Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 (19 page)

Chapter Thirty

Today’s Milan-San Remo. Terrence hasn’t called me. Gary called Caroline yesterday, which is reasonable because they’re having a baby. It still hurts, though, to hear from Gary, through Caroline, that Terrence will be racing, and not from Terrence himself. It’s not like Terrence and I have a real relationship. It doesn’t matter how much he needs me or how much I miss him. I’m leaving in…

I’m not counting the days. I’m not.

I can’t. I’m physically unable to. The ache in my chest is getting worse.

I have a decision to make. Paul and his friends are going to the little country of Monaco with the famous casinos and raceway. I haven’t travelled. It would be good to spend the day with French people, touring another city.

Even though it goes against what I’m supposed to do in France, I’m done thinking that way. I’m not going to Monaco. What’s important is what I want to do. And I want to ride my bike up the Col d’Èze climb.

I focus on my pedal strokes. Down. Down. Down. Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.

I’ve memorized each bend in the road. Each one I pass is a mini-victory. My lungs burn hotter with the steepening incline.

My legs jerk in circles, my thighs burn, my back aches. I could turn around anytime. I chant mantras to combat the urge: I want to see the top, I want to do this on my own. To give up would mean losing more than a million-dollar view. I’ve come so far, it would be like giving up on myself.

The road winds around the mountainside until I can no longer see the city of Nice, only villas, forests, and water. My bike weaving, my feet spin in slow motion.

The springtime sun makes sweat sprout on my neck, and the glittering sea speckles like diamonds in my eyes.

I can do this. I’m doing this.

Except, ahead, something kills my courage.

Trees. Lots and lots of trees. The road goes flat, the incline levels and turns away from the sea. My legs spin easily. I’m grateful for the reprieve, but I don’t know if this is the top.

If I keep going, I’ll go inland and won’t be able to see the water. The Côte d’Azur will be gone.

I pull over. My feet dragging onto the roadside gravel, I lean over the handlebars, breathless, my body depleted. This is it. I can’t go farther.

I can’t see the top. I don’t know how much farther it is, or maybe this is the top. I expected a sign, some indication of arrival, not anticlimactic ambiguity.

I would know if Terrence were with me. Or even Caroline.

But I wanted to do this for myself. This was supposed to be for me. But I miss Terrence more than ever. I wanted to feel connected to him. And now it’s over and I can’t go on and…

I’m on empty. I have nothing left. And I can’t escape it anymore, how much I miss him. The hard fact is, if he doesn’t have time for me when he gets back from the race, I’ll be devastated. It doesn’t matter that I’ll be leaving soon.

Tears burst from my eyes.

I’m vulnerable and I’ve never felt so at the mercy of someone else before. Like he holds my heart in his hands to either love it or break it.

Please let him not break it.

I want him next to me, smiling, taking selfies of us.

I shake the water from my eyes. “Stop it!” If I want to smile and take selfies, then I will smile and take selfies.

I take out my flip phone. It’s no smartphone, but it still has a camera. I take my first ever selfie, my face flushed from my ride, my eyes wet from tears.

I know he’s racing. I text it to Terrence with a “See you tomorrow”.

Even if he thinks the text a desperate girl move, I don’t care. I’m so full of him right now—I have to send it to him or I’ll burst.

I descend the climb, leaning over my handlebars, an aerodynamic pose, in imitation of him. The wind whistles through my helmet, chilling the sweat on my forehead, and staunches the anxiety bleeding from my veins. Whether I should or shouldn’t have sent that text, whether I see Terrence again or not—it’s been wonderful to have him, even for a little while.

Before I met him, I was complacent here, not knowing how to have fun and enjoy the wonders of Nice. He’s shown me how to make friends and climb mountains. He’s taught me to believe in myself as a teacher, to love myself, eat better, exercise. And more. He’s taught me I’m worth it, beautiful and sexy. Priceless.

The breath-stealing scenery flashes by me, fast and blinking, and I’m overcome with a need to watch Terrence race.

Caroline is home, probably watching Milan-San Remo, so I turn my bike toward the Promenade and ride straight to the team flat.

* * * * *

Caroline opens the door and lets me in without a word. I itch to tell her about my climb up the Col d’Èze, but her glum expression stops me. Her mood reminds me more of her petulant arguments with Terrence, not the giving woman who taught me to change a flat and lent me her cycling gear.

