Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

In the alley, Terrence pumps my bike tires. A strange man walks around the corner, and his face lights up when he sees us.

“
Monsieur
Braker.” He rambles in French that he’s from a sports network. “How are you feeling about
le Paris-Roubaix
this weekend?” The man shoves a recorder in Terrence’s face.

Terrence glares at the reporter so coolly that I worry for the man’s safety, and he growls in English, “We’re going to fucking kill it. Thanks.”

The man stiffens. Whether he speaks English or not, even my slowest students understand the F-bomb. “What about the rumors that one of your drug tests after Paris-Nice tested positive for blood doping?”

That sounds bad.

“Listen here, shitface.” Terrence steps closer, and the reporter retreats. I almost feel sorry for him, though accosting a stranger with personal accusations before eight a.m. hardly deserves sympathy.

Knowing whatever Terrence will say next is not what BG wants in the news, I push in front of Terrence and jabber in formal French. “
Monsieur
Braker is unaware that there are any rumors circulating, but he hopes they will soon be cleared.”

The reporter seems relieved to talk to me instead of Terrence. He asks me a couple of easily deflected questions. “Who are you?”

“Aurelia Santos.”

“Are you Filipina?”

My jaw falls. “How did you know?” Recovering from my shock, I smile.

“I had a girlfriend who was Filipina.”

Terrence puts his hands on my shoulders and says in English, “She’s my girlfriend.” He looks at me. “Do you mind if he takes our picture?”

Hearing him say that to a reporter lifts my spine and washes away my fury. I nod and translate what he said to the reporter, who enthusiastically takes pictures of us with his phone, Terrence in his BG kit, his arm around me.

“
Merci, merci
,” the reporter chants, then scurries away as fast as he came.

Terrence smacks a kiss to my forehead. “Awesome. You don’t mind being in the news?”

“There are far worse things to be than ‘Terror Braker’s girlfriend’.” I try to shrug like it’s no big deal but can’t conceal my ecstatic smile. Terrence just declared us a couple to a reporter. Wow.

It’s not like I’ll have to worry about my mother seeing it. She’ll never read a French cycling blog.

“I was about to lose my shit with that dude,” he says. “Who does he think he is, coming up here, in the morning? You were really good at that. You know, answering questions.”

“It’s easy when they’re not about me.”

He tugs my shoulder. “How’d you do that? Answer him but not tell him anything. You make me look good, Lia.”

“Right.” I snort. “I’m sure they’ll be wondering why you’re not with some model type.”

“Don’t do that. You’re a real person. Forget about the whole shallow athlete thing. You’re better than any model for me.” He kisses me again, lingering on my lips.

I relax against him. “You understood every word the reporter said in French, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did.” He reaches for his bike. “This is my second season in Europe. I’m not a complete idiot.”

“I didn’t mean—it’s just—how come you never speak in French then?”

“I suck at it.” He hands me my bike. “Ready to ride?”

“Yeah.”

Carrying my messenger bag over his shoulder, he mounts his bike. “These bags are made for riding bikes, you know?”

“My mom must have known I’d be meeting a cyclist when she gave it to me for Christmas,” I joke back.

“Would she like me?” He asks it quickly, so quickly I almost doubt I hear him.

“Why? Do you care?” If my mom knew I was dating a man who raced bikes for a living…she’d judge him the same way she judges me for studying French. I like him too much to subject him to that.

“No reason.” He shrugs as though he never asked. “Come on.”

He rides with me north on the boulevard and stops a block from my school.

“See you tonight?” I say.

“Better not.” He hands me my bag. “Things are going to be crazy the next few days till we leave for Paris. I’ll just plan to see you after the race.”

My head jerks. “What—why?” That’s five days. We haven’t been apart that long since the first night we slept side by side. He’s only been gone for one or two nights for all the other races.

He avoids my eyes and sets his jaw. “There’s going to be a lot going on at the house. Best if you don’t have to deal with it.”

“But what if I want to deal with it? What if I want to help?” I can handle his temper. He’s thinking about what Ralph said, how his coach doesn’t want me around, but last night he didn’t believe it. Something’s changed.

