Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics (5 page)

J.P.—thankfully—wasn’t around. As heat two hit the water, Susan Carol stood up, took off her headphones, and began walking to the block area. She saw Ed heading that way too—he knew she liked to arrive three heats before she swam. With two heats to go, she would take off her sweats and stretch. With one heat to go, she’d put on her bathing cap. When the heat before hers came off the last wall, she would put on her goggles and try to flush everyone and everything from her mind. She wanted to step onto the block thinking she was in an empty pool, swimming a time trial that only she—and perhaps Ed—would ever know about.

“Remember,” he said. “You just swim a smooth race,
especially the first 50. It should almost feel like you’re taking out a 200.”

“What if I go out too slow?” she said. “I do have to make the top eight.”

“You’ll make the top eight,” he said. “You could swim ten of these on two minutes and make the top eight with your time from the tenth one.”

He always knew what to say. He batted her on the back of the head gently as he always did before a race, and she walked the length of the pool to reach the blocks. She could hear a few “Go get ’em, Susan Carol”s from the stands, but she was already in her zone. No one on deck said anything to her. Swimmers know that when a swimmer is headed for the blocks, they aren’t usually in the mood to talk.

She sat on the bench that ran along the wall behind lane four and stretched as the third heat went off. When she heard the whistle ordering heat six onto the blocks, she and Becky Ausmus glanced at each other and nodded.

“Good luck,” Becky mouthed.

“You too,” Susan Carol mouthed back.

She heard, “Take your mark,” and she slowly moved into the starting position, knowing the starter would wait until everyone was frozen. She heard the familiar
beep
of the starter’s horn and a moment later she was in the water. As she took her first two strokes before coming up to breathe, she felt completely calm.

Stay smooth
, she told herself as she stretched her arms forward and felt the water rolling back as she made her way
down the pool. She heard nothing except the sound of her own arms entering the water with each stroke.

What was silence for Susan Carol was a complete din for Stevie. It seemed like the entire crowd—the place seated about 3,000 and was packed—had gotten to its feet when Susan Carol was introduced just before the heat began.

Now, as Susan Carol left everyone in her heat behind her—including Becky Ausmus—the noise grew louder. Kelleher said something as Susan Carol came off the wall at the fifty, but Stevie couldn’t hear him. Susan Carol was pulling away from the other swimmers. Stevie thought
fly
was just the right word for her race. As she went under the flags, her head went down and she charged into the wall.

As soon as her hands hit the electronic timing pad, Stevie heard a roar go up. Her time on the scoreboard read 58.29. Stevie had done a little research prior to the meet, and he knew that Christine Magnuson had recorded the fastest time by an American all year at 57.32. He also knew Susan Carol had never broken fifty-nine seconds before.

Susan Carol had pulled her goggles off and was staring at the scoreboard. No fist pump, no excited or satisfied slap of the water. She just stared. After Ausmus hit the pad in 59.88, she leaned across the lane line to congratulate Susan Carol. The crowd was going nuts, knowing just how fast the time was—especially for the morning heats.

“She doesn’t look too excited,” Stevie said to Kelleher, who was scribbling notes.

“Maybe she’s worried she went too fast for a qualifying
heat,” Kelleher said. Like everyone else in the building, he was standing. As Susan Carol pulled herself from the pool, waves of applause broke out. Magnuson, who was standing at the blocks waiting to swim in the final heat, gave her a hug. Ed Brennan was talking intently to her as they walked away.

“Maybe you’re right,” Stevie said, pointing to Brennan, who didn’t appear nearly as excited as everyone else.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out how she’s feeling right now,” Kelleher said. “Let’s go talk to her.”

“T
hat’s a great time,” Ed Brennan said to Susan Carol as they walked away from all the glad-handing people who wanted to congratulate her. “But tell me how it felt.”

They were heading in the direction of the diving well, which had been set up as a warm-up/warm-down pool. Susan Carol was still a little bit out of breath, but she understood the point of the question.

“Honestly, I didn’t feel anything but …” She paused for a breath. “Smooth. The only time I pushed at all was when I put my head down at the flags for the last three strokes. Until then it was …” Another pause. “Easy.”

Ed nodded. “I’ve seen this coming in your speed workouts the last couple of months. Right now you’ve got Magnuson and all the other Americans shaking in their Speedos.”

