TWICE VICTORIOUS (21 page)

She couldn't speak for the happiness flooding her whole being. Unless she was
mistaken, and she knew she wasn't, Frank had just told her that her leg would stand up to
the Sawtooth Classic.

She wheeled her bike to the van, absently responding to the congratulations of
other cyclists and many of the spectators.

She'd done it! Come next June, she'd be in Idaho, living her dream.

If only she could believe Adam would be there to see her do it.

Adam! Where is he? I forgot all about him!

* * * *

Adam caught up with her before she had her bike loaded. "Congratulations. Rick
says fourth place was pretty remarkable, considering it's your first race in seven
months."

She turned around. Her face, where it wasn't streaked with drying mud, was chalk
white and strained. Violet shadows underlined her eyes, and lines of strain around her
mouth made her look older than her age. An almost-forgotten coal of anger flared in his
belly. He wanted to grab her, to shake some sense into her.

After not seeing her for nearly five weeks, he wanted to kiss her until she begged
for mercy.

He did neither, because he couldn't make up his mind which he wanted the
most.

"Thanks. I feel pretty good about it."

She even sounded old. "You're exhausted. Do you want me to drive you
home?"

With obvious effort, she lifted the bike into the van, laying it on its side, rather
than using the gadget that held it upright by tightening down on the front fork. "No, but
thanks. I'll be fine."

"I'll follow you, then."

Stell wiped a muddy palm across her forehead. "Adam, would you mind terribly if
I went home alone? I'm really cold. All I can think of is climbing into a tub of hot water
and soaking for an hour or two."

Stifling the bruise to his ego--they hadn't seen each other since Labor Day and she
didn't act like she'd even missed him--Adam agreed "I'll pick up a pizza and drop by about
six, okay?"

He could tell that her agreement was given grudgingly.

* * * *

"We've got to talk." Adam knew he should wait until they'd cooked and consumed
the take-and-bake pizza he'd brought, but he didn't think he could wait. For weeks he'd
been thinking about how to say to Stell what he must say.

Something in his face must have warned Stell that she wasn't going to like what he
had to say, for the incipient smile on her lips died. She stopped poking at the reluctant fire
and sat back on her heels, dusting her hands on the seat of her jeans. "About what?"

"About us. About your cycling." There just wasn't any way to say this but blurt it
right out. "I don't want you to ride any more Cyclocrosses."

She jumped to her feet. Against his will Adam admired the strength, the agility
that allowed her to do so gracefully. "You're kidding." Her face was pale. For a long
moment she stared at him. "Aren't you?"

"I'm dead serious. If you won't, I'll have to stop seeing you."

"Why?" Her face was paper-white, her eyes enormous.

"I won't be an accessory to suicide. I can't."

"And that's..." She took a deep breath and her voice steadied as she continued,
"That's what you think I'm doing? Committing suicide?"

"Part of it. Sooner or later you're going to seriously injure yourself, Stell. Maybe
kill yourself." Even knowing he was assuring his own heartbreak, he went on. "What if
you'd hit just a little harder in April? What if you'd fractured your skull?" He'd been doing
a little research, this last week and hated what he'd learned. "The most common cause of
death in accidents is head injuries."

"I'm careful. And I never go without my helmet."

"So were many of the cyclists who died last year," he said. "You probably know
the statistics better than I do, Stell." He forced himself to appear relaxed, to remain in the
wing chair. If he stood and faced her, this conversation would become a confrontation.
"And if you won't believe it can happen to you as much as to the next cyclist, I'll give you
another, better, reason to quit riding in Cyclocrosses."

"Impossible."

"Maybe," he said, wishing he didn't have to do this. "But I've got to try."
Stretching out a hand, he grasped hers as she stood next to him, staring into the fire instead
of at him. She pulled away, just far enough that he only held her briefly.

"What will happen to us if you ride in a Cyclocross every weekend all
winter?"

She shrugged.

