Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics (7 page)

“What’s up with your father?”

Susan Carol made a face that Stevie couldn’t quite read. Then she sighed, which Stevie
could
read.

“I’m honestly not sure,” she said. “I’m just guessing because we haven’t talked about it. But I think he really believes J.P. and his people have my best interests at heart and that we should listen to their advice. Plus, he’s always been a believer that if you hire someone to do a job you should let them do the job, and not tell them how to do it.”

Kelleher was giving Stevie a look that he knew meant he should shut up, but he couldn’t help himself.

“Didn’t he learn anything after what happened with your uncle Brendan?” he said. “I mean, he was an agent who was part of your
family
and you couldn’t trust him. How can he be so trusting of these guys?”

Almost two years earlier, Stevie and Susan Carol had gotten caught up in what turned out to be the fake kidnapping of a glamorous Russian tennis player and had been shocked to find out that Susan Carol’s uncle, who was a tennis agent, was involved in the deception.

Susan Carol was nodding. “I understand what you’re saying, Stevie. But there
is
a difference here because my best interests really are their best interests—or at least my financial interests. I don’t think Dad trusts them because he thinks they’re good people. He trusts that they know what they’re doing.”

Kelleher took a long sip of the coffee he’d gotten with his hamburger. “There’s truth in that, but it isn’t quite that simple,” he said. “They see you as a commodity, and one that needs to be exploited quickly because the Olympics window opens and closes quickly. They have absolutely no interest in you as a person or in your future long-term. Your dad should understand that.”

Now Susan Carol looked a little miffed. “Bobby, you just hate all agents—”

“No, I don’t.”

“I know, I know, your pal Tom Ross, the tennis guy. But that’s the list, isn’t it? You don’t know these guys at all.…”

“You’re right that I don’t like many agents, but I will say a lot of them are very smart. What J.P. did with the cap and what your dad did in backing him up—that wasn’t smart. If you tell Kellogg’s, ‘NBC said no to the cap and Phelps isn’t wearing one either,’ they’ll understand. No harm, no foul. But J.P. and your dad just pissed off Bob Costas—which means they pissed off NBC. Strictly in a business sense, that’s a bad idea. Kellogg’s doesn’t want to piss off NBC.”

Susan Carol took a deep breath.

“I guess, deep down, I know you’re right,” she said. “I’m not crazy about J.P. or any of the others. But my dad is a different story. He’s my dad.”

“I know,” Kelleher said. “I get it. And I get that you’re being hit with a lot here.”

“I thought I knew what athletes’ lives were like from all of our reporting. But it’s so overwhelming being on the other side of the story.…”

Stevie slid closer and put his arm around her. It was a little unnerving to see the unflappable Susan Carol struggling with something.

“Listen,” Bobby said, “this is all new and things may settle down as your family gets used to how things have changed. Ideally your dad would be looking out for you. But it’s
your
instincts I trust. You may need to have a heart-to-heart with him at some point—just to remind him how this is all affecting you. And that you need to stay in control of how things go.”

“Me, in control?” She sighed again. “Life just isn’t that simple anymore.”

T
he alarm startled Susan Carol. After leaving Bobby and Stevie’s room, she had decided to try to take a nap. Usually when she had time to kill between trials and finals, she read a book or trolled the Internet to find out what was going on in the world.

But the morning had sapped her—not so much her swim, which had felt great, but everything else. She knew Bobby and Stevie were right about J. P. Scott and his people. It was hardly news that agents weren’t to be trusted completely; she knew that. What was confusing was that her dad didn’t seem to know it. At least not yet.

She had set the alarm for four o’clock. Warm-ups started at five, and her father would drive her back to the pool at 4:30. She hoped that none of the Lightning Fast people—especially J.P.—would be in the car.

The alarm surprised her. She had only set it as backup,
not expecting to sleep for almost three hours. Now, hearing the buzzer, she needed a moment to re-orient herself: Where was she? Charlotte. What time was it? Time to swim.

She decided she needed a wake-up shower even though she’d already showered twice that day.

