Baywatch fic: The Last Leg (1/9)

[faye_dartmouth]

Title: The Last Leg

Rating: M

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Fills my vehicle collision square for hc_bingo. The final part of the Gold Medal Verse. No beta.

Summary: Mitch knows that Brody has to finish what he’s started; he just never realized he had to finish his own journey, too.

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE
PART SIX
PART SEVEN
PART EIGHT
PART NINE



-o-

When Mitch had pushed Brody into a pool two years ago, he’d done so under several assumptions. First, that Brody wanted to be in the pool competing again. Second, that Brody was still physical able to compete at the highest levels. Third, that it would be a journey of personal discovery and satisfaction that would culminate with Brody feeling like a fully self actualized adult.

Mitch had been right about the first two.

That last point, though?

Was still pending.

Because every time Mitch thought they’d conquered Brody’s demons, they kept coming back and raging at him. Over the last two years, Mitch had helped overcome alcohol abuse, beat back crippling migraines and kick an abusive coach to the curb. Brody had earned a place as one of the most exciting swimmers in the world, and the sports community was already talking about the potential of his redemption at the next Olympics.

With the Olympic trials a week away, there was every indication that Brody had this thing in the bag.

But this was Brody.

Nothing was ever easy, predictable or straightforward where Brody was concerned.

-o-

Mitch wasn’t sure what the root problem was. Some people might say it was the headaches. For all the coping mechanisms they’d developed over the last year, they still proved debilitating from time to time, and in the last few weeks, Brody had had them more days than not. Accordingly, his times were off and his performance was heavily erratic, no matter how Mitch modified the training schedule.

Other people would speculate that the additional press coverage was to blame. Press coverage had been steadily increasing for months, but swimming wasn’t a sport that generally garnered a lot of attention until the Olympics came around. With the trials fast approaching, Brody’s story was being picked up by a lot of news outlets. While much of this coverage was on the up and up, trying to sell Brody as a redemption story, not all of it was positive.

This is why people would blame the tabloid media. Brody’s performance as the Vomit Comet had earned him a place of dishonor in the tabloids, and while his solid performance over the last few months had caught the interest of reputable publications, the less reputable ones were looking to cash in as well. Lots of people loved a redemption story. But the potential for Brody to crash and burn again was apparently also a real headline grabber. The tabloids wrote copious stories about how Brody was back on drugs, about how he was drinking himself to death, how he was just barely holding onto his sanity. To substantiate their claims, the tabloid press stalked Brody everywhere he went, looking for any picture that caught him being sluggish, disoriented or otherwise surly.

Given Brody’s headaches, there were plenty of opportunities.

This meant more stories were published.

And Brody had more headaches.

The circular nature of Brody’s issues made it impossible to isolate the cause and fix it. Therefore, Mitch took to trying to break the cycle whenever and however he could. Treat a migraine; avoid the press; keep Brody going.

Mitch wasn’t ready to concede that Brody might be in over his head.

Or that Mitch was definitely in over his.

-o-

“Ah, man,” Brody moaned, looking at his phone. “Did you see this?”

Mitch wasn’t looking at the phone, but he knew what Brody was probably talking about. That was why he insisted, most steadily, that he had no idea what it was about. “Nope.”

Brody was sprawled on his bed in the hotel room, propped up by pillows. The trials were upcoming in Chicago, and they had been in town for a week now training. “Vomit Comet On Drugs: Puking is the least of Matt Brody’s concerns with new reports that the disgraced swimmer is using street drugs.”

Mitch shrugged, feigning indifference. He didn’t care what the stupid media said; he just cared that Brody cared, which was all the more reason not to care at all. “It’s bullshit and you know it.”

“That’s just one website,” Brody lamented. “This one says I’m mixing heavy painkillers with alcohol.”

“And one thinks you’ve got alien blood and that’s why you swim so fast,” Mitch said flatly. “Who cares?”

Brody looked a little dejected. “Everyone thinks it.”

“Tabloids print it; they don’t even think it,” Mitch told him. “You’ve got to stop reading that shit.”

Brody couldn’t do it, though. He continued to scroll morosely on his phone. “Do I look like I’m on drugs?”

“You look like you’ve got a headache and have been training your ass off,” Mitch said.

“I’m probably swimming like I’m on drugs,” Brody muttered.

“You’ve undergone all the mandatory and voluntary rounds of drug testing and passed every one of them,” Mitch reminded him. “The tabloids aren’t reporting news.”

Brody looked like he wanted to believe that.

Mitch sighed a little. “I’m serious, dude,” he said. “You’ve got to stop thinking about the press. You could win every gold medal and they’d still look for dirt.”

“Probably because I’m an easy target,” Brody said. “I am, aren’t I?”

Mitch wasn’t actually sure what kind of confirmation Brody was looking for. Really, Brody wanted to be validated as right and he wanted to be validated as wrong. He was making things hard like that. In fact, in the last week, Brody wasn’t the only one nursing a round the clock headache. “You’ve overcome too much shit to be hung up on this,” he said. “I mean, come on. You aren’t drinking. You’re managing the headaches. You kicked Lawson to the curb. All while winning races. You can’t forget that: you’re winning races, Brody. You’re doing what you set out to do.”

Brody was thoughtful at that. He put down his phone on the bed to look at Mitch. “What if I can’t do it?”

Mitch glowered at him, because he was often patient and gentle and understanding. But some things Brody said were shit, and Mitch wasn’t going to tolerate that. “Then it’s only because you’re thinking too much about the press and letting yourself get too stressed out that your body wants to shut down,” he said. “Remember why you started this Brody. Because you wanted to finish it.”

That was the kind of stuff that only a guy like Mitch could say and make it sound not cheesy.

And that was the kind of stuff that only a guy like Brody could hear and know exactly what it meant.

They were well paired, the two of them. That was why Brody’s journey had become Mitch’s journey -- no regrets at all.

“I don’t know if I could do this without you,” Brody confessed, not for the first time.

As for Mitch, he scoffed. “Good thing you don’t have to,” he said. “Now, get some sleep. We’ll do a short day of training tomorrow, enough to keep you in shape without pushing it too hard.”

“We’re a week out--” Brody hedged.

“Which is why we need to keep your headaches in check,” Mitch said.

“The tabloids--”

Mitch leveled him with a strong look.

Brody held up his hands meekly. “Will make their headlines either way.”

“That’s my boy,” Mitch said. “Now, get some sleep, will you?”