"Stell, you've only ridden in one, and already we're having to steal time to be
together. Tonight I should be at a meeting instead of here. Week nights are almost
impossible for us to get together, and you say you'll be busy every weekend."

"Not just weekends. I should be out riding tonight instead of..." Her gesture told
him she'd only grudgingly stayed home when he suggested getting together.

"God, when are you going to come to your senses? If you've got to throw your life
away on a bicycle, why don't you at least go professional?" Adam could have bitten his
tongue off. He'd been so careful to stay quiet and reasonable, but when she showed him
just how low he was on her agenda, he couldn't contain his anger and frustration.

Stell swung around to face him again. "Why do you hate amateur athletes so
much?" she said, knowing that was the question she should have asked long since.

"I don't," Adam said, his voice low, his words seeming to catch in his throat. "I
don't hate them. I just know how much of their lives they waste, chasing fame and
glory."

"You! How could you know?" She raised her head and looked at him. Even his
leisure clothes were styled for success, right down to the distinctive emblem on his shirt.
"The closest you've come to competition is in the sporting goods stores." She let the mild
contempt she felt for the athletic club jock show in her voice.

"You're wrong."

"Oh sure. Look, Adam, this is not getting us anywhere. Let's just agree that it's
been a fun time and now it's over. You go your way and I'll go mine." She attempted a
smile, but it didn't feel successful. "I'll send you a postcard from Idaho, next June."

"Sit down!"

She was so astonished she dropped into the opposite wing chair.

"You keep telling me how I can't possibly understand what you're going through,
Stell, that I have no idea of what it's like to be obsessed with being the best in the
world."

She opened her mouth to argue but he didn't give her a chance.

"Okay, I'll tell you a story, and when I'm done, you can apologize for all your
nasty little remarks about my ignorance."

She waited while he poured them second cups of coffee. She knew she couldn't
possibly forgive him his insensitive demands, but she was curious.

He leaned forward, resting elbows on knees, and stared into the fire. "I started
fencing when I was seven years old," he said. "Parks and Recreation offered classes one
spring and it sounded like fun. I'd already discovered the old Douglas Fairbanks movies
and decided that I wanted to be a pirate when I grew up.

"By the time I was ten, I was competing in regional meets. People were talking
about my unusual aptitude, and Pop was making noises about the Olympics."

His mouth twisted, but whether in bitterness or regret, she couldn't be sure.

"Several of the families whose kids were enthusiastic about fencing went together
and lured a fencing master here from France. He set up a
Salle d'Armes
--that's a
gym for fencers--and managed to make enough by giving lessons so the parents didn't have
to support him totally. We started a fencing club and for several years it was the sport for
the in crowd. Some of the high schools around the area hired Jules to teach fencing as part
of their Phys Ed programs.

"All this time I was competing more and more, getting better and better."

Now she knew where his unusual grace had arisen. Fencers were like dancers,
totally in control of every movement.

"I even took ballet lessons." His dry chuckle was the first sign of humor she'd
heard since they left the racetrack.

"I'd love to see you in a tutu," she said.

He didn't respond to her feeble attempt. "Steve and I held nearly every title in
North American Fencing. He was my best friend and toughest opponent. If I wasn't first,
he usually was, and vice versa. We were the best." There was bitterness in his voice where
there should have been pride.

"We were sure bets for the Olympic Team. There just wasn't anyone in the U.S.
who could beat us consistently. I was on top of the world. God! It was wonderful. A hero.
A whole room in my folks' house held nothing but my medals and trophies.

"Then my father died. He just fell down one day at work." His voice faltered.

Stell reached out to touch his hand, but he pulled it away. She knew how he must
have felt the loss of his father, how it must have hurt to know that his father would never
see his triumph.

"It was like the end of the world." He faced the mantel, buried his face in his
hands. "Pop... Pop had... Damn!"

She saw him wipe tears from his eyes, but knew instinctively that visible
sympathy was the last thing he needed right now.

"Pop had mortgaged everything. The house, the drugstore. They were living on
Mom's part-time wages from a fabric store, while all the profits from his business went
either to repay the loans or to keep me fencing."

