Finish Line: A Playing Hard Novella

  Finish Line

  A Playing Hard Novella

  Marie Johnston

  LE Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by Marie Johnston

  Editing by Tera Cuskaden

  Proofing by iScream Proofing

  Cover Art by Mayhem Cover Creations

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  The characters, places, and events in this story are fictional. Any similarities to real people, places, or events are coincidental and unintentional.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  Also by Marie Johnston

  Chapter 1

  Look at him. He wouldn’t even glance my way. The arrogant bastard ruined my career without even knowing my post-collegiate running days were over as soon as the race was. But that didn’t excuse what he did or how he stole my title.

  I ran my tongue along my teeth and slid my furious gaze away from the mirror over the bar. As soon as I wasn’t looking at the smug face of the man schmoozing the race sponsors, my internal temperature dropped eight degrees. Coach Lincoln Keating, Robber of Titles.

  He was probably drinking free all night. He’d done the bidding of his employer, the biggest sponsor in professional running. I guess if a race didn’t end in their favor, they’d just lie. I’d won the 1500 meter race, fair and square. For a few minutes, I was the national champion.

  Now, I was nothing.

  The bartender cast a shadow over me. “Hey, your drink will be here in a few minutes. Sorry it’s taking so long. It was an unusual request.” He leaned over the table and whispered, “And don’t worry, it’s on the house. You ran a nice race, and everyone knows you didn’t bump that other girl. You got so screwed today.”

  Didn’t I ever. The bartender gave me one last lopsided smile before he glanced at the group of men on the other side of the seating area. He shook his head and walked away. It wasn’t often that I ran into a fan. Being a pro runner wasn’t actually like playing pro ball. Very few people knew my stats, and there was no fantasy league picking racers. But this was one of the main hotels in Colorado Springs that a lot of us runners were staying at for the National Outdoor Track Championships.

  A national championship that I won and the title I had lost. An eight-thousand-dollar purse that didn’t get awarded to me. Whether I won a podium spot or not, today was my last race. I’d ended on top. Then I’d been knocked off.

  Raucous laughter filled the bar. It was coming from Coach Keating’s group. Were they talking about me? Nellie Pelton thought she won, but her sponsor isn’t powerful enough to stand up to us.

  Bastard.

  I sipped my water, unwilling to leave my barstool and do the walk of shame past Coach Keating and his sponsor’s representatives that acted like the gods of the running world. I’d heard rumors of how Victa pressured the jury of appeals to sway decisions in favor of the athletes they sponsored. Today, I was a believer.

  If I had known, I would’ve worn the shoes I’d raced in to the bar. The ones that were undoubtedly not Victa’s brand.

  I thought I would be able to nurse my wounds at the bar with no other runners, coaches, or agents. The other women I raced with and had known for years still had upcoming races to prep for, and that didn’t include empty calories like alcohol. Or late nights. I glanced at my watch, the one that wouldn’t be used to time laps anymore. Whoa, it was past eleven p.m. All my friends would be in bed. Many had tried to call and had sent messages offering their support, but I hadn’t answered or done more than reply with a thanks. I wasn’t ready to share my level of disappointment, or the fact that my career was done. It would come as a shock to everyone. I wish it’d been more surprising to me and less like fate had caught up with me.

  I couldn’t stand to be so close to anyone who had anything to do with Victa. But I wasn’t ready to call it a night. I was still flooded with adrenaline that hadn’t waned since the race.

  It should’ve. I should be dead to the world right now, asleep in my room. Everything in me had been laid out on the track earlier. Bed should be calling to me, my eyelids should be drooping. Instead, I was wired. It was like sore muscles didn’t dare bother me tonight. And if they did in the morning, too bad. I had plans for the rest of the weekend.

  The whole week, in fact.

  I swirled my water glass, hoping my drink would arrive soon. If one could call it that.

  My mind wandered to the events I had lined up for the weekend. I’d been to Colorado before, and Colorado Springs was my favorite. A list of events was lined up on my phone, starting with Manitou Springs, then Pike’s Peak. Each day was for a different event. After I booked a cheaper hotel.

  My coach, my agent, and my sponsor weren’t going to like the news I had to give them tomorrow. That was the reason for my night at the bar. I dreaded telling them there would be no next year to reclaim the title. They’d have to sign a new athlete to do that.

  During my ruminations, the bar had quieted. I glanced up to check the mirrors, my gaze catching on the broad shoulders of the man four stools down.

  Coach fucking Keating.

  Why did he have to be so good-looking?

  I’d seen photos of him in his racing days. Lean and compact, he’d cut as much weight as he could during those years. But now…

  He’d packed on muscle. A guy like him, wound up so tight I could bust a cleat on his firm ass, had probably picked up a sport like CrossFit.

  Coach Keating was the talk of the