Brody did a mock salute. “Yes, coach.”

Mitch gave him the middle finger before dimming the lights for another night’s rest.

-o-

Brody was asleep within minutes.

Mitch found it a little harder.

As Brody’s full time coach now, his responsibilities had expanded dramatically in the last year. He was responsible for creating the training regimen, and he had to spend hours studying Brody’s stroke and analyzing the field. Mitch didn’t require that much sleep in general, which was good, but those weren’t even the things that kept Mitch awake at night.

Coach.

Roommate.

Best friend.

Mitch was all of those things.

He suspected he was more.

Brody didn’t just rely on him; Brody needed him. Mitch had no problem with that, not really, but he was increasingly faced with the reality of just how much was riding on his shoulders. Brody wasn’t great under prolonged pressure, and Mitch was starting to take all of this rather personally.

What would happen if the headaches didn’t go away?

What could Mitch do if the headlines didn’t get better?

How would either of them cope if Brody didn’t shut out the competition and make the team?

Mitch was a lifeguard. Of the two of them, he was the one who didn’t belong.

Yet, here he was, holding Brody together in every possible way.

Getting through the next week was going to be critical.

Mitch just had no idea how he was going to do it.

For Brody’s sake.

And for his own.

-o-

Mitch was anxious, naturally.

He approached that anxiety the way he faced all challenges in his life. Head on, eyes open and with a plan.

They would balance the training schedule, taking tomorrow off with shortened days leading up to the events. During their downtime, they could visit the art museum, check out the aquarium, and spend time in Millennial Park. He would arranged for frequent phone calls with Summer, every night on schedule, while asking the others to rotate their calls one per night.

In training, they would focus on maintenance, keeping the routines from being too exhausting without allowing them to be too easy. He had invested in sunglasses and hooded sweatshirts for Brody to wear while moving in and out of the hotel and training facility. This wouldn’t do much to keep them from figuring out who Brody was, but it would at least mitigate the chance of a successful picture. No one could analyze the bags under Brody’s eyes or gauge the hue of his skin under those context, thus making the tabloid headlines less juicy and less compelling.

All in all, it was a pretty good plan.

Until it inevitably went wrong.

-o-

Mitch had intended to let Brody sleep late, but the younger man was up early. Mitch dared to hope this might be a positive sign, but Brody’s lackluster appetite at breakfast was a bad omen. By the time they made it to the pool, Brody was already starting to slow down.

They took a break and took some medication with lunch, but Brody was even less on point after that. Within an hour, Mitch called it quits, and Brody was so exhausted that he readily agreed.

It wasn’t good news by any stretch of the imagination, but Mitch knew that on experience that dwelling on it made things worse. Brody needed him to keep things light and positive. That was the quickest way to spur any kind of rebound.

“We still haven’t seen the art museum,” Mitch said, lounging on one of the locker room benches while Brody finished getting ready. “I was thinking about it for our day off. Might be fun.”

Brody made a vague, noncommittal noise.

“I know you like art museums,” Mitch cajoled. “We’ve been to one in every city we’ve visited since Germany last year.”

This much elicited a smile from Brody. “You like it just as much as I do.”

“Nah, you and your modern art,” he quipped. “Still looks like some asshole is making thousand of dollars by throwing paint on a canvas.”

Brody sat down to tie his shoes, smirking slightly. “And you think I’m the uncultured one.”

“That’s my point,” Mitch said. “You were but not anymore. So we really can’t miss this one. Chicago is known for having a great collection.”

Brody tied the other shoe and his smile faded somewhat. “You think we can afford the break.”

“We can’t afford not to take a break,” Mitch said, keeping his voice buoyant. “You know it always helps.”

Brody put both his feet on the ground, chewing his lip. “But these are the trials. For the Olympics.”

As if Mitch could forget.

“If I screw this up, there is no second chance.”

Mitch refused to be cowed by the understandable fear. He would be lying if he said he didn’t share it. But that was why he wasn’t going to talk about it at all. Instead he got to his feet, crossing over to Brody. “So we stick to what works for us,” he said. “That’s how we survived this last year. We did it our way, all other expectations be damned.”

Mitch reached out a hand, and Brody reluctantly took it. He got to his feet, still visibly anxious. “Everyone else thinks I’m going to screw it up.”

“Everyone? It’s like three tabloids,” Mitch said. “And remember, you’re doing this for you, not for them.”

Brody tried to let this resolve him, but he was still shaky. “It would just be easier if it didn’t seem like the whole world was waiting for something to go wrong.”

Mitch clapped him gently on the back, mindful of his headache. “we’ve got this, buddy,” he said, and Brody visibly responded, bucking himself up somewhat higher. “It’s all going perfectly to plan.”

-o-

The plan, good as it was, proven as it was, held for about three more minutes. This was enough time to clear out of the locker room and make it to the front door. Brody had his hoodie pulled up and he was reaching for his sunglasses as Mitch opened the exterior door, ushering Brody into the afternoon sunlight.

The sun was bright, and the sky was clear. The light bounced off the nearby buildings, glinting off the moving traffic from the nearby street. Mitch shielded his eyes when the first reporter rushed them, and the ensuing camera flashes was enough to make him squint.

A step ahead of him, Brody did more than squint. He recoiled, for malingering with his glasses. Then, in the growing chaos, the glasses slipped from Brody’s hands and Mitch was so intent on retrieving them that he didn’t notice that Brody was falling as well until it was nearly too late.

Mitch scrambled, for getting the glasses as Brody’s knees started to buckle. Mitch hastily recovered, steadying Brody before he could crumbled all the way to the ground. As it was, Brody sagged against him, momentarily disoriented. The headache and medication always made Brody shaky, and he was particularly sensitive to light and noise. Commotion was another trigger Mitch had identified.

All of which were present here.

With Mitch’s help, it only took Brody a few seconds to recover. A few seconds for his eyes to clear and his legs to support his own wait.

A few seconds for every camera in the vicinity to snap a shot.

Brody was pale but Mitch’s own cheeks were burning. “Come on,” he whispered as the reporters descended with questions now. Mitch took Brody by the arm, forces no them through the throng. “Let’s get out of here.”

-o-

So, it was probably bad.

Mitch wasn’t an idiot, and he wasn’t naive. He knew the games the press wanted to play, and he knew just what kind of photo opportunity Brody’s disorientation had provided them. At the very least, it would be cause to question Brody’s readiness for the race in the next few days. It would be easy to spin it in a far more negative light, however. Drugs, alcohol, all of it would be on the table for more speculative pieces.