“How’s the race?” I ask.

“Nothing’s happened for the first hundred and fifty kilometers, as usual.” She moves slowly back to the couch.

“How are you feeling?”

“Doesn’t matter.” She supports her back and sits down.

Her answer perplexes me, until I see the stack of suitcases by the door. “Caroline?”

She doesn’t look at me. “I’m going home tomorrow. That’s all I’m thinking about right now.”

I’ll miss her. It’s been nice having a girl friend in this crazy world of cycling.

It’s odd she didn’t mention it over dinner last night, but I knew it would happen soon. “That’s good, right? You’ll want to be with your family when your baby’s born.” Though if Gary can’t be there, I’m sure he’ll be disconsolate.

I sit down on a chair in view of the TV. Riders race across the screen, traveling on a winding seaside road, fanning the Mediterranean. It’s Italy. I want to go there. I could’ve gone to the finish, if I wasn’t too much of a wimp to travel alone. I’m nervous enough about flying back to the States.

“It’s good for us that I’m going home.” Caroline rubs her belly. “But Gary, well—he made his decision when he lied about why he left so early for Milan.”

“He lied?”

“He admitted it last night. They went to see a ‘doctor’.” Her air quotes are accusatory and sarcastic.

“What’s wrong with that?”

Her eyes grow wide. “You knew? Terrence told you?”

“He was injured, it made sense.”

Her lip curls. “And what’s so much better about the doctors in Milan than here in Nice? Didn’t you think of that?”

It is odd, now she mentions it, but her meanness prickles my defenses. “How was I supposed to know any different?” I wish now I had done some volunteering at the hospital. Maybe I would understand what she’s implying.

“There’s only one kind of doctor that cyclists go to see near Milan.” She glances at her suitcases. “Gary promised he’d never go. He broke that promise.”

Her tone makes doubt twine in my belly. “What doctor did they go see?”

“Luigi Bugatti. But if you ask Terrence, he’ll lie.”

I can’t decide if she’s giving me vital information or if she’s overreacting, the same way she’s done to Terrence. “Why would Terrence lie about a doctor?”

She doesn’t answer me. My knees bounce.

The race unfolds on the TV, the riders reaching their final approach to San Remo. A gaggle of BG jerseys lead the main group. “That’s them,” I say.

“They’ve been staying together all day.”

“That’s good, right? Terrence’s leg must be doing well.”

She scoffs. “Of course.”

Frustrated by her elusiveness, I ask, “What’s so bad about this doctor?”

“I’ve been thinking of going home since I got pregnant.” She looks at me, her mouth downturned. “I didn’t want it to be like this. I wanted to stay with him.” Her lips quiver, her eyes darting. “In spite of everything. I do love him.” She caresses her belly. “This one may be a surprise, but I’m still grateful he’s coming.”

“It’s a boy?”

She nods with a private smile, even under the tear leaking over her cheek.

The TV announcers murmur, but I can only see Caroline. “I know you’ll miss Gary, but it’s good you’re going home.”

“I don’t want to leave him.” She wipes her eyes. “Maybe it’s good he made the decision for us.”

I sit forward in my seat. “It doesn’t have to be the end. He’ll come home to you when he can. Gary’s a good guy. He’ll make it right.” I locate the tissues and hand her the box. I don’t want to probe for more information about this doctor, but I need to know.

“I know.” She fidgets with a tissue. “There’s a laptop in my room. You should Google Bugatti for yourself.”

“Isn’t it the name of a fancy car?”

“You’ll have to type in Luigi and cycling to find him.”

I jump off the couch and run for her computer. I bring it back into the room. I don’t want to know who this doctor is. If it’s bad enough to make Caroline leave—I hope my suspicions of what she’s implying are wrong.

After I type the keywords in the search engine, articles leap on the page about Dr. Bugatti. A physician and cycling coach who, two years ago, was convicted and fined for the illegal trafficking of performance-enhancing drugs.

“No.” My eyes fall closed.

It can’t be true. Terrence wouldn’t. Neither would Gary. I would believe it of Sergio and Coach, but—

If Terrence’s contract was threatened by the team owner, he wouldn’t have had a choice. Well, there’s always a choice, but money means so much to him, how far would he go to keep his paycheck?