"But why? What had he used the money for?"

"For me. He'd put up most of the funds to bring Jules over, I discovered, and had
been the major contributor to the Salle. He and Mom had sacrificed everything, had even
made Juliana work her way through college, just so I'd have my chance at fame and
glory."

"How they must have loved you! I hope you brought home the gold, to honor your
father's memory."

"Brought home the gold?" He stood, looming over her, rage replacing the misery
on his face. "Didn't you hear me, Stell? They'd sacrificed everything. There wasn't any
more to give. My mother was a widow at forty-eight, and a pauper to boot. She had to give
up the house, let the drugstore go. She didn't realize a penny on either one of them."

"That's really tragic, Adam, but you shouldn't feel guilty about it. After all, they
chose to do it for you." She thought it was the most wonderful thing she'd ever heard. And
the saddest, that Adam's father had died before he could reap the reward of seeing his son
acclaimed among the best in the world.

"Guilty! Lady, you don't know the meaning of the word. My mother was
homeless. My father was dead. And all I knew how to do was play with a sword."

"Adam...." What could she say? He seemed consumed with rage.

"It took my father's death to bring me to my senses, but at least I finally saw how
senseless, how stupid the whole amateur sports scene is. I didn't bring home the gold, Stell.
I got a job and brought home something infinitely more useful." His mouth twisted in a
bitter travesty of a smile.

"I brought home money."

"You quit?" She couldn't believe what he'd implied.

"I quit. I walked away from fame and glory and came home to do what really
mattered." He faced her again, his arms tight across his chest. "Now do you see why I keep
trying to make you see how you're wasting your life?"

"What I see, Adam, is how you devalued your parents' sacrifice." She stared up at
him, wondering how she could have ever thought she loved him.

"I see a man who took the easy way out, who used his father's death as an excuse
to quit while he was still the best." She stood and faced him, toe to toe and nose to nose.
"You didn't think you could do it, did you?

"You didn't really believe you could bring home the gold."

"You're out of your mind!"

"Am I? I don't think so." Stell turned her back, knowing he would read the
contempt in her face otherwise. "Prove it."

"I don't have to prove anything. The record speaks for itself."

"Hah! What 'the record' says is that you're a super entrepreneur, Adam. I never
doubted that for a minute."

"But you think I'm a quitter."

"I can't think anything else. As you said, the record speaks for itself." With
shaking hands she stacked their coffee cups together. She'd known it was going to hurt
when they parted, but never, not in her wildest imaginings, had she dreamed it would hurt
this way. She felt tricked, betrayed. The Adam she'd fallen in love with was her own
invention. The real man was someone she could neither respect nor love.

"I think you'd better go." It took willpower to keep her feelings from blazing from
her eyes. Of all the human failings she could accept, his hypocrisy was the one exception.
How could he? How could he fatten himself from the sweat and dreams of people like
her?

"Damn it, Stell!" The words exploded from him. "I don't understand you. So I
quit? Is that such a crime?"

"No, but lying to yourself is, Adam. And that's what I can't stand." She shouldered
her way past him, the cups and saucers rattling in her hands. Outside the kitchen door she
turned and looked back down the long hallway. He was standing at the living room
archway, staring at her. His face was sidelit, the deep creases that usually made his smile a
thing of beauty giving him a haggard look.

"I finally understand why you're so against my racing. Go, Adam. I can't fight you
any more." And she pushed through the swinging door before he could hear her heart
shatter.

Long minutes later the solid thump of a closing door released her from the frozen
discipline that was keeping her eyes dry. She buried her face in her hands and let the tears
flow.

They brought no healing, not this time.

BONKED: weak from
exhaustion

He hadn't had to tell her. Pounding the steering wheel, Adam called himself all
kinds of fool. Fencing was no longer a popular sport in Portland. It had been long enough
that she might never have learned about his last minute abandonment of the sport that had
been his life for so long.