“What about Sarah Sjöström?” she said, unable to resist
a smile at the thought of the world-record holder feeling threatened by her.

Ed laughed. “We aren’t quite
there
yet. Go warm down.”

Susan Carol slipped into the diving well and pushed off right away, the better to avoid anyone starting a conversation. She wanted to get moving so her muscles didn’t tighten up after her swim.

But she was smiling underwater thinking about Sarah Sjöström. If there was anyone Susan Carol wanted to be like in swimming, it was Sarah. Sjöström had broken the world record in the 100 fly two years ago, just before her sixteenth birthday. Susan Carol would turn sixteen six weeks after the Olympics. Sjöström was proof that you could be the best in the world at a very young age.

Sjöström didn’t look fifteen when she broke the world record, and she didn’t look eighteen now. Although she was officially listed in her bio as being almost the same size as Susan Carol—six feet and 150 pounds—there was little doubt that she was bigger than that. Susan Carol was in great shape, but she didn’t have Sjöström’s shoulders—swimming shoulders, most people in the sport called them. Susan Carol relied more on her long arms and the strength of her legs to propel herself through the water. Sjöström swam on sheer power. Seeing her standing on the blocks—Susan Carol had seen her on TV but never in person—it occurred to her that Sjöström could probably bench-press her with ease. She was, if nothing else, intimidating to look at—even on a TV screen.

Sjöström’s record was 56.06. In swimming, the difference
between 56.06 and Susan Carol’s best time of 58.29 in a 100-meter race was huge. But the race just now had felt
so
easy. Susan Carol was sure she could go faster—the question was how much faster.

She was starting to flip, having gone 200 yards, when she heard someone call her name. She looked up and saw J. P. Scott standing at the end of the lane.

“Great swim, Susan Carol! That’s just the splash I was talking about. They want you in the interview room in twenty minutes,” he said.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll swim another 200, take my shower, and be there.”

“Good girl. And be sure to leave your hair down,” he said.

“But I always tie my hair back when it’s wet,” she said, a bit baffled.

“Just trust me,” he said. “Don’t tie it back.”

She decided an argument was pointless, so she put her head back into the water and pushed off. She was a little irked that he thought she’d put up a fast time because he’d wanted her to. She knew that was unreasonable—should she have gone slower to spite him?—she just didn’t like there to be even a suggestion that some marketing deal affected what she did in the pool.

In her old life, she would have taken a lot more time to warm down because it would have involved stopping several times to chat on the wall with other swimmers. Then would come a long, hot shower and a trip to McDonald’s. She didn’t have to swim again for at least nine
hours, so a Big Mac and fries would hit the spot. Now she pulled herself out of the pool as soon as she finished and took a speed shower—just enough to wash the chlorine out of her hair. She put on a clean T-shirt and sweats, left her hair down (sigh), and found no fewer than four people wearing buttons that said
USA SWIMMING
waiting for her outside the locker room door.

One was a familiar face: Mike Unger, who did most of the PR for USA Swimming. She remembered him from Shanghai as someone who seemed to stay calm when all those around him were losing their heads.

He reintroduced himself and then introduced the others. Susan Carol instantly blurred on the names although two of them were locals from Charlotte who were just
thrilled
by her swim.

“Interview room is right down the hall,” Mike Unger said. “We aren’t keeping anyone long since you all have to swim again tonight.”

“It’s no problem,” Susan Carol said. “I’m a reporter too, you know. I understand most of them have to file for the Internet as soon as possible.”

“That’s right,” Unger said. “You do understand. You make my job a lot easier.”

They headed down the long hallway. As they passed the men’s locker room, they saw a swarm of people heading in their direction.

“Phelps,” she heard one of the Charlotte people say.

Sure enough, walking down the hall, swim bag over his shoulder, was the greatest swimmer in history. In spite of
herself, she gave a little gasp when she recognized him. He’d been in Shanghai at the Worlds, of course, but because she’d only been in one event, she’d never actually crossed paths with him.

The entourage Phelps had trailing in his wake made Susan Carol’s little group look like they were invisible. There were two rent-a-cops, walking just behind Phelps, and right behind them Susan Carol recognized Bob Bowman, Phelps’s longtime coach. There was a TV camera crew half running alongside Phelps, with yet another security person clearing a path so no one got in their way as they filmed Phelps—gasp!—walking down a hallway.

