TWICE VICTORIOUS (10 page)

Warren nudged Adam, regaining his attention. "Are you and Stell coming to the
barbecue tonight?" Stell's cousin seemed to have appointed himself Adam's guide today.
Between his races he'd come up to the stands and kept up a running commentary about the
competitors.

"Not this time. We've got other plans." Adam's eyes drifted to the center of the
field, the grassy area contained within the oval track. Stell was with several other women
cyclists, among them the petite redhead who'd modeled KIWANDA CycleWear. Felice,
that was her name. Even as he watched, most of the women stopped their stretches and put
on their helmets.

Almost all the cyclists were in the stands now. A few were still in the center of the
oval, where Stell continued stretching. He would never get enough of watching her. Each
graceful movement was as carefully controlled as a dancer's, or a Karate adept's. She
hardly looked up when the starter waved his flag and the start bell rang.

The children took off. Even the two tiny ones were pedaling furiously. Two of the
older ones--they looked to be five or six--pulled ahead of the rest and were in a
neck-and-neck battle for the lead. The whole pack was going all out as they rounded the end and
accelerated along the back straightaway.

The crowd got noisier, with almost everyone calling out encouragement. Adam
found himself willing the tiny girl with ringlets to pedal faster.

Faster!
She was being overtaken, even though she was some distance
ahead of the littlest boy.

The leaders passed the little riders. Soon so did the rest of the pack. Adam's
favorite simply lowered her head and pedaled even harder. "The poor kids," he muttered,
not liking to see them left so fat behind.

"They're doing fine," Warren said.

Adam ignored him. No child that small should be expected to compete.

The pack of older kids was at the back of the track when the two little ones
approached the stands. Still ahead, the little girl seemed to be flagging. The crowd's cheers
increased.

The start/finish line was a strip of black paint on the concrete of the track. The
little girl's front tire rolled across it about six inches ahead of the boy's, and the starter
waved a checkered flag. More cheering. A young woman in a lime green and yellow jersey
jumped down to the track and grabbed the girl in a big hug, while another woman in jeans
ran to the little boy. They pulled the kids off the track just in time for the pack to whisper
by, to more cheers of the crowd.

"What's going on?"

Warren tugged on his elbow. For the first time, Adam realized he was standing.
He sat.

"There are actually two races. Watch."

The pack approached the start/finish line again. To tumultuous cheers, a boy on a
fat-tired bike led them across. He slowed, and led the lengthening line of riders around the
track, waving one hand above his head.

Once the kids had parked their bikes on the grass again, they gathered around the
three-tiered stand. It wasn't as fancy as some Adam had seen, but it was made just like the
winner's podium at many athletic events. Someone lifted the little girl onto the top level
and the boy who'd almost caught her to the next one. A judge draped a medal around each
small neck. The girl clapped her hands and bounced, while the boy clasped his hands
above his head in a victorious acknowledgement.

Everyone clapped and cheered.

Adam found his throat growing tight.

Three older kids replaced the little ones, and were given their medals. Adam
applauded and cheered as loudly as anyone. Despite his disapproval of children so young
in competition, he had to admire them. They'd gone all out, as a good competitor
should.

Another three kids climbed onto the podium. No, four, for there were two on one
of the lower levels. Again the award ceremony.

"See," Warren said softly. "Everyone wins."

"Doesn't that give them a false sense of accomplishment?" One of the first things
he'd learned, many years ago, was that each contest has only one winner.

"Nope. The ribbons are for finishing, not winning. At their age, riding a kilometer
is quite a feat."

"If you say so." He still didn't approve, but now he wasn't quite sure what it was
he didn't approve of.

The adult races began again. Warren left him alone, because he was riding in the
Madison, a race that looked something like a relay, except that the only thing the riders
seemed to be relaying was each other. Each team of two took turns leading, and when the
follower approached, the leader reached back, grabbed his partner, and pulled him ahead,
almost slinging him forward.
I wish somebody would explain this one to me. What's the
point?