“I’m becoming Kramer,” she said aloud as she stretched and walked toward the bathroom. She and her father watched reruns of
Seinfeld
together all the time. Swimmers shower a lot—the hot shower at the end of a workout is often the carrot that gets them through the last thirty minutes when everything seems to hurt. So Susan Carol had especially enjoyed the episode when Kramer had decided to simply
stay
in the shower all the time because that was where he was most happy.

By the time she had dressed in what Stevie called “the teenage girl’s summer uniform” of T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, she felt a lot better. Her dad had said he’d pick her up out front, and he was as good as his word. Walking out the front door of the hotel, she was very glad the meet was being held indoors since the temperature had to be close to ninety. She loved swimming outdoors, especially during practice, but for a big meet she preferred a controlled air and water temperature.

“You ready to go?” her dad asked as they eased out of the hotel driveway.

“Hope so,” she said. “I took a nap.”

“Good. I was afraid Stevie and Bobby might talk your ear off and keep you from resting.”

She’d been trying to decide whether to bring up the
events of the morning and had been leaning against it—especially with an important swim only a couple of hours away. But her father’s comment made her change her mind.

“Dad, Stevie and Bobby would never do anything to keep me from preparing for an important race,” she said.

Her father turned away from the road for an instant and looked at her. They were in fairly heavy late-afternoon downtown traffic.

“What?” he said. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Then what
did
you mean?”

“I guess that they aren’t your father or your coach or your agents, so …”

“So you think J.P. and Bill and Susie care more about me than Stevie and Bobby do? Come on, Dad.”

He was waving his hand in the air as if to say “wrong.”

“Hang on, honey. I know how much you like them and I like them too. Same with Tamara. But you have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here—”

“To make the Olympic team, Dad,
not
to get rich. If I swim my best and do well, we’ll make all the money we need and more whether I wear a stupid Kellogg’s cap during an interview or not.”

“Is that what this is about?”

“That and when you yelled at me for telling J.P. to cool it with all of his ‘do this, do that’ stuff.”

“I simply reminded you that the tone you were using when talking to a grown-up—
any
grown-up—wasn’t acceptable. Which it wasn’t.”

He might have a point about her tone, and he had always been consistent about that. “Okay, maybe you’re right about that one, though you didn’t hear the beginning of the conversation, so you missed the context,” she said. “But getting Mr. Costas upset—”

“I don’t think he was upset.”

“Really? I do. And so did Stevie and Bobby.”

Her father laughed. “I think Bobby might be a bit biased on the subject. We both know how he feels about agents.”

“That’s true. But he also knows Mr. Costas, and he can tell when he’s ticked off.”

Her father didn’t answer. The rest of the trip to the pool passed in silence.

Stevie and Bobby didn’t need to be back at the pool as early as Susan Carol. They pulled up about a half hour before the evening session was scheduled to begin at six. This time, Kelleher circled to the back lot, where they had gone for the NBC interview. Sure enough, the lot was only half full.

“Good call,” Stevie said as they climbed out of the car. Both were carrying computers since the plan was to write from the small media room in the Aquatics Center.

They walked past the NBC set—which was deserted—to the back door they had used that morning.

There’d been a security guard at the door in the morning, but this time he stopped them.

“Sorry,” he said. “Media entrance is around front.”

Kelleher looked confused. “We came through here this morning and there wasn’t a problem. And the media room is right down this hallway.”

The security guy was nodding. “I know, sir, I’m sorry. But someone from USA Swimming came by about an hour ago and put that up.” He pointed to a handwritten sign that said
COMPETITORS ENTRANCE. SWIMMERS, COACHES, AND SWIMMER-SUPPORT BADGES ONLY
.

It looked as if someone had literally drawn up the sign on the spur of the moment.

“Who put that up?” Kelleher said. “It looks like something a sixth grader made.”

The security guy laughed. “I hear you,” he said. “But he was definitely with USA Swimming.”

“Right, all those USA Swimming guys wear big badges with their names on them, like they’re afraid they might forget who they are,” he said. “Did you happen to see his name?”

