Hearts Racing (12 page)

Chapter 19

Had she done the right thing? Faith didn’t know. She felt self-conscious about it. Here she was, a thousand miles from New Lyon where her brother was facing imminent doom and she was humping and thrusting like a teenager. What in the world had she been thinking of?

Okay, she knew the answer to that. Or, one answer, at least. She was feeling full of emotion and it had overtaken her. Her intentions were good. Wasn’t that what mattered? She’d wanted to let Buck know that she believed in him, knew he could succeed. So she’d leaned down and kissed him before she’d thought too much about it. Then, when his body responded as a man’s body tended to do when aroused, she’d wanted to let him know it was okay. That she recognized and accepted him as a man and he didn’t have to feel embarrassed about it. And then, well, it’d been the hottest moment of her life, so she’d run with it.

True, a huge part of her massage training were warnings that any masseuse would sooner or later get propositioned. Faith had seen it happen when she was doing her practical training. Businessmen come in for a massage, pop a boner, and then they want to try to negotiate a little more personal massaging. Any masseuse who agreed faced being ostracized by her peers, not to mention sanctions from the licensing board if the truth got out. For that part of what had happened with Buck, she felt ashamed.

On the other hand, so to speak, this was different. It was Buck. Of course, she couldn’t carry on a relationship with him. They were working together. Besides, she’d just gotten out of some kind of weird, fucked up relationship with a power-tripping asshole mayor of a major metropolitan area, so she didn’t need to be dating anyone.

She just felt so comfortable with Buck, like she could look into those beautiful eyes and whatever was bothering her would melt away. Win or lose in this race, he was a good man. He always did the right thing. He behaved respectably. Didn’t he deserve to be relaxed? From a physical standpoint, he’d certainly needed it. And she’d needed it too. Not just the orgasm, but to share it with him.

She’d never encountered anything like his orgasm. When it came to his penis, he wasn’t superhuman in size, but definitely above average, if her hazy memory of her classes in human anatomy were anything to go by.

God forgive me, she thought, it was so hot. She allowed herself this secret, decadent thought. What harm could it do, here inside her mind? No one would know. She loved the way his body strained and he arched his back, lifting her into the air as though the force of their combined climaxes would cause them to take flight. Loved the grunting sound he made and the way he kissed her so hungrily. He was so . . .
male
. What would it be like to have him on top of her?

Okay, she had to stop that. She fanned her face a bit with one hand and checked the time. She was up before her alarm and might as well get in the shower and get ready for the day. Maybe she’d make the shower water a few degrees cooler than strictly necessary. The cold would do her good.

Chapter 20

Buck suspected LeMond knew that something . . . different had happened with Faith. He was smirkier even than usual, which was pretty damn smirky. But he thought it best not to ask LeMond what he was smirking about, lest he get mired in some kind of awkward discussion. Whatever happened, happened. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before, and it happened. It might not ever happen again.

But it had happened.

The image of her body atop him, the feel of her mouth on his, her round backside in his hands . . . but no. He couldn’t think like that. If there was anything he needed to be thinking about, it would be his race. So much was riding on him, he—poor choice of words. So many people
trusted
in him. The fate of a nation was on his shoulders, if Miguel was to be believed. Even if that part wasn’t true, he needed this win.

The press was going insane. LeMond had flipped the television on thirty minutes before they planned to wake up, and he’d already seen the photo of himself on his bike at the start line a few times on it, usually sharing the screen with Bernard’s frowning face and crossed arms. They were calling Buck a “strong contender” for the overall win, given the lack of all-rounders in the field. Then they showed images of Polini, arms up, crossing the finish line for the stage win, and accepting his leader’s jerseys in the awards ceremony.

Well, we’ll certainly see who is an all-rounder today, he thought. He looked at a printout of the day’s elevation. It showed what looked like a line graph, with the graphed area filled-in yellow. The graph showed a huge hump in the middle, a slope back down, and a big rise on the far right-hand side. There would be a big climb for mountain points in the middle of the stage, a fast descent, and then a big climb at the close of the day. A typical mountain stage.

Though Buck was technically in 57
th
place, what really mattered was his time. The leadout group for Polini had finished thirty seconds ahead of his group. He should be able to get those thirty seconds back today easily, though. He’d need the help of his team to put him in a good position, but climbing, ultimately, was a solo occupation. With sprinting, a team was critical to help break the wind, but at slower climbing speeds all you really need is strength and the ability to endure a lot of pain.

Buck got up, showered, and put on his riding clothes. He then went room-to-room and checked on his team. They looked fit, muscular. Faith’s cross training had really done them all good. Walking out of the hotel with his bike and heading to the start line, he felt pride. He had a great team behind him. They were going to kick ass today.

He was glad the day was finally here. Training and planning were fine, but Buck thought when you wake up on the actual day, even before the race, the pressure is already falling away. Whatever happens, you made it. It’s the day. Now all you have to do is give everything you have then reach in for a little more.