Days like this, Mitch wished he’d recruited some help to manage Brody’s career. He could barely pass as a trainer, and he was completely out of his depth as a coach. Playing publicist? Shit, Mitch didn’t have a clue. He was sure there were ways to mitigate the coverage, and he knew that the next time they were in public, he would be inundated with pressure to provide a quote.

But Mitch was a lifeguard. He’d started this journey for Brody and only Brody. He didn’t know shit about competitive swimming, and he had no personal aspirations for success. All he wanted was to be there for Brody, no matter what.

Which was why, consequently, Mitch was not going to talk about how bad this was.

He wasn’t going to bring it up, mention it or validate it.

And when Brody brought it up, he would do everything in his power to make it seem as totally insignificant as he wanted it to be.

That was the new plan.

Deny, deny, deny.

Mitch had had better plans, for sure, but he was going with this one until a better one came to him.

“You’re not eating,” Mitch observed in a rather pointless manner. They’d been sitting at the table for the better part of fifteen minutes; Brody hadn’t even attempted to pick up his fork. “You should eat.”

Brody looked miserably at the plate of food. It was a chicken dish with quinoa and a vibrant display of fresh vegetables. Mitch had worked with the hotel kitchen to prepare it as per his guidelines for Brody’s optimal conditioning and health. Diet helped Brody stay energetic, and it helped keep him healthy. It could also keep his headaches in check.

It only worked when the kid actually ate something.

“Seriously,” Mitch said, taking a bite of his own dinner. That was a willful display of solidarity, even if he didn’t actually feel all that hungry himself. “You should eat.”

“What’s the point?” Brody whined, but he picked up his fork and stabbed a piece of broccoli morosely.

“The point is that you have the Olympic trials in less than a week,” Mitch said. “You need to eat.”

Brody at the vegetable with resigned contempt. “You think a good diet is really going to help? Now?”

“Of course now,” Mitch said. “Now more than ever.”

Brody gave him a look of bland incredulity. “You do realize that I just nearly passed out. In public. While everyone was taking pictures.”

“More reasons to eat now,” Mitch said, ignoring Brody’s obvious implications.

Brody put down his fork again with a clank. The restaurant wasn’t empty, but Mitch had talked to hotel staff. They had a private standing reservation in one of the back rooms. They had been very accommodating, though Mitch noticed how the waitress had given Brody a double take tonight. Coincidence, Mitch assured himself steadfastly. There was no way word had gotten out already.

“I’m a train wreck,” Brody muttered, and he slumped forward, elbows on the table while he cradled his chin in his hands.

“You’re not a train wreck,” Mitch said patiently. “You had a migraine; you took your meds. You went outside and got disoriented. All those cameras going off? I was off, too.”

“I passed out,” Brody said. “I might as well have puked in the pool again for all they care.”

Mitch put down his own fork to level Brody with a glare of his own. Brody had reason to be upset, but he was veering toward melodrama. If Brody allowed himself to spiral out with melodrama, neither of them would recover sufficiently. “You didn’t even fall down,” Mitch said. “You lost your balance for no more than a second.”

“And then you carried me out!” Brody cried.

Mitch sighed, somewhat terse. “You were on your own two feet the whole time,” he said. “I merely helped.”

Brody was not swayed. He leveled Mitch’s gaze right back at him. “Come on, Mitch.”

The plaintiveness of his stare was more than somewhat unnerving. Mitch’s steadfast plan to deny everything was wavering. “Okay, fine,” he relented, validating Brody’s concerns if only marginally. “It wasn’t perfect, but it’s not as bad as you think it is.”

At that, Brody sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s worse!”

“You’re being ridiculous now,” Mitch reprimanded.

“And if I’m not?” Brody asked.

Mitch sighed. This was where the denial part of his plan came into play. “The tabloids are shit,” he said. He shook his head emphatically. “They don’t mean anything. They publish stories about people giving birth to aliens. Nothing they say has any credibility, and normal people don’t even read that shit.”

“There were a lot of reporters there,” Brody argued. “Not just from tabloids.”

“So? What are they going to report? There’s no news when someone gets a headache and is caught off guard by reporters,” Mitch shot back.

Brody tipped his head back with a whine. “I don’t think you really know how this works,” he moaned. He looked at Mitch again. “I know. I’ve been here.”

“What happened in Rio doesn’t count,” Mitch said. “Last time, they reported shit because a lot of it was true.”

That remark made Brody sullen. “That’s not the point,” he muttered. He reached into his pocket, retrieving his phone. “They’ve probably already started publishing--”

Before Brody could bring up his news apps, Mitch reached across the table and plucked the phone from Brody’s hands. He protested, but Mitch was faster. He was also bigger and stronger and intimidating as all get out.

That didn’t always work with Brody, who knew Mitch better than anyone else.

Except of course it worked with Brody. At least when Mitch wanted it to.

“You’re not going to check,” he insisted, pocketing Brody’s phone. “Because all that will do is cause you to torture yourself.”

Brody slumped back again, even more miserable than before. “But what am I supposed to do?”

He wasn’t just whining now; he actually wanted to know.

Mitch had an answer.

He wasn’t sure it was a good answer, but his plan had ended with deny, deny, deny, so he was sort of flying by the seat of his pants right now. “You eat your dinner, we order dessert and then you go back to the room to study the latest training footage. Once we draw up a list of technical skills to work on tomorrow, we call it an early night so we can train in the morning.”

“But Mitch--”

“But nothing,” Mitch interrupted. He picked up his fork again with a newfound determination. “We’re here to race. We’re here to win. That other shit? We don’t need it, buddy.”

Brody looked ready to keep whining. “But--”

“Eat your food,” Mitch ordered him.

Miserably, Brody picked up his fork in compliance.

“This is much ado about nothing,” Mitch told him, starting in on his own dinner again while Brody speared a piece of chicken. “You’ll see.”

-o-

Brody didn’t see.

Mostly because Mitch didn’t give back his phone.

This was only partially intentional. The truth was, after getting Brody to focus on dinner, they had a decent time. He managed to crack a few jokes that made Brody smile, and by the time they went back up to the room, Brody was eager to review the footage to get a sense of what skills could be honed the next day in training.