The guard thought for a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. “Last name was James. I noticed because that’s my first name.”

“That’s helpful, James, thanks. Now, since no one’s around, can you do us a favor and let us go through rather than walk all the way around this enormous building in the heat?”

James looked around. “Look, I know who you are, Mr. Kelleher. I’ve seen you on TV. And I’m not trying to give you a hard time. But you walk down that hall now and someone sees you, I’m the one who gets fired.”

Kelleher nodded. “I hear you. Thanks for your help.”

They turned to leave. “I’m really sorry about this,” James said.

“Not your fault, James. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

By the time they circled the building to the front entrance, Kelleher and Stevie were both steaming—literally and figuratively. Soaked in sweat, they walked in and Stevie could see through the windows behind the lobby that the pool was filled with swimmers warming up for the evening’s finals. Each event would have a consolation final for swimmers who had finished ninth to sixteenth in the morning and then the championship final. The women’s 100 fly was the second event. The men’s 200 fly, which Phelps would swim, was the fifth. Then there were two relays after that to finish off the program.

They headed for the media room, which appeared to be a fitness room where desks had been set up for the weekend meet. They found a couple of empty spots for their computers. Kelleher looked at his watch. It was 5:50. He picked up the program that had the heat sheets in it and opened to the first page.

“Here it is,” he said. “USA Swimming staff.”

It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for. “Trevor James,” he said. “Assistant executive director.”

“Do you know him?”

“Never heard of him. Let’s start with Mike Unger and see what we can find out.”

“Is it that big a deal?” Stevie asked.

“No,” Kelleher said. “But it’s stupid. And I hate stupid.
And there’s two more days to this meet—might as well complain early.”

Mike Unger was in the interview room, apparently trying to figure out where to put all the TV cameras for the post-race interviews.

“Hey, Bobby, Steve, what’s up?” he said with a friendly smile when they walked in. “You might want to get to your seats pretty soon. We’re going to be packed by the time the 200 free starts.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Kelleher said. “Mike, did you know they made the back door over by the locker room hallway off-limits to the media?”

Unger frowned. “First I’ve heard of it,” he said. “I know they get a little jumpy when Phelps is coming and going, but I didn’t think it was a big deal. Most people don’t even know that back door exists.”

“That’s what I would think,” Kelleher said. “Who is Trevor James?”

“Chuck Wielgus’s new number two. Hired him at the beginning of the year to help with rules and sponsorships mostly.”

“Where was he before?”

“Octagon. He helped make a lot of Phelps’s deals for them, apparently. But he’s also an international swimming official. He’s one of the US reps at all the big meets. That was one reason Chuck wanted him: gives us a little more influence with FINA.”

FINA was the Fédération Internationale de Natation. That was French for International Swimming Federation. A lot of international sports organizations used French for their official name. French was the official language of the Olympics because it had been Baron Pierre de Coubertin—a Frenchman—who had started the modern Olympics in 1896.

“So Chuck hired an agent?” Kelleher asked.

“Not exactly,” Unger said. “Trevor James didn’t represent specific athletes. He mostly worked the other side of the street, bringing corporations to the agents for deals.”

“Right, I know the type,” Kelleher said.

“He shouldn’t have anything to do with media access, though,” Unger said. “He steers clear of you guys, best I can tell.”

Stevie started to say something, but Kelleher gave him a look that told him to keep quiet.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Kelleher said. “Come on, Stevie. We better go find a seat.”

They left Unger to finish his work and made their way upstairs to the media seating area. Unger hadn’t been kidding about getting there early. Since there was no assigned seating, it was first come, first served, and there were exactly three seats left when Stevie and Kelleher arrived—two of which Tamara Mearns had been saving for them.

“Wow, it looks like a lot of people didn’t bother to come this morning,” Stevie said as they squeezed in.

“Makes sense,” Kelleher said. “Except for Susan Carol, no one really swam fast this morning. They want to save their best for the finals.”

“You think she went
too
fast this morning?”