Freddie

“WELCOME TO GOOD Morning America. I’m Nancy Rogers, joined this morning by Frederick Archibald, the enigmatic British swimmer with no less than sixteen gold medals to his name.”

The camera panned to me and I waved to the audience. The studio lights made it hard to see five feet from my face, but I could just make out Thom, my teammate, standing beside the cameraman having a laugh.

“Welcome to the show, Freddie,” Nancy continued, angling her body toward me. “When did you first arrive in Rio?”

“Just two days ago, actually. Flew over with a few of my other teammates.”

“I would have thought you all would just swim over! Kidding of course!” she screeched, drawing from the well of manufactured enthusiasm only available to middle-aged morning show hosts.

I took a patient breath before offering a small smile. “Would be a bit cold, that.”

“Well nonetheless,” she started, eying my physique. “I’m sure you would have been able to manage it. Your workouts must be so very grueling.” Is she hitting on me? “Tell us, do you plan on breaking the records you set during the London games?”

Fucking hell, I’d forgotten the kinds of questions they asked over in the States. What did she suppose I wanted to do? Lose?

“You’ve got it, Nancy. That’s the plan,” I said, deadpan. 

She smiled, a fake sort of grin that made her face lopsided.

“You know, Freddie, your reputation definitely precedes you—even ‘across the pond’,” she tittered. “You’re known to everyone as the ‘bad boy’ of swimming.”

The camera zoomed in on my face as I glanced to Nancy and frowned. “Was that a question?”

She stammered and adjusted the lapel mic on her blazer. I wasn’t making the interview easy. It was thirty seconds in and I was having a go at her, but there was no point in dancing around it. I didn’t like press. I didn’t want to do interviews. My manager had insisted I take the interview, so this was what she’d get—ten minutes of awkward air time. 

“You’re right. Silly me. I meant to ask, how does it feel to be the ‘bad boy’ of swimming?”

I laughed. “You’ll have to ask my mate, Thom. He chats up ladies far more than I do.”

It was a lie, but I needed some way to diffuse her question. Who actually refers to someone as the bad boy of swimming? I’d never get laid again if I went about saying that.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re being modest.”

I didn’t reply and she had to rifle through her cue cards to find the next question.

“Uhh, Freddie…” she stammered, eyeing the camera tentatively before turning to me. “It’s been four years since your last Olympic games and I understand that a lot has changed for you since then. Would you mind going into a bit of detail about the announcement of your—”

I shook my head to cut her off. I knew my manager had passed along a specific list of topics that were off-limits. “Nancy, this interview was meant to be about swimming.”

She smiled wider. “And it will be! I promise, it’s just that our viewers are dying to know what your plans are with the lovely Caroline.”

I stood and reached for my mic. “Sorry Nancy. Until my races are done in a few weeks, my focus will be in the pool and nowhere else.”

I passed my mic to the cameraman as I walked off the studio set. Thom wouldn’t stop laughing until we were back outside—the wanker. They probably couldn’t air the segment. It was less than two minutes, but I didn’t care. The media were vultures. They’d write what they wanted to whether or not I pretended to be a well-mannered gentleman.

“Freddie, do you think you’ll try to swim even faster this time around?” Thom echoed, doing his best impersonation of Nancy.

“Exactly!” I laughed and shoved his shoulder. “Of course I’m here to break my bloody records.”

“Did you really mean what you said to her?” He looked concerned. “About only focusing on the pool?”

“What? Have you already got plans for us or something?” I asked, reaching for my mobile. There were already three missed calls from my manager—she’d want to berate me for walking off the interview—but I skipped over them, content to ignore her.

“There’s a few swimmers heading over to Brian’s place, but I think we should stop in at this party the Brazilian swimmers are having. Blokes’ve got a theme and everything.”

Sounded ridiculous. “What’s the theme?”

“Says ‘Rubik’s Cube’ on the Facebook invite.”

I paused and turned to him. “Are they taking the piss?”