. They made it all the way to the saunas before he all but exploded in the relative privacy.
“Are you kidding me?” Lawson asked.
Brody slumped down to one of the seats in the sauna. Mitch noted that no one else was using the facility for now, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Privacy had its benefits, but he also knew that an audience could temper Lawson’s approach here.
Given Brody’s current state, Mitch thought that might be for the best.
At any rate, it wasn’t a choice for him to make anymore.
Lawson actually threw his clipboard. “Are you kidding me!”
It wasn’t a question this time; it was an expletive.
Brody flinched, lifting his head wearily to look at Lawson. “I know, I know,” he said. “It’s my head, okay? This headache--”
“I don’t give a shit what it is!” Lawson yelled now, his voice resounding off the enclosed space. “It’s unacceptable, that’s what it is. It’s utterly unacceptable. I did not come all the way to Germany for this.”
Brody looked truly apologetic. “It’s messing with my vision,” he confessed. He looked over to Mitch, as if hoping for some kind of support. “I can’t even think sometimes.”
Before Mitch could come up with anything to intervene, Lawson was yelling again. “And what the hell am I supposed to do with that? Seriously, though. What the hell does that even mean to me?”
Brody looked back at Lawson, eyes wide. “I don’t know.”
The plainness of the answer only made Lawson more anger. He bit off a curse, and he shook his head. “Kill the headache, any way you can,” he said, but it was clear there was no affection in his voice. “Overdose on ibuprofen, try Tylenol. Shit, go get a few drinks until it takes the edge off. It always helps me.”
Brody was in pain, but he wasn’t so out of it that he couldn’t argue his point of view this time. “I’m sober.”
“Well, no wonder you have a headache!” Lawson raged, flinging his arms out in protest. “You’re sober and the worst racer here! That’s amazing!”
This time, Mitch did intervene. “Hey,” he said. “His sobriety isn’t the problem here. He needs to be sober.”
“No,” Lawson said, increasingly agitated. “He needs to win races. In case you forgot, that is why we’re here. To win races.”
Mitch was stepping forward instinctively. He never looked for a fight, but he wasn’t about to stand down from a cause he believed in.
And he believed in Brody.
Damn it, he believed in him more than just about anything else at this point.
Lawson was so angry that he hardly flinched. Most of the time, he was aware of the fact that Mitch could snap him in two. Angry as he was, he seemed ready to dare Mitch to try.
Mitch’s protective instincts were flaring so strong that he might be willing him take him up on that.
It was Brody, compromised and weak, that finally broke the dangerous stalemate.
He got to his feet, stepping his way between them. “I can do it, okay? I can win races,” he said, so emphatically that Mitch almost wanted to believe him. “I can.”
Mitch’s belief was pending.
It was, however, exactly what Lawson wanted to hear.
Easing back, Lawson turned his eyes from Mitch to Brody. He observed him with some doubt, but Brody had mustered up enough resolve to convince him, despite all evidence to the contrary, that he could come through.
“You better,” Lawson said. He reached down and retrieved his clipboard, gathering the scattered papers. He looked at Brody without compassion, without reserve. “Or you can find a different coach to drag your sorry ass back to the Olympics.”