I won’t be poor like I was growing up.

Fuck.

“Is this what he’s been hiding from me?” I whisper. “Why he’s been pushing me away and…” My voice breaks. I don’t want it to be true. I would rather it be because he didn’t want me anymore.

Caroline nods. “I think so.”

“You’ve suspected this. For months.” I remember her warnings, her questions, her badgering, and how I judged her for it.

“I suspected it.”

I read more of the article. “But the doctor was convicted. He can’t still be in business. They’d throw him in jail.”

Caroline shrugs.

On the TV, with one kilometer left in the race, five BG jerseys line up behind each other, dominating the front of the peloton. Over a hundred riders struggle on their wheels. In a choreographed dance, one BG rider drops off the front. The next one in line charges into his place, pedals as hard as he can, taking the wind for his teammates for as many minutes as he can, then, wasted, he drops too. Caroline’s right, the team is racing in a single unit.

They’re artistic, musical in their synchronization. These men working in an assembly line, all for Terrence. It’s inspiring. It’s…

All for the money?

It can’t be. There’s too much passion in these men for it to be only about a paycheck.

When they reach the final one hundred meters, only two blue riders are left: Gary leading Terrence.

“Do you think they might do it?” I fidget. Is it wrong that I still want them to win?

“Of course they’d win this one. How convenient.” Caroline’s voice broils with sarcasm.

The camera zooms in, and the announcers begin the final, adrenaline-pumping call to the finish. I’m too focused on Gary and Terrence to notice what they’re saying. They round a corner past a stationary camera with blurring speed. Their chests press low to the handlebars, their teeth bared and grimacing.

Then, on cue, at the ten-meters-to-go flag, Gary veers off and Terrence lets loose his final kick to the line. The force of his power, the strength of his will, the explosion of his body—it’s intoxicating. Four other sprinters battle in vain, jockeying around him, their struggle futile. As though fueled by wind, flying by wing, Terrence surges and blasts over the line, bike lengths ahead of the others. His arms flexed high in triumph, his mouth wide and screaming.

“Oh my God!” I can’t help cheering and clapping. The ecstatic expression on Terrence’s face, I could look at it every day. He’s on top of the world, the people at his feet.

The camera follows “Terror Braker” into the crowd. Gary rushes behind him, and the two embrace like the brothers they are in life, if not in blood. Their foreheads meet, and they clasp shoulders in a ritual born of racing partners.

“They won!” I cry, and see Caroline frozen on the couch, straight-faced and somber. If they won because they doped, Terrence might not pass the drug tests.

He’d never risk that—he could lose his whole career. It means too much to him. I don’t believe it. She’s wrong.

She sneers at the television screen. “There’s the man we have to thank for it.”

“Who?” I scrutinize the TV screen.

“The dark-haired guy, slapping Terrence on the back. That’s Sergio. And the bald guy with the gut, that’s their coach.” The two men I’ve heard so much about but never met look satisfied, ecstatic.

The crowd crushes around Terrence, and he’s lost to the mob of cameras. The next time he appears, he’s floating onto the podium in his sneakers and team kit.

I have to cover my mouth to hide my smile. I can’t stop it. This extraordinary man I’ve known—he can’t be a fraud. That I know.

He holds the bouquet and the trophy, and I’m so elated for him I want to scream. He wanted this so badly, and the smile beaming from him is the brightest since he won in Nice over a month ago.

The models come forward, each kissing him on the cheek, and he throws the bouquet into the crowd with that impish grin. The last time he threw that bouquet was to me.

They bring out the giant champagne bottle, and Terrence sprays the crowd with the bubbling white foam. Him doing that in Nice was arousing to witness, but I didn’t understand why.

Now I do.

He’s just having fun, I tell myself, it doesn’t mean anything. The cameras devour him in his winner’s euphoria. Then, in a truly bad boy moment, he turns the champagne on the models and splashes them in their faces.

That wouldn’t be so bad, if not for the expression on his face. It’s so sexed that my jaw hangs. I’ve seen that look before when we’re alone, naked, in bed. And now he has it onstage, in front of cameras, while spraying a bunch of models with his fizzing champagne.

It makes me think of him spraying me with something else.

My lip curls, and I feel a bit sick.