Once again he looked into the central oval. Stell had stopped her stretching, and
was sitting on the grass with two other women, watching the race. How could she stand
being here and not competing? If he were in her shoes, he'd stay as far away from cycling
as he could. Having your heart cut out of you wouldn't be any more painful than losing
your reason for being. He knew.

Just then Stell looked up and smiled at him. Adam's heart lurched. She was so
lovely!

He waited as she flowed to her feet and walked across the track. At fifty feet he
noticed her limp more than he did at close quarters. It didn't seem to be improving.

"Hi. Enjoying yourself?"

"Sure."

"Doesn't sound like it. Do you want to leave?"

"I am getting hungry." He'd brought a picnic from Elephant's Deli, packed into a
fancy basket he'd borrowed from Juliana. There was even chilled wine. "Do you want to
leave your car here, come back for it later?"

She shook her head. "Not if we're going any distance. I was awake way too early
this morning, and I'll turn into a pumpkin in about two hours."

"Couldn't sleep?"

"No, I had a breakfast meeting, so I got up extra early to do my exercises
first."

Her minivan was parked close to the sidewalk. As she unlocked it, he said, "I
thought we'd go to Washington Park." His favorite picnic spot with a view looked out at
Mt. Hood and the entire city panorama. "I'll lead, because the place I have in mind is a
little off the beaten path. If you lose me, I'll wait at the Zoo parking lot." He caught her car
door as she started to close it. "Drive carefully."

Her smile lit up the world.

At least I'll have her to myself this evening
. He felt almost selfish.
Almost. The longer he knew her, the less inclined he was to want to share her with the
demands of world class competition.

Maybe he was worrying unnecessarily. It was still questionable, in his opinion,
whether she was going to get better enough to compete. From the white lines of strain
often marking her face, he rather doubted that it would.

Silently he vowed to expose her to as much pleasure as he could, so she would
forget her obsession with being the best. It was possible. He'd done it.

Somewhere, in the far back of his mind, a little voice asked him if he hadn't
simply traded one obsession for another.

He did his best to ignore it.

* * * *

"You can choose my picnic foods anytime," Stell told Adam when they'd tucked
the few leftovers into the cooler.

He sipped his wine, looking at her across the rim of the glass.

Even though his face was shadowed in the twilight, desire was writ plainly in his
eyes.

Stell's insides quavered. For long seconds their eyes were locked together.
When,
his gaze promised.
Not if. When.

She finally found the strength of will to look away, knowing that the games were
almost over. Decision time was imminent and she still didn't know what she
wanted--needed--most. With an effort she pushed the quandary aside. With luck, her choice would
become obvious. Until she had to make it, she refused to worry. She already had enough
stress in her life.

"Such a lovely night," she said, hoping to distract herself. "We don't get many like
this."

"Don't worry. Rain's forecast for tomorrow."

"Oh, good. More than three clear days in a row and I start to worry." Actually, she
was tired to death of always-gray skies. Thank goodness it was June. Pretty soon the rains
would stop and summer would come.

Adam divided the last of the wine between their glasses.

"You're spoiling me," she said. "This is superb wine."

"You need spoiling. I'll bet you don't know the meaning of self-indulgence." He
blew on her ear, chuckled softly as she shivered.

"You lose. I've got my weaknesses, just like everyone else."

"Like what?"

"Like not being able to resist fresh peaches. Not being able to go to sleep until I
finish a book. I can't resist buying tapes and CDs, so I restrict myself to one visit to Music
Millenium a month. I don't have an ounce of will power where some things are
concerned."

Adam nipped at her ear. "What things?"

You
her mind said, but she managed to bite the word back before her
runaway mouth shaped it. If only he didn't fit the empty place in her life so darned well.
She really didn't want him to become necessary, not until she'd decided whether she could
fit him into her already hectic existence.