With this enthusiasm, Mitch saw no reason to remind Brody of anything else, and he left Brody in the room, watching footage on Mitch’s iPad while he went down to confirm a few things about their remaining training sessions and their official check in times on race day. On his way back up to the room, he was so invested in the practical matters that he had almost forgotten about the incident earlier as well.

Then, in the hall outside of the room, Brody’s phone started to vibrate.

Out of instinct, Mitch picked it up. When he saw that it was Summer, he went ahead and answered it.

“Hey, Summer,” he said, pausing outside the elevator bank to talk. “This is Mitch.”

“Mitch, hey,” she said, sounding surprised. “You have Brody’s phone?”

“Yeah, didn’t want him distracted right now,” Mitch said. “Training, you know. But I can have him give you a call back in a couple of minutes.”

“No, yeah, I mean,” she said, and she stopped short as she fumbled over her words. There was a hesitation. “He’s distracted?”

“You know how nervous he gets before a competition,” Mitch said. “Just trying to keep him outside influences to a minimum.”

“So, he’s okay, then?” she pressed. “He’s not sick?”

Mitch frowned. “Just the headaches,” he said. “Nothing new.”

“And he’s, you know,” she started and stopped again, her hesitation even more pronounced. “Not doing anything else?”

Mitch felt his stomach churn uneasily. “Summer, what are you talking about?”

She sighed audibly over the line. “The headlines,” she said, almost as if in total resignation. “There are just all these headlines. And, like, one or two and it’s nothing, but there are so many, and I got worried--”

Mitch made a face of disgust, turning away and shaking his head as he started to pace the hall. “The tabloids are full of shit.”

“I know that,” she said. “But it’s not just the tabloids. I mean, like, major news publications. And there are pictures, Mitch. Someone even got video--”

Stopped mid-pace, Mitch wrinkled his nose. “What the hell? He just had a headache? He’s sensitive to light and they had all these damn cameras--”

“That’s not what the headlines are saying,” she said. “I mean, less than a week before racing and he can’t even walk out of a building?”

“Summer, you can’t believe all that,” he said, disappointment rippling through him.

“I don’t, not really,” she said. “I mean, okay, so he’s not on drugs. And okay, he’s not drinking. But is he okay, Mitch? Is he really okay with a major race in less than a week?”

Mitch’s anger drained out of him; he couldn’t be angry at her, not for just being worried. And not when there was plenty to be worried about. Because this wasn’t just about a dizzy spell or migraines. This was about Brody barely keeping it together. Mitch was working overtime to keep Brody’s spirits up, and his half-assed training regimen probably wouldn’t hold any clout with any swimming expert. Brody was on the edge of himself, and Mitch was pretending like he knew how the hell to keep him together professionally and personally.

And yet, he needed her to believe. In Brody. In him. Brody had always come through in the past, and Mitch would stand by him this time, no matter what.

“These are the Olympic trials,” Mitch said, starting to pace again. “The pressure is through the roof right now. I’m not sure he’s fine, but he’s getting through it. You know how he is.”

“I know,” she said. “I know. I’m just. Ugh. I’m worried. Maybe I should fly out there?”

“I thought you told Brody that tickets were too expensive?” Mitch asked

“They are, but I don’t know,” she said. “If he needs me--”

“I thought we were all saving up for the Olympics next year,” Mitch reminded her.

“And if he doesn’t make it?” she pressed.

“Hey, he’s going to make it,” Mitch said. “We can’t start doubting him. Not now.”

“You’re right,” she said, and she sighed again. “I just wish I could be there.”

“He’ll call you back later, I promise,” Mitch said. “Just don’t talk about the press. I promise you, he’s fine.”

She was quiet, and Mitch knew she was nodding to herself. “You sure?”

“Completely,” Mitch said with a confidence he wasn’t sure he actually felt. But the plan was still deny, deny, deny, so what the hell. “We’ve totally got this.”

-o-

In Mitch’s mind, deny, deny, deny wasn’t about lying. It was about being selective in what you deemed important. For some reason, that seemed like a relevant distinction when he thought about it.

The practical application made him question the value of such a distinction slightly more.

Back in the room, Brody perked up when Mitch entered. Letting the door close behind him, Mitch tossed the phone at Brody. “Summer called.”

“Oh, yeah!” Brody said, sitting up and unlocking it. He grinned. “I really wanted to talk to her tonight.”

Summer had always had that effect on Brody. Maybe distance made the heart grow fonder or maybe Brody was just a sucker for his girlfriend. In any case, it was exactly the kind of thing Brody needed right now.

Not a distraction in the purest sense of the word.

Just someone else to talk to, to buck him up. Someone to make him remember that he wasn’t alone.

Also, she was a really good distraction. He knew that he could trust Summer not to talk about the press; absence had worked wonders on her as well. Either that, or she was as head over heels for Brody as he was for her. She liked to pretend that wasn’t the case, but Mitch had reason to suspect otherwise.

“Give her a call back, then,” Mitch said with an encouraging smile. “And ask her about what’s up at the bay.”

“I will,” Brody promised, grinning a little more as he ducked over into the bedroom portion of their suite. Brody had started to earn some money from his victories; it was enough to cover their expenses, and with his recent success, they’d been able to afford a two-room suite. That meant that Brody had to sleep on a pull out couch, but he sincerely didn’t seem to mind. “Also, my notes for tomorrow are on the bed!”

Mitch nodded and picked up the sheet of paper while Brody closed the door to the bedroom as his call connected. Brody’s notes were to the point and honest, focusing mostly on his turns and starts, and Mitch started mentally mapping out tomorrow’s practice in response.

From the next room, he could hear Brody start to talk. He unlocked the iPad to see that it was still on the footage. Curiously, Mitch checked the other apps, trying to see if anything had been accessed recently. But Brody had been on task; he hadn’t tried to look up the headlines.

That meant he didn’t know yet.

But then, Mitch didn’t know yet. Deny, deny, deny was only his policy where Brody was concerned. It didn’t mean that he was resolved to ignorance. After all, he couldn’t deny something if he didn’t know what was true.

At least, that was what he told himself when he brought up the news app. He scrolled through the main page of headlines, filtering for the sports tags.

And there it was. The first headline.

Health Questions Mount for Troubled Swimmer

Mitch clicked on it, reading the start.

Matt Brody has been making a strong comeback after his flawed performance in Rio De Janeiro. While he has swept through the racing circuit with unprecedented success, many people have speculated as to whether or not the next Olympics will be his chance to redeem himself or his opportunity to fall short once more. Footage from training mere days before the Olympic trials suggests that the latter may be the more likely option.

