Breathe in, blow out. Repeat. No use. Waiting in limbo before hitting the limelight was just too nerve-racking. Race day was funny like that, always had been, Charlie decided. Hell, he could happily make a complete ass of himself 24/7 on camera, but this anticipation, this space, this self-inquisition in the quiet moments, gnawed deep inside. “How long now?” He’d often thrown up in the toilet or jogged laps of the gymnasium track right up until the very last minute before his pre-race interview. Those methods seemed to work best. Once, he’d even asked his masseuse to rub him into relaxation on the gantry above the space dock, one door away from the audience and infamy, yet all it had achieved was sending him to sleep—a definite no-no before starring in the biggest sporting event on Earth’s calendar. The Tonne Run. He zipped his sapphire tracksuit jacket up to the collar, unzipped it, then quickly wriggled it off. Too bloody hot. But how could it be? The temperature in the space dock was measured as carefully as a cup of warm sake.