The stage started more or less the same as the day previous. Bernard looked just as annoyed to see Buck at the start line, but he looked a bit smug too, probably thanks to Polini taking the stage win. Polini was in the yellow jersey, and riders made way for him to start at the front. Cycling tradition, that. You can be the biggest asshole in the world, but riders respect the yellow jersey. If you’re wearing it, you become it, and thus, you get the benefit of the respect.

When the gun went off, Buck shouted “Vamonos!” to his crew, and they responded in kind. As cycling battle cries went, it was unprecedented, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t good.

The stage started easily. Riders who had killed themselves yesterday to try to contend with New Orleans’ charge were feeling the sting in their legs. But as long as they made it to the finish line before the race director called the time cutoff—usually a few hours after the leader won the stage—they’d be able to race again tomorrow.

When the attack came, it was Buck’s own fault for falling for it. He even saw Polini nod at the rider, one of his domestiques. The rider dropped back through the pack and positioned himself directly in front of Buck. Buck didn’t think anything of it, since he was preparing himself mentally for the first climb to come. One of his Miami riders should have been there to get between the New Orleans domestique and Buck, but they weren’t thinking either. Everyone was chatting placidly as they waited for the hard work to start on the climb.

Then, the New Orleans rider flicked his bike left just a few inches and grabbed his brakes, meaning that relative to Buck’s speed he shot backward.

Buck had two choices: either ram the rider and take a chance of getting a mechanical as a result, or try to ride around on the road’s shoulder. He chose the latter. The soft ground would be treacherous, especially on a road-racing bicycle’s skinny tires, but Buck was a good bike handler and could deal with a little slipping, even at race speed. But when he swung onto the ground, he realized he’d made a grave error. There was a tree branch sitting beside the road, hidden by some tall grass. Buck didn’t see it until he was too close to do anything about it. He leapt, hauling the bike into the air with all the force he could muster, but his front tire caught on a protruding twig, and Buck went, once again, headlong over his bike. As he twisted in the air, time slowed. He saw the peloton charging onward, flashing bright colors and shining bicycle components. Here we go again, he thought.

His fall might not have been too bad, landing on soft ground for once instead of tarmac, but he landed on something hard and it jabbed painfully into his back. A flash of pain sparked in his back and jolted around his side as he tumbled to a stop. He scrambled to get up as fast as he could. Moving hurt. He reached back to make sure that there wasn’t a stick stuck in his back. Had he impaled himself? No, there wasn’t anything. He looked at the ground. A rock. He’d landed on a damn rock.

He had to get back on the bike and ride. Already the peloton was riding into the distance, and team cars were passing. His team car pulled up and stopped on the side of the road. LeMond shouted out the window, with Faith looking concerned beside him.

“What happened?”

“I got crashed out!” Buck yelled, picking his bike up and putting it back on the firm roadway.

LeMond was out of the car. “You okay?”

“Hurts, but I’m fine. How does my back look?”

LeMond looked. “Dirty,” he said.

Buck took that to mean there was no blood visible. At least that was a good sign. “Radio the guys I’m back on my bike and to help catch me back up!” Buck said, leaping into the saddle and beginning to pedal.

LeMond ran along behind, pushing Buck up to speed with one hand on his lower back. “They’re waiting for you ahead! Go, go, go!
Vamonos
!”

LeMond was right, his team was waiting for him. As team leader, his job was to win, no matter what it took. Everyone else’s job was to do anything they could—up to and including sacrificing their own chances of getting good results—to help put him in position to win. So they’d hung back, ready to turn themselves inside out to break the wind for Buck and get him back on the pack. They did just that, forming a textbook pace line. They caught up with the peloton at the foot of the day’s first big climb, only to find that the peloton was already beginning to split.

When a group of mixed ability riders gets to the point in the race when a sprint for the line starts, the sprinters naturally leave the main body of the pack to sprint against one another for the win. So it was with a big climb. The smaller riders are able to easily ride away from their heavier, sprinting counterparts. Domestiques who have done their work for the day by delivering their team leaders to the climb fall away, too. Soon, a group of riders whose only goal is to get through the rest of the day as best as they can forms. This group is called “
l’autobus
” or, the bus.

The bus was forming now, cracking off the back of the main peloton.

“I’m back on the pack,” Buck called into his radio. “But it’s off the back of the main group. Gotta catch the climbers.”

“Roger,” LeMond radioed back. He sounded mad as hell. “Everyone who has the gas to stay with Buck, protect him, dammit!”

They pressed on, trying to lead Buck up to the climbers, but they must have been setting a furious pace. Up and up the road went, until his domestiques couldn’t bear the pressure anymore. One by one, their heads dropped and they fell away, leaving Buck by himself.

Above the tree line, he caught sight of the main group. It was New Orleans! How was that even possible after their performance the day before? They should barely be able to walk after that ride, let alone leave the peloton in the dust on the first climb of the race.