The next headline was even more infuriating.

Brody is Back: Will We See the Vomit Comet Again?

The article, which was promoted by a major news network, was rife with speculation.

As the Olympic swimming trials approach for team USA, Matt Brody has been frequently considered a shoe-in given his performance in the last year. However, Brody’s past has dogged him, and despite his best effort to appear reformed, recent evidence suggests there may be cause for concern.

The picture of Brody was even less flattering than Mitch would have hoped. Brody didn’t just look disoriented. He looked stoned. Or like he’d had a stroke. Possibly both.

Some reports suggest that Brody has been struggling in his training, which has been blamed on chronic migraines. However, other swimmers on location have started to wonder if some of Brody’s demons are starting to be a factor in his current performance.

To prove the point, another swimmer was quoted. Not one of the big names in the race, but Mitch still recognized the name. Brody had helped him out with his stroke a few days ago, just to be nice. And here he was, returning the favor.

”His inconsistency has surprised me. You see him sometimes when he’s on his game, and no one can touch him. Other days, it’s like he’s on a high school swim team again. I can’t say for sure why, but either his physical condition is worse than he’s letting on or there’s something else going on that he doesn’t want people to know about.”

Mitch muttered a curse. “Yeah, jackass,” he muttered. “Like the fact that he has headaches and anxiety. What’s your excuse for being an asshole?”

But it wasn’t just one swimmer. Other articles quoted other swimmers, other coaches. Some sources were anonymous. Others gave their full names. Doctors, swim experts, sports commentators -- they all pitched in with their opinions, which ranged from a lack of control in Brody’s training regime to the probability of substance abuse.

Those were the mainstream outlets.

When you got to the tabloids, well, that was just over the top. Many of them cited sources saying that Brody was buying drugs in secret back alley deals. Others said that Brody had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer and he was putting it aside in order to try to win one more gold medal before he died. There were reports of drug deal, hookers, money laundering and more.

In short, for all that Mitch said things were fine, nothing was fine. In fact, things were about as far from fine as you could possibly get.

He was pulling up another article when Brody came back in. “Hey!”

Mitch hastily closed out of the app and dropped the iPad on the bed, trying to be nonchalant.

Brody’s smile fell, and he eyed Mitch suspiciously. “Is everything okay?”

“What? Yes,” Mitch said. “How’s Summer? And Baywatch? How’s Summer and Baywatch?”

“They’re fine,” Brody said slowly. He put his phone on the table. “Did something happen?”

“No, what could happen?” Mitch asked. “I’ve been sitting right here.”

Brody wasn’t quite as dumb as he seemed sometimes. “Have you been checking headlines? Are they bad?”

“No one cares about the headlines,” Mitch said.

Brody did not look convinced.

But Mitch was set on deny, deny, deny.

And Mitch was not a quitter.

“I already told you,” Mitch said, collecting the iPad and getting to his feet. “None of it means anything.”

“But you’ve looked?” Brody hedged.

He collected Brody’s iPhone for good measure. “What matters is that you won’t,” Mitch said with a serious look. “You need to be totally focused on the face coming up.”

“Mitch, I don’t--”

“But I do,” Mitch said. And he forced a smile. “You need to sleep. We need to be well rested and ready to go. We’re counting down the days, buddy. Counting them down.”

Despite his obvious doubts, Brody sat down on the bed. “I am feeling better,” he said. “I think I’ll be in better form tomorrow.”

Mitch rubbed his hands together. “See?” he said. “Things are looking better already.”

-o-

The thing about the plan deny, deny, deny was that it had limited scope. Sure, when it was just Mitch and Brody, it was a pretty good plan. Brody slept soundly that night. Hell, Mitch slept soundly too. His insistence that things were fine was sincere enough that he even convinced himself. In the morning, Brody was up early and ready to go. They had a good, balanced breakfast, and then packed up to head out for a long day at the pool.

All of these things were within Mitch’s scope as coach, trainer, best friend and publicist.

When he stepped outside, however, Mitch’s scope abruptly ended.

That was when the deny, deny, deny plan really started to fall apart.

Because Mitch could deny anything at all.

But that didn’t stop the rest of the world from asking questions.

And they were ready to ask questions.

Mitch had anticipated something of a crowd when they left that morning. It had become their expected routine to duck their heads and push through to the rental car, which Mitch always had brought around for them. The crowd that greeted them that morning, however, was at a whole new level.

The tabloids, major media outlets. Photographers, journalists, videographers -- the instant Brody stepped outside, he was bombarded. Lights flashed, and the questions started flying. There was nothing Mitch could do to stop it; nothing he could do to protect Brody.

The look of shock on his face was evidence enough that the deny, deny, deny plan wasn’t going to work any longer.

“Matt, are you back on drugs?”

“Matt, are you currently receiving medical treatment?”

“Matt, have you been drinking?”

“Matt, are you worried that you won’t be able to match your best times in the trials?”

The throng was oppressive, more so than ever before. Mitch had to forcibly push people away as the mob pressed closer. It was a rush of emotion, and Mitch felt his cheeks burn as he prodded Brody in front of him, step by step to the car waiting at the curb. Mitch could probably play the part of security guard, but not while being coach, trainer, publicist and personal support system at the same time.

Opening the door to the car, Mitch was pretty sure he hit one of the more aggressive reporters. He ignored the contact, focusing instead on ushering Brody rather unceremoniously into the passenger's seat. When he was sure Brody’s limbs were clear, he slammed the door shut before charging around toward the driver's seat.

Driver was another role Mitch should think of outsourcing. Shit. He was supposed to be manning a beach in California. How the hell had he ended up here?

There wasn’t much time to mentally answer that question as his forward progress was thwarted by the increasingly aggressive crowd.

“Is Matt on drugs?”

More lights flickered as cameras continued to roll.

“Is he addiction causing the decrease in his performance?”

Mitch pushed through, growling as he struggled toward his door.

“Many people have talked about the parallels to Rio. Are you worried?”

Mitch yanked his door open, ducking inside hastily as he slammed it behind him. Reporters still swarmed around the car, but they started to back up as Mitch turned on the engine.

Breathless, heart pounding, he glanced at Brody. In the next seat, Brody was drawn and pale, buckled in as he looked at Mitch with wide eyes.

That was how Mitch had ended up here. Right here, that look. Full of doubt, full of fear, full of questions.