He just declared us a real couple to the press. I don’t get it.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re leaving day after tomorrow anyway to practice on the cobbles. Gary needs to ride the Arenberg Forest a few times.”

There must be something else he isn’t telling me. Last night was so great, and this morning. I thought.

He clips into his pedals and gives me a peck of a kiss.

My tongue itches with the words in my throat. I don’t want him to go.

He speaks before me. “Can you look in on Caroline while we’re gone? Gary’s worried about leaving her alone every weekend.”

“She hates me. I’d make her more upset.”

“She just needs company. It’s hard, being pregnant and alone.”

That’s the most considerate thing he’s ever said about Gary’s girlfriend. He’s right. I should go see her, even if I would rather be in Paris with him. “Okay.”

“I’ll text you.” He pedals away.

My shoulders collapse. I don’t want him to text me. I want him to be next to me. I want to eat dinner and breakfast with him, and study while he naps, and cuddle on the couch, and—tears prick my eyes.

The thought of being away from him for so long coils my stomach. I don’t know when it happened, but—I’ve become attached to him. To his warmth and his aliveness, to his excitement and his spontaneity.

I shouldn’t be getting attached. I’ll be leaving soon and will probably never see him again.

I trip on a dip in the sidewalk, and my handlebars bruise my hip. Ow.

Never see him again. That sounds…I can’t…why would it… I shake the thoughts from my head and ignore the discomfort gathering in my chest.

Maybe he’s just stressed about the doping rumors. Maybe he’ll call me this afternoon and change his mind. He’ll want me to come over. He’s as attached to me as I am to him, I think.

* * * * *

He doesn’t call. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, since his team and coach don’t want him talking to me. He warned me about this, that his cycling made it hard for him to have time.

It’s not like this is a serious thing between us. But if it’s not serious, then—I shouldn’t be feeling so abandoned. This is supposed to be a casual thing. I’m going home.

I’ve checked with Fulbright and made no progress. I’m going home early. Less than a month.

With me leaving soon, wanting more from Terrence is pointless.

I ride my bike everywhere all weekend, pushing down each pedal the way I push away my fears about Terrence. I visit Caroline, and she seems glad to see me.

She compliments my bike when I carry it up the stairs, and I wonder that she’s never seen it before.

“Terrence gave it to me.”

“He bought it for you?” Her face lightens with surprise.

“Crazy, right?” I unbuckle my helmet and set it on the table.

She invites me to sit and eat lunch. “You’re really good for him. I never thought he’d get so serious about a girl.”

“I’m not sure how serious it is. Not this week anyway.”

In the kitchen, she opens and closes the fridge. “Did something happen?”

“He didn’t want to see me before they left. It was weird. Like he was hiding something.” Maybe she knows if he is.

She brings food to the table, sits next to me, then stares at her plate like it’s fascinating, not saying anything. My breath halts. There is something. Something that she’s not going to tell me either.

I munch on the sandwich she gives me, not tasting it.

“The bike he got you is really nice,” she says finally.

I swallow. “Yeah. He spent way too much money.” Especially if he cares so little that he’s keeping secrets from me.

“He does that. He bought his mom a house last year.”

I choke and take a slug of water. “A house?”

“Trust me. He can afford it. They make a lot in bonuses when they win. Not just from the race but in their contracts too.”

“Wow.” He said he bought his mom a kitchen. I didn’t realize that was to go in the house he’d already bought her. That means him buying me a bicycle was no big deal.

“Does his dad live in the house too?” I ask, remembering how Terrence doesn’t seem to like him.

“Yeah, but it’s in his mom’s name, Gary said, so his dad can’t gamble it away.”

“Oh. That’s good.” A different wrench wrings my heart. How awful for Terrence to have a father who would gamble away his own home.

Caroline’s eyes glitter with a smile. “Terrence bought Gary a Rolex after winning Paris-Nice.”

My eyes bug. “Really?”

“As a thank you.” She chuckles. “I don’t know when Gary’s supposed to wear the thing since they’re always riding. He leaves it in the box on the dresser, like a trophy.”

“I guess that’s what it is. He really makes
that
much money?”

“He gets sponsors Gary can only dream about.”

