TWICE VICTORIOUS (24 page)

The support crew set the platforms up. The tenth through the fourth place finishers
were announced, each name greeted by cheers.

"Third place, Kat Thompson."

Kat stepped onto the platform and lowered her head so the race official could
place the bronze medal ribbon around her next. Her cheeks were shiny, as if with tears.
Then Truda stepped onto the opposite platform as her name was called. She grinned widely
when she was awarded the silver, waved her hands above her head. The crowd went wild.
Truda was a universal favorite, a thoroughly nice person.

Stell heard her name called. For a moment, her legs refused to move. Helping
hands assisted her to step onto the higher platform in the center. The race official lifted the
bright ribbon and she bent her head. As he placed it around her neck, the crowd cheered
again, louder than before. Accepting the bouquet, she tried to voice her thanks, but found
that her throat was tight, her voice gone. She smiled, and felt her lower lip quiver.

Before she could pull herself together, the official stepped back and Kat grabbed
her in a tight hug. Truda's arms went around her too and the three of them clung together,
laughing, crying, grinning hysterically.

Reluctantly she released the others, who stepped aside. The three of them lined up
for photos, then for the TV cameraman. Stell wanted to wipe the tear tracks from her
cheeks, but her hands were full of flowers.
Maybe they won't show.
But she knew
they would, shiny paths down both cheeks.
Oh, well.

* * * *

Adam wasn't able to get a room in Stanley. Everything was occupied by members
of the race teams, media people, or those who'd reserved their spaces a year in advance. So
he went to Sun Valley, where a merely shocking bribe got him a room in an out-of-the-way
motel. Tomorrow they would be coming over Galena Summit, a sixty-three mile ride, with
a thirteen hundred foot climb--not as much as today, but steeper, topping out at close to
nine thousand feet. The fellow in the motel office had said that some years the racers ran
into snow, but this year the day was expected to be clear and dry. But cold.

He hoped the team jerseys KIWANDA had provided would be warm enough.

As soon as he was settled in his room, he plugged in his laptop and went online.
The daily real-time reports kept him up-to-date, but were less than satisfactory. They ran
about seven minutes behind the action, and were, to say the least, terse.

10:45 A.M. The peloton is approaching the summit. A breakaway
group leads by five seconds.

If he had the programming of these reports, they'd be a lot more informative. How
was she doing?

10:46 A.M. Erika Conrad, of Sweden, holds the stage record, at
2:27:03.

"My God!" he whispered. "That's an average speed of twenty-four miles an hour!"
He'd driven over Galena Summit a few years ago. No matter which way you climbed to the
top, it was steep and winding. Considering how slow they'd be going on the climb, their
downhill speed would probably approach fifty or sixty miles an hour.

What if she falls?

He moved the mouse, intending to disconnect, then realized he couldn't. He had to
know, no matter what happened.

10:52 A.M. Truda Niebauer pulled ahead during the sprint. Becky
Armstrong is close behind, with the rest of the breakaway group about ten
seconds back.

"So tell us who's in it, damn you!"

The mouse jumped when his fist hit the table.

* * * *

The team lodging in Ketchum included access to a swimming pool, hot tub, sauna
and exercise room. There was even a masseuse, but she was booked up by the time Stell
thought about making an appointment. She alternated stints in the pool with rests in the
sauna until her hip stopped aching, then went to her room to nap until dinner.

After dinner Milt had arranged a promo op for the team. She smiled and answered
questions and did her best to be charming. It was good business. Although Stell didn't plan
to race past the age of thirty-five, many bicycle racers continued on into their forties.
Whatever she did to help her teammates make a good impression with the media would
help them.

A movement in the back of the room caught her eye. When the crowd shifted, she
caught sight of a tall man, blond, familiar.

It can't be!

But it was. The reporter in front of him moved and she saw his face clearly.
Adam!

For the rest of the session, she was hardly aware of what she was saying. At last
the media was packing up to leave. She wasn't sure whether to run away or wait and see
why he was here.