On the other hand, maybe it was time to face up to the truth and admit she wanted
to keep seeing him. What she needed to do was concentrate on making sure she didn't fall
in love with him. A brief, merely affectionate relationship she could handle. An intense
love affair would be too distracting. Not to mention how painful it would be when it fell
apart, victim to her training schedule.

She had a better chance of winning the lottery than a relationship with Adam had
of surviving the total devotion she gave to serious training.

She yawned. "I've got to get home before I fall asleep right here." She rolled to
one side, ready to start the awkward and sometimes painful process of getting to her feet.
Adam caught her under her arms and lifted her.

Grateful for his help, yet resenting its implication that she was helpless, Stell let
him stand her on her feet. Waiting while he gathered the blanket, ice chest, and their
unused jackets, she found herself wishing she didn't have her car. Right now she wanted to
be with him. Not alone.

Yet she needed to be alone. She was tired. Her leg ached. She was suffering
residual depression. She was finding it more and more difficult to be at the velodrome and
not race. Seeing women she knew she could outride winning right and left was getting to
her. She also begrudged them the points that should have been hers. If she didn't get back
on her bike soon, she wouldn't even be a candidate for the Sawtooth Classic team next
year.

CHECKPOINT: a point in a race route
which riders must pass (may be for time, distance or
both)

"It's not getting better, Carl. Sometimes I think it's getting worse." Stell clenched
her fists, as if doing so would hold back the tears threatening to well up.

"Let's see." The P.T. gestured her onto the table, touched her leg here and there.
He directed her to move it, twist it into positions that were uncomfortable or, worse, still
impossible. After a few moments' examination, he nodded. "You've been overdoing it
again, haven't you?"

"No. Well, only a little," she admitted when he frowned at her first answer. "I've
been doing the exercises you gave me every day instead of every other day, and some other
things, besides. But they don't hurt. Honest."

"Operating on the assumption that if some is good, more is better. Right?"

She nodded, wondering why he looked so grim.

"Stell, you're right. Your hip is getting worse. And so's your ankle, but that we can
take care of pretty easily. I'll just put it into a brace, too." He reached for a pen. "Your
insurance should cover most of the cost of this orthotic," he continued, writing rapidly.
"But even if it doesn't, it's not too expensive."

Cold fear held her flat on the examining table. "You're trying to scare me, aren't
you Carl?" She grabbed his arm. "I'm not really worse, am I?" But she knew he was telling
the truth. The pain in her hip had become constant, not intermittent as it had been, easily
attributed to overuse.

"I'll make you an appointment with Dr. Pauvel, if you don't trust my word." His
tone was strained. Stell knew Carl was proud of his professional ability and regretted her
implication that he had erred.

"No. No, you don't need to do that. I believe you. It was just that...well, I didn't
want to...."

"No one ever does," he said. "Look, Stell, people aren't machines. You can't work
a muscle constantly and not give it any rest." He grinned. "As a matter of fact, you can't
work a machine that way either. You've got to stop it for maintenance every so often." As
he spoke, he was massaging her leg, working his knowing fingers along the muscles and
tendons, bringing relaxation and alleviation of pain.

"I don't think you've done any permanent damage, beyond what your accident did,
of course, but we'll have to wait and see. But you've got to be patient. Soft tissues just don't
heal overnight."

She listened--really listened--as he carefully reviewed the extent of her injuries
and reiterated her course of therapy. When he warned her again that she was going to have
to be patient, she drew a deep breath. Patience had never been her greatest virtue. The
deadline she'd given herself to be back on her bicycle was next week. She knew she'd
never be able to ride that soon. Dare she wait another month? Would her enormous points
lead be enough to last through a summer when all the other contenders for the Superbe
Products team were out there racing? As it was, she'd have to race every weekend all fall
and winter, just to catch up.

"If you keep overdoing your exercises, I guarantee you'll never race again. As it is,
I'm making no promises."