The subject changes to lighter things—Nice and the weather—but I have trouble focusing. A house for his mom. A Rolex for Gary. Terrence has serious money. There’s so much I don’t know about him, and it’s hard to learn more if he’s keeping secrets from me.

When I stand to leave, my sore butt from the bike seat makes me wince, and Caroline notices. She says, “You need cycling shorts. The girl kind. They have special padding to make your girl parts happier.”

“Terrence tried to buy me a pair of those.”

The corner of her mouth perks. “That’s sweet of him.”

“Even sweeter, he bought me an extra-small. They’d never fit me. I couldn’t get them over my hips. I still haven’t told him.”

She laughs, the first time I’ve seen her do that.

I take her advice on where to exchange the shorts, and go shopping for a bigger size. I try on a large in the dressing room, wondering if I might need the extra-large.

But the large sags, and I buy a medium.

I’ve lost weight, and I didn’t even know it. At the street market, I search for fresh foodstuffs to cook on my rickety stove. There’s an Asian market, too, I learn. Perhaps I’ll find some noodles there another time. They’re unlikely to have the Filipino kind of pancit, but they may have the Chinese kind to substitute.

Sunday morning, because it’s Easter, I walk to the Cathedrale Ste.-Reparate. I can’t not go for Easter, especially when the mass is given in French beneath soaring Baroque domes and archways.

I miss my family too much to be alone, and since my new cell isn’t equipped for international calls, I find an internet café to call home.

My mother passes the phone around to every relative I’ve ever had. I hardly say more than a word to anyone, because they all go on and on about how they miss me. I both laugh and get teary during the call. I miss their loudness now, how they love to party. I miss my mom’s bibingka cake that she makes on Easter every year for me, even though it’s a Christmas dessert.

I don’t want to go back to my lonely apartment, and there’s one open chocolatier displaying Easter candies in the window. I think of the family living downstairs from me, and I buy candy for their two kids.

I knock on their door to wish them happy Easter. I give them my present, and the wife is so thrilled that she invites me to share their holiday dinner with them. My fascination at learning their traditions, plus the multiple glasses of wine, eclipse my homesickness, at least until I’m alone again in my apartment.

There, I mope in my loneliness and succumb to the temptation to check my phone, knowing Terrence won’t have called.

Except there is a missed call. From him.

It’s late, but I return it anyway. He answers, and the excitement in my voice when I say hi could be embarrassing, but when I hear his response, I’m glad I didn’t hide it.

“Lia, I miss you.”

All my suspicions of him hiding things, of him not wanting me around, I banish them at the sound of his voice. He did miss me. I’m overreacting. “I miss you, too. How did Gary do?”

He speaks with a low voice. “He got eighth. Best finish he’s ever had in Europe. But everyone’s busting him for not getting a podium.” He growls. “Bullshitters.”

“Eighth sounds good to me though. So the coach let you race?” I smile at the thought of Terrence leading Gary to the line.

“I raced, but—” He clears his throat. “I had a bit of a crash. Damn cobbles eat me every time.”

“Oh no.” I bolt up in bed. “Are you okay?” I envision all those broken bones he and Gary told me about.

“Nothing bad.” He sounds annoyed more than pained. “Just some road rash. Burns like a mofo, but I can still ride. It’s all that matters.” I can’t decide if he’s minimizing the effects because it’s true, or because he doesn’t want to upset me. Or because he doesn’t want to think about how it will affect his racing.

“Will I see you tomorrow?” he asks.

“Are you sure you want to? I’m hindering your training.”

“I’m getting it from the guys and coach. I don’t need it from you too. I want to see you. Please.”

I breathe a sigh and snuggle my pillow. It’s not just me who’s lonely. “I’ll come over after I finish teaching. I’ve been riding my bike all weekend.”

“Really?” His voice is light then goes husky. “You ride it good, huh?”

“Ha-ha. I’ll ride you just as good tomorrow, how’s that?”

He sucks in his breath. “Lia…”

“I mean—” Oh shit. The last few weeks I’ve been enamored with the luxury of how an orgasm feels, by his hand, by mine. I am impatient for more though, which is why I braved the French clinic for birth control two weeks ago. Last week I thought maybe we were ready, but then Terrence left for Paris so abruptly. And I haven’t seen him in days.