That's a pretty silly question. He's here because he's a sponsor.
When
she'd first seen the KIWANDA logo on another team's jerseys, she'd been stunned. Then
she'd gotten angry. Why were they sponsoring the competition? Only when she thought
about it did she remember that the Rozinski-KIWANDA team had been formed just this
past January. Of course they couldn't have sponsored her team, which had been under the
same sponsorship for years. At the most, all KIWANDA could have done was be a
supporting sponsor. Somehow she couldn't imagine Adam settling for second place, not
even in advertising.

He was coming toward her. For one crazy moment, she wanted to run. For
another, she wanted to rush into his arms.

She did neither. "Hello, Adam. What brings you here?"

He didn't return her smile. "You."

"How nice. It's good to see you."

"Cut the crap, Stell. You know you'd rather see the devil himself." He took her
arm, applied gentle pressure. "Can we go somewhere it's quieter. I want to talk to
you."

Oh, how she wanted to go with him! Anywhere. As long as they could be alone.
As long as he would hold her in his arms, where she'd wanted to be for so long.

Good sense won. "No, Adam, I won't talk to you. Not now."

His hand on her elbow tightened, then released. "You won't?"

Stell shook her head. "Not until after the race." Feeling as if every word sliced her
tongue as it slid off, she said, "Go away Adam. I can't afford to be distracted."

SPRINT: a sudden burst of
speed

With two events the next day, Adam found his time was occupied doing all the
social and promotional things a sponsor did. Breakfast with the other sponsors of the
Rozinski-KIWANDA team, meeting the team members and assuring them that
KIWANDA was proud to be their sponsor, even though thus far their performance had
been less than impressive.

"How long have you been racing?" Adam asked one very young woman who
didn't look big enough to ride a full-size bike.

"I started last year," she admitted, looking almost sheepish.

"Well then, don't worry about it. You'll be better by the end of the season, and
better still by next summer. These things take time." He had noticed her yesterday, riding
doggedly far back of the pack, her face set in lines of strain and pain. But she hadn't given
up, and she'd crossed the finish line only seconds ahead of the time when she would have
been disqualified from the race. He was impressed, and made a bet with himself that she'd
be winning races in a year or two.

How many years had it taken him to get to top fencing performance? Far longer
than she'd been riding bicycles, he'd wager, even if she'd started at an early age.

Then it was time for the next Stage. There were two today, Time Trials this
morning, then a grueling Circuit Race this afternoon. He hoped Stell hadn't lied about the
condition of her leg.

The Time Trials were interesting, but not very exciting. Mostly he couldn't see the
cyclists until they came close. He was at the finish line, three crooked miles from the start
and almost three hundred feet higher. Not knowing anything about the rules didn't help
either. Why were only two cyclists riding at a time? He decided to ask, but forgot
everything when he heard Stell's name on the loudspeaker.

Then he saw her. In her team's distinctive neon pink jersey and bright green shorts,
she was far more visible than her opponent who wore red, blue and green. The pair of
riders seemed to be about even. Both were standing on their pedals, their bodies vertical
and their bikes swaying widely from side to side as they climbed the hill. Stell had told
him once that riding that way gave more power on a climb. It looked pretty dangerous to
him.

It seemed to him that the women crossed the finish line at the same instant, but a
moment later he heard, "Rider #56, Carolle Furukawa, beats Rider #19, Stell
McCray."

He turned away, not wanting to see the disappointment on her face.

* * * *

Stell and Becky went exploring after the Time Trial. Although both had been to
Sun Valley before, this was the first time they'd had time to look around.

"I remember this place from 'White Christmas,'" Stell said, gazing at the skating
rink. "It was my mother's favorite movie, and we used to watch it about once a year."

"I'd sure like to ski here," Becky said. "My boyfriend spent one winter in Ketchum
and said that if the snow's good, there's no place better."

"You should both try Mount Hood. The season's longer and the snow is usually
good." Stell turned around and they walked back toward the front of the Lodge. As they
reached the steps, a man emerged from the wide front door.