Doubt Mitch wasn’t sure how to assuage. Fear he couldn’t fully placate. Questions he wasn’t sure he even wanted to answer anymore.

That was why Mitch had a plan.

Of course, deny, deny, deny has its obvious limitations now. Mitch amended it just that fast.

Ignore, ignore, ignore.

“Come on,” he said, putting the car into gear as the throng started to pull away from the humming engine. “We need to get to the pool.”

Mitch started the drive, leaving the reporters still taking pictures and scribbling half baked headlines behind him. Still pale, Brody’s eyes were on him as they drove. He didn’t say anything, though. Maybe that was because Brody trusted Mitch more than he trusted himself.

Pulling into traffic, Mitch clenched his jaw. He had always felt worthy of that trust before.

So far away from home, Mitch was starting to wonder.

-o-

If Mitch had been hoping for a reprieve, it was a naive hope. There were just as many reporters outside the training facility. Mitch muttered a curse, and Brody shook his head somberly.

“It’s just going to get worse,” he said, voice sounding flat. “After the trials. It gets worse.”

Mitch navigated his way up to the front, knuckles clenching the wheel so tight that they were white. “Makes sense. After this, it’s all Team USA.”

Brody swallowed. “Do you think,” he started and then stopped. He took a breath while Mitch brought them to park. The reporters recognized them and started to converge. “ Do you think it’s worth it?”

Mitch cast a look at Brody. “What?”

“Going through this. The press. The scrutiny.”

Mitch couldn’t help it if it made him feel incredulous. “We survived all the shit with training and it’s the press that’s making you second guess now? When we are right here, at the trials.”

Brody sighed. “I don’t think you get it,” he said. “What it does to you.”

“You ignore it, that’s what you do,” Mitch said, leaving the engine to idle. Outside, the press was already hankering for a glimpse.

“What if they’re right, though?” Brody asked. “ About me.”

“You’re not on drugs. You’re not drinking,” Mitch said.

“But I still seem to be crashing and burning,” Brody ventured.

“Are you missing the part where you’ve won every race up so far?” Mitch asked. “Literally, every one. There’s no one out there who can touch you.”

“But my times,” Brody started.

Mitch cut him off with a shake of his head. “Are entirely consistent with your lead up to every other major race,” he reasoned. “You get your shit together. You always do. I mean, this is what you want, isn’t it? Not the reporters and their crap, but to race. To get in that pool and show yourself that you’re more than the Vomit Comet. You’re going to regret it if you don’t finish this. You know I’m right.”

Something in Brody’s expression wavered. When he spoke, his voice was no more than a whisper. “But what if I’m not more,” he said. “What if those reporters are right about me?”

Mitch huffed, almost laughing. Not because it was funny, but because it wasn’t. Because the only answer was the worst one, and Mitch’s plan had its place after all.

Deny, deny, deny. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

“You can’t listened to them,” he said. He jabbed a finger at Brody. “You listen to yourself, first and foremost.”

“And if I don’t know what the hell to do?” Brody asked.

Mitch readied to open the door. “Then listen to me,” he said. “And let’s finish what we started.”

Mitch got out of the car, ignoring the crowd as he hurried around toward Brody’s door. He was there when Brody got his feet, herding him along while the questions rang out behind them.

-o-

Brody tried. Because Mitch asked, Brody really did try.

But he was shaky and uncertain. He was tentative.

By lunch, Brody was downright sluggish, so Mitch sat him down with a large meal and a look of concern. “You doing okay?”

Brody’s look in reply suggested just how ridiculous that question was. Given the mob of reporters asking about Brody’s readiness, maybe it was a ridiculous question only because the answer was so plainly obvious.

“I mean, I know things have gotten a little chaotic lately,” Mitch amended. “But I’m worried about you. Are you okay?”

With a rueful snort, Brody started in on his lunch. Mitch had gotten the food element down -- Brody’s diet was perfectly balanced to be healthy, full of energy and tasteful -- but somehow that accomplishment didn’t seem like nearly enough anymore. “Is this on the record?” Brody asked him with an edge to his voice.

An edge that Mitch felt. He frowned. “I’m serious.”

Brody talked around a bite of his food. “So am I.”

Mitch’s own lunch sat untouched in front of him. “Brody, are you okay?”

The bluntness of it was something that Brody could never hide from, not where Mitch was concerned. But it was also something he couldn’t fully answer right now. He shrugged, mumbling the words around a mouthful of food. “Not really,” he said, pausing long enough to swallow. “But you know, whatever. What are we going to do about it?”

Mitch sighed, reminding himself that Brody was tired and stressed before the press came into play. The increased attention would only make it that much harder for Brody to cope with a difficult situation. The fact that he was being difficult about it all was probably understandable, even if it was frustrating. “I meant, do you have a headache?” he asked, going for the simple answer. Direct questions; direct answers. Things with solutions. “We can take some of the medication if we need to, get things under control.”

Brody laughed again with a humorless air. “Under control?”

“Brody--”

Brody rolled his eyes, picking up more food. “I don’t have a headache, okay?”

Mitch found himself somewhat disappointed. Headaches, he could deal with. His plan for ignore, ignore, ignore seemed tenuous. He wanted to disregard the press; he couldn’t bring himself to disregard Brody. The problem was, of course, when Brody wanted to talk about the press. That was territory Mitch wasn’t sure he was quite ready for.

Still, he was here.

And the question was the only one he could legitimately ask while still holding his head up. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

The look of pain in Brody’s face was more raw than Mitch expected. “Why?” he said, pulling back the emotions as quickly as he’d revealed them. “I mean, nothing I say will change anything that happens.”

“Out there, maybe,” Mitch conceded. “But if you need to talk, then maybe we talk.”

“You think if I talk about it, I’ll suddenly stop sucking in the pool?” Brody asked. “Is this an inspirational coach move?”

Mitch’s frown deepened. “That’s not how this works, and you know that’s not fair.”

This only made Brody laugh harder. “I honestly wasn’t aware that fair was even a thing we were talking about.”

Brody was good at the melodrama, Mitch would give him that. Not that his melodrama was ever particularly well thought through, but just that he related it so convincingly. “Brody, come on,” he cajoled, feeling just a touch desperate himself. “We can work together to fix this.”

“Fix what?” Brody asked. “Me? Because I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed.”