A man and a woman both wearing suits walked with Bowman. Susan Carol guessed the guy had to be Peter Carlisle—who else but an agent would wear a suit to a swim meet? Behind them was a coterie of still more USA Swimming officials and then, just for good measure, two more rent-a-cops.

When Phelps saw Susan Carol heading toward him, he came to a complete stop, which nearly caused a twelve-person pileup.

“Susan Carol Anderson!” he said. “I was really hoping to meet you here.” He put out his hand. “I’m Michael Phelps.”

Susan Carol was completely paralyzed. A small part of her wondered what Stevie would say at that moment. It would no doubt be something along the lines of “Really, you’re Michael Phelps? I’d never have guessed.”

She managed to hold out her hand and squeak,
“Naahs to meet y’all,” slipping into a nerves-induced drawl. Thank God Stevie wasn’t there. She’d never hear the end of it.

Phelps was smiling down at her. He was at least six-four and his arms seemed to go on forever. His hand completely enveloped hers when they shook.

“What a fantastic swim,” Phelps said. “You made it look so easy. Just once I’d like to swim a race and look that smooth.”

She almost started laughing. Michael Phelps broke world records in the 200 fly routinely and looked like he was warming up during the swim.

“That’s very nice (oh God, it came out “naahs” again) of you (at least she said “you” and not “y’all”) to say, but, Michael, my goodness (yes, she said “ma”), if anyone makes swimming look easy, it’s you. I’ve been watching you do it as long as I can remember.”

Phelps laughed. “Sadly, that’s true. If you saw me swim in Sydney, you’d have been three at the time. Getting old sucks.”

That caused everyone in the Phelps entourage to laugh like they were some sit-com laugh track.

“You’re only twenty-six,” Susan Carol said. “That’s hardly old.”

“Be twenty-seven soon,” Phelps said. “Call me if you’re still swimming at twenty-seven and tell me if you don’t feel old.”

Mike Unger jumped in. “Hey, guys, we need to get Susan
Carol to the interview room and, Michael, I know you have to warm up.”

“True enough, Mike,” Phelps said. He turned back to Susan Carol. “I really look forward to seeing you swim tonight. We need new stars like you in swimming.” He laughed. “Even if you
do
want to be a reporter when you grow up.”

Wow, she thought, he really
did
know her.

“Maybe someday I’ll write a book on you,” she said, finding a little bit of her bearings.

“Nah,” Phelps said. “Write a book on
you
. That one, I’d read.”

He shook her hand again, and as he walked off, Susan Carol noticed that the TV crew had recorded every second of their chat. She wondered if that was why he was so nice to her. Then again, he
had
watched her swim and he knew she wanted to be a reporter. Case closed, she decided. Michael Phelps was a genuine good guy.

Stevie and Bobby decided to stand in the back of the interview room to await Susan Carol’s arrival. The door was in the back and they’d get a chance to see her when she came in and, Stevie hoped, find out what she was planning to do that afternoon.

Stevie wasn’t prepared to see his friend ushered in like a head of state. She was completely surrounded.

“Susan Carol,” he called out as they were whisking her to the front of the room.

Hearing his voice, she stopped, and Stevie saw The
Smile break out on her face. She made a quick right before anyone could object and walked over to Stevie and Bobby.

“About time you showed up,” she said, giving Kelleher a hug. “Where’s Tamara?”

“Slept in this morning,” Kelleher said. “You’ll see her tonight. You are amazing.”

She gave Stevie a hug too.

“What are you doing after this?” he asked.

“Going to lunch with you guys, I hope,” she said. “Let me get this done and we’ll talk.”

Stevie was relieved. Susan Carol was still Susan Carol.

She handled the press conference just as Stevie expected: perfectly. Her answers were honest and stayed away from the usual sports clichés the two of them always rolled their eyes at. She never once said she was going to give 110 percent. Or that she hoped to “step up” for the final. And she certainly didn’t thank God—which, coming from a minister’s daughter, was no small thing in Stevie’s mind. He wasn’t surprised, though: Susan Carol’s religion was important to her, but private.