"Good race," Adam said, his smile looking forced. "Congratulations on your
finish," he said to Becky, who had taken fourth. "How's your leg doing?" he asked
Stell.

"Just fine," she told him, irritated to know he must have seen her poor showing.
She'd missed placing in the top ten by three-hundredths of a second. "Thanks for asking,"
she added, knowing she'd sounded surly. Ex-lover or not, Adam was still a sponsor, and it
wouldn't do to be rude to him.

"Is that him?" Becky said, once Adam was out of earshot. "The man you were
seeing last winter?"

Stell had regretted telling Becky about Adam almost as soon as she had done so.
Oh, she hadn't revealed how close their relationship was, but when Becky commented on
the attractive jerseys worn by the Rozinski-KIWANDA team, she had admitted dating
KIWANDA's owner for a while.
That's what you get for bragging about your
important acquaintances.
"Yes," she said. "That's him."

Becky turned around to look after Adam. "He's got a great body. What does he
do?"

Knowing exactly what her teammate meant, Stell said. "He used to fence. I doubt
he does anything more than work out in a gym nowadays."

"Fence? Like with swords? My oldest brother used to do that. He made it to the
Nationals one year."

Despite her lingering disappointment with him, Stell wanted to boast of Adam's
accomplishments. "Adam won the World Cup once and was in the top three places twice.
He was on the Olympic Team until he qui-- Until he had to drop out due to family
problems."

"Oh, wow! I know who he is, then. Adam Vander-- Vander-something. He was a
really big name in fencing, oh, years and years ago. My brother used to talk about him like
he was God himself. He and his best friend were the best in the world. It was a real tragedy
when he quit."

Becky's admiration bothered Stell. It didn't seem right, somehow, that a man
who'd given up his dream for such a trivial reason should still be remembered. "Yes, it was
too bad." The real tragedy was that Adam still believed he'd done the right thing.

They walked back to their lodgings, stopping to peer into shop windows and once
to watch a man go by whom both recognized.

"Did you see?" Becky asked, eyes wide, once he was past.

"I did. He's every bit as gorgeous in person as he is in the movies." Stell patted her
chest. "Be still my heart."

"I love his movies. They're always so thrilling. I feel like I've ridden a fast Century
after watching one."

"Did you see the one where he was on the hijacked plane?"

For the rest of their walk, they compared action-hero movie stars.

The Circuit Race that evening was as demanding as any short race Stell had ever
ridden. The course was less than two miles long, but it started at the top of a hill and went
down for more than half the distance. The climb back up to the Start-Finish line was short
and steep, the steepest yet. She stayed with the pack, but when some of the other riders
made a breakaway, she simply could not summon the energy to go with them. At the first
sprint, she drew a little ahead of the peloton, then dropped back on the uphill pull.

On the eleventh lap--she thought it was the eleventh--the bell rang for a Prime.
Although her legs already felt leaden, she crouched lower and pushed as hard as she could.
By the time she was at the bottom of the hill, she was in the lead. Then the climb began.
She stood on the pedals, not willing to give away her advantage. When she topped the hill,
she was still out in front. The surge of adrenaline that had carried her this far got her over
the top, then it dissipated like fog in a hot wind. She felt her control slip, felt the front
wheel wobble. In a moment the pack had surrounded her.

I am going to win. I
am
going to win.

This time her mantra did her no good. Each pedal stroke was work, as if she and
her bicycle had suddenly doubled or trebled in weight. One after another the riders behind
her drew even, passed. At the bottom, she was among the last to round the traffic
circle.

She barely made it up the hill.

"Go, Stell! You can do it!"

Adam.
He was watching her. Watching her fail. Summoning strength
from some previously untapped source, she lowered her head, breathed from her belly, and
spun faster. By the end of the lap, she was back in the middle of the pack, just in time for
the next sprint.

The rest of the race might just as well have happened to someone else. Stell
finished in thirty-seventh place.
But I finished.