Mitch reached his hand up to massage his forehead. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, we sure as hell can’t fix the press, can we?” Brody asked. “I mean, unless you’ve got some good ideas how to convince them that I’m not dying or an addict.”

There were responses to that, Mitch was sure. There were probably really good responses. But Mitch was in the pattern of deny, deny, deny and ignore, ignore, ignore, and now his mind was blank, blank, blank. This week had been hell on him, too.

“Exactly,” Brody said in response to the silence. His bitter humor faded, and he shook his head. “You said it this morning. We just have to finish this. Right? That’s what we need to do?”

When he’d said it, it’d seemed like the thing to do. He’d believed that if Brody could just get to the race, then he’d make the team and this would all go away. That was still true -- Mitch believed that -- but what if they didn’t make it through to the race? What if Brody couldn’t do it? What if Brody did implode?

“It’s your advice, Mitch,” Brody reminded him as he gathered up the rest of his half eaten lunch. “And it’s really all I got right now. Unless you want to bail on me, too.”

He threw that out there, not quite casually enough. Brody was teetering; he was faltering.

Mitch drew himself up with resolve. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Then, let’s get back to it,” Brody said, throwing his trash away. “I’m not hungry anyway.”

Gathering his own food up, Mitch knew he had no choice but to agree.

-o-

Mitch lacked his typical passion, though.

And Brody felt the loss keenly. It was apparent in the pool as Brody continued to struggle without any spark to set him off. It was impossible to hide his lackluster performance, and when the best he could hope for was that other swimmers thought Brody was using a scare technique to make them overconfidence, he knew it was probably time not to push his luck.

Or, rather, Brody’s complete lack of luck.

He kept Brody in the pool long enough to say they’d had a full day, but then hastily had Brody make his exit before any of the other swimmers were in the locker room at the end of the practice.

It was effective in keeping Brody from talking to the other swimmers.

It had zero impact on the reporters outside.

They were still waiting for Brody, primed with all the questions Mitch had refused to acknowledge. Brody didn’t respond, as he had been coached, but his stony face when he sat in the car let Mitch knew that he’d heard the questions.

And that he was dwelling on the responses he couldn’t muster for each and every one.

-o-

Mitch had never been tempted to quit like he was now. After all, he’d never had aspirations to be a swimming coach. The competitive swimming circuit had never much interested him. Sure, he watched the Olympics every four years, but his passion had always been for the beach.

For him, walking away would be a chance to go home, to go back to what mattered most to him.

Except that wasn’t true. Not quite. Because yes, Mitch loved lifeguarding. He loved Baywatch. He was fully and wholly committed to the bay.

But he loved his team more. He valued them first. And Brody wasn’t just a part of the team. Along the way, he’d become Mitch’s family.

Therefore, Brody’s passions had to be Mitch’s. Going back to Baywatch would be easy now, and it would be easy after the Olympics. Brody’s chance to go forward was not as open ended. Either they finished this, right here and now, or Brody would never get the chance to try again.

For that reason, Mitch had also never been less tempted to quit in the face of adversity. Because this wasn’t about him.

He told himself that, again and again.

This wasn’t about him.

This was and always would be about Brody. Brody had changed his life to be a part of Baywatch. He’d nearly sacrificed his life more than once to prove his loyalty to the cause. Mitch had taught him everything he knew about family, and now was the time to follow through and finish the lesson.

The press could ask all the questions they wanted, but they’d never get an answer more fundamental than this.

Inconsistent, terrified, uncertain and haphazard: Matt Brody was going to do everything he could to make it to the Olympics.

And Mitch Buchannon would be standing right next to him, every step of the way.

Most people worried about hell or high water. Mitch had faced down fear, substance abuse and even migraines. Brody’s press anxiety would just be the next obstacle that Mitch would make sure they overcame.

The plan could be deny, deny, deny. It might be ignore, ignore, ignore. He’d go with distract, distract, distract, distract.

All so Brody could finish, finish, finish.

-o-

The press made that hard. The other swimmers made that hard.

Brody himself made it the most difficult of all.

The mob at the hotel hardly surprised them at this point, and though the front desk pulled Mitch aside to ask him if he’d like to arrange for a more secure entrance and exit, Brody’s mood could not be optimized. Mitch readily thanked the desk for their help, but Brody still sulked the whole way upstairs.

Sulked was probably too strong of a word. But Mitch was running out of ways to classify Brody’s downturned face. If he thought too much about the fact that Brody was possibly depressed, there was a good chance his own resolve would falter. If he could roll his eyes, tousle Brody’s hair and cajole him along, then they might have a chance.

Therefore, Brody had to be sulking or Mitch was just a heartless asshole.

“You want to change it up?” Mitch asked, sitting on a chair while Brody flopped on the pullout couch.

“You mean by not being the worst swimmer out there?” Brody moaned, looking up at the ceiling.

Mitch ignored him. “I was thinking about skipping the diet. I mean, I love kale and pinto beans as much as the next guy, but I think if I eat quinoa again, I might throw something.”

Brody peeked at him. “But the race?”

“You think a pizza is going to keep you from going to the Olympics?” Mitch asked.

Brody actually looked like he thought it might.

Rolling his eyes, Mitch shook his head. “We can order it up, not even leave the room,” he said. “Dial up something on Netflix.”

Propping himself up a bit on his elbows, Brody seemed to like the sound of that. “Can we watch the baking show?”

“From Britain?”

“Yes,” Brody said.

Mitch groaned, but Brody’s interest had overridden any objections he might have had. Mitch wasn’t super excited about baking, and he didn’t care much about Britain, but seeing Brody not look miserable?

Mitch would marathon all the seasons, right here, right now.

“Fine, we can watch that one,” Mitch agreed, trying not to make it sound like he was agreeing too readily.

Brody sat up fully now, fishing out his phone. “Stephanie recommended this pizza place not far away,” he said. “We can totally try it.”

Mitch flinched, hiding it by reaching over and plucking the phone from Brody’s hands as innocuous as possible. “I’ll order. You go get changed, okay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Brody said. He hesitated, but then nodded. They had been on the road together for a long time now; they’d been living together. Sure, they believed in privacy, but it only existed in certain forms. Brody was considering whether or not this was one of those forms or if Mitch had other motives. The split second passed and he shrugged. “You can find it in our texts. She told me just a few days ago.”

“Will do,” Mitch said, scrolling through Brody’s phone. He did have other motives. Lots of other motives. Mostly to take Brody’s phone away from him and never give it back. This was going to be a good night with pizza and Netflix. There would be no news alerts if Mitch could do anything about it. With determination, he waved Brody off to the bathroom. “Take your time. Dinner should be here in 30.”