Buck kicked into his bike as hard as he could, bearing down on it with legs toned and sculpted through Faith’s daily strength workouts. Soon he was only fifty meters back. Then twenty-five.

Just before the summit of the climb, he caught the pack of riders, Polini and two of his support crew. Polini crested the hill first, straightening his yellow jersey for the benefit of the press and small crowd of fans there. Cameras snapped. The group then formed up together for the descent, which was good news for Buck.

As the heavier man, Polini would have a higher top speed on the descent. But if Buck could stay with him, he’d be able to ride Polini’s wheel, thus descending faster than he otherwise would have and protecting himself from any ambitious climbers behind who might have regained their stamina. All he had to do was drop Polini on the next climb.

But how in the hell was Polini even here? There’s no way a sprinter should be able to climb like this.

“Did you have a little oopsie back there?” Polini asked. “Take a tumble?”

“I knew you were on the front, Polini,” Buck said, “so I stopped for an espresso.”

“We’ll see about that,” Polini said with a sneer, bending over his handlebars to reduce wind resistance for the descent. Buck wondered if the New Orleans domestiques were bold enough to try to crash him out again, but he doubted it. Pulling shit like that in the middle of a big pack was one thing, but out in the open like this the press vehicles or helicopter would surely have video of it. That kind of thing could ruin a rider’s career, and not just the rider who got crashed out.

So, Buck tucked up under Polini’s wheel and matched him down the far side of the mountain, swinging left to right with the road to maximize speed. His back throbbed where he’d landed on that rock, and his body twinged with pain every time he took a breath. But he ignored it and concentrated on keeping his bike smooth.

At the bottom, the riders all sat up and prepared for the final climb of the day. Okay, Buck thought, show time. Even with a back injury, it was time to show Polini and these other two dipshits what suffering was all about.

He set a decent rhythm, pedaling evenly and keeping his technique in mind. Soon, the three riders began to fall back. Buck gained a bike length on them, then two. But Polini kicked his speed up and caught Buck, ending up right on his back wheel.

“You didn’t think you’d get away from me that easily, did you?” he asked. The two domestiques couldn’t hold on. Ten meters back now and with no hope of catching, they sat up and settled in for a long, slow climb, leaving Buck and Polini to duke it out.

Buck hated to admit it to himself, but a twinge of doubt begin to take seed in a corner of his mind. Could Polini have trained hard enough to take him on the climbs? Buck wouldn’t have thought it possible, but here he was. Here they were.

No, he thought. I can take this idiot. He’s having a good day, but I’ve out-climbed him a million times. With that thought, he looked back into the distance, past Polini’s bike. He furrowed his brow and said, “Whoa is that a bear?”

Polini laughed. “Do you don’t think I’m falling for a joke that dumb?”

“Not a real bear, Polini. One of the California guys. Man, he can really climb,” Buck said. He was counting on Polini to remember that the California riders’ kits out of Los Angeles still bore the image of a bear they’d had when California was a state. They’d been allowed by the French to keep some of their identity, probably because they produced the former US’s best wine before the French occupation. And maybe because American grape vines saved French wine production from total destruction in the late 19
th
century.

Whether Polini remembered this bit of viticultural history or not, he bought the ruse well enough to look back, and Buck surged forward when he did. This earned Buck a gap of a couple of bike lengths. They were halfway up the big climb now, just a few kilometers to go to the finish line.

Though his ruse was silly, the few bike lengths it had gained him could be critical, cycling being as much a mental game as anything else. In his experience, if you could get slightly ahead of an opponent and appear to be pulling away, many times it would be enough to convince that opponent he didn’t have a chance to win. At the Nationals level where they were racing, almost all riders were in peak physical condition. It took more than strength and stamina to win. It was like a chess game, but better because your pieces were your body.

Polini realized almost immediately that he’d been had. Buck, preoccupied with his own level of suffering—which had risen exponentially relative to his speed—heard the snarl and knew it for what it was. But he couldn’t spare the time to look back now. He was out of the saddle, tossing the bike left to right, using every ounce of energy to propel himself up the hill at speeds that even a car would struggle to replicate.

It wasn’t enough. Polini caught up seconds later, and not only regained Buck’s wheel but drew up alongside.

“You’re a joke, Heart, and your riding is a joke,” he growled. He was panting with the effort of riding, but by no means exhausted. “Now I’ll show you what a champion looks like.”

With that, he surged ahead. Buck surged too, hoping to get on Polini’s wheel. The effort of straining his body was making the injury he’d sustained in the crash throb with each pedal stroke, but he ignored it. He couldn’t let Polini pull away. He summoned every spark of energy from every vibrating mote of his being and directed it into his bike, pushing himself forward enough to catch Polini and stay with him.

But not only was Polini surging, he was accelerating. Buck’s front tire went from an inch off Polini’s to two inches. He reached deep within himself once more for any final reserves of energy, turning his body inside out with a tidal wave of will, but it simply wasn’t enough. Polini was a bike length away now with three kilometers to go. Two bike lengths. Three.