Mitch watched as Brody retreated to the bathroom, feeling some satisfaction and the faintest vestiges of hope.

Score another point for deny, deny, deny.

-o-

As far as Brody was concerned, it was a great night. He ate quite a lot of pizza while guzzling a fresh soda just for the hell of it. Kicked back on the bed, Brody heartily enjoyed several episodes of the Great British Baking Show on Netflix, animatedly commenting on cooking techniques he knew nothing about as if he was some kind of expert.

His commentary was ridiculous, but his enthusiasm was reassuring. It was as laid back as he’d seen Brody all week, and Mitch had to think if they could maintain this, they might just have a chance of avoiding implosion before the trials.

If anyone asked, Mitch would say it was a good night. His own personal experience, however, was not quite as good. If he’d taken his own advice and tuned out the rest of the world, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but while the episodes streamed from one to the next, Mitch checked his phone.

At first, he said it was to check for messages. He was Brody’s coach, trainer, publicist, and more, so there were some practical matters to attend to. He also had some messages from the team back at Baywatch, and those were relationships he liked to maintain.

And then he checked the news.

Just to see.

He definitely saw.

Way, way too much.

While Brody talked with enthusiasm about the best way to make an enriched dough, Mitch clicked on the first headline.

Personal Issues May Present Professional Problem for Troubled Swimmer

The article was even worse.

There has been plenty of speculation about Matt Brody’s life outside the pool. While some of this news has been troubling, I have been willing to give it a pass. After all, your persona life is just that: personal. However, when it starts impacting your public performance, that’s a whole different conversation.

This week, Brody’s behavior out of the pool has been puzzling. His performance in the pool, on the other hand, has been outright concerning. His technique has been sloppy, his times have been well off the pace, and his overall demeanor is distracted and lackluster. At this point, many other racers are seeing their opportunity to rise up and steal the spotlight. By all accounts from the training pool this morning, Brody might just be willing to let them.

Clicking back, Mitch shook his head in contempt.

“I know, right?” Brody said. “I totally would have gone with a chocolate. Why doesn’t anyone like chocolate on this show?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Mitch said with a vague glance up. “Not very refined, I guess.”

Feeling cross, he looked back at the news links. That first one wasn’t even news; it was opinion. Who the hell wanted an opinion.

Brody scoffed nearby. “But it’s good! Doesn’t good matter?”

Mitch made a noncommittal sound, and focused on the next article. This one was from a news source; not a column.

However, if he’d hoped that would make it less biased, he’d be wrong.

Brody’s Poor Performance Leaves the Field Wide Open

Mitch barely made it a paragraph before the speculation made his fingers itch. With an anonymous source and a racing expert who was located halfway across the country, Mitch couldn’t bring himself to read any more.

“Ugh, and what’s with all the rose?” Brody was saying. “Isn’t that, like, a flower? Who eats a flower?”

Mitch had a fleeting thought about how they ate lots of plants, but the last thing he needed was an actual debate with Brody about cooking ingredients. He went back to the list of headlines instead.

With Brody Faltering, Who’s Ready to Lead Team USA?

Brody’s Premature Trainwreck May Be a Boon for Team USA

Mitch skimmed them, concluding that a discussion about eating rose might be less frustrating.

-o-

Three hours later, Brody was ready for bed and Mitch needed to charge his phone. At least, charging it was the more sensible option. He really wanted to chuck the damn thing against a wall and smash it into pieces. That was not logical, but Mitch suspected it might be gratifying.

“I don’t know, man,” Brody said as he settled under his covers. “I think taste should be everything. I mean, yeah, it’s cool if something looks nice but it’s all about the taste. In a pool, the other shit never matters if you finish first.”

Mitch forced himself to smile. The trick was coming in first. As if a score could somehow make all the rest go away. Mitch had been acting like it could. The last year, that was how Brody had gotten by from race to race. Counting on the top score to make the rest worth it.

What if he didn’t win? Would it still be worth it then?

Mitch looked at Brody, at ease and hopeful once more. The night had been good for him. Really good. Mitch had no business ruining that.

But did he have business not taken no into consideration a loss? What that would do to Brody? Would he recover on his own if there was no victory at the end? Mitch remember how screwed up Brody had been when he first came to Baywatch. Was it possible Brody would spiral like that again?

It would be Mitch’s fault. For making him start this. For never letting him quit. For propping him up when he was already falling.

From the bed, Brody frowned. “Everything okay? You look, like, weird or something.”

Mitch shook himself from his reverie. Deny, deny, deny. It was the plan. For Brody and for himself. “Just tired,” he said. “You whined about cooking all night. It’s exhausting.”

The quip has its intended effect. Brody grinned. “If this whole swimming thing doesn’t work out, I am totally trying baking.”

Mitch laughed, trying not to notice how hollow it felt reverberating in his chest. If only Brody realized how precarious things were. How everyone else had already deemed him a train wreck. “Well,” Mitch said. “Let’s not quit your day job just yet.”

It would probably destroy them both.

Oblivious, Brody grinned a little longer. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Guess it’s a little late to say that now.”

A little late to turn back.

Shit, Mitch had gotten them both in over their heads. Mitch was a damn good lifeguard, but it was impossible to say if anyone was good enough if this thing went belly up.

Stiffly, he smile one more time. “Today’s our off day,” he said. “No alarms. No expectations. So sleep late.”

Brody saluted him. “Yes, sir.”

Mitch mockingly saluted back, heading to his half of the suite, gently closing the door behind him. He fussed about, plugging in his phone before finding his sleep clothes. There was no sound from the next room, but Mitch still padded quietly as he got ready for bed. He didn’t want to disturb Brody.

These months on the road, these years of competition, he hadn’t wanted to disturb Brody. But had he faced the fact that it may not always be his choice? He could control drinking problems, he could mitigate headaches, and he could manage the press. But if Brody didn’t win?

He sighed, sitting on his bed.

Of course Brody needed to find out. Of course Brody needed to face this fear. But as close as they were, Mitch had to admit that it was possible that things wouldn’t work out. Mitch couldn’t deny, deny, deny forever.

He flopped back, staring at the ceiling.

Not forever.

But maybe for one more week.

Thank goodness it had been a good night.

Because Mitch had a feeling the rest of the week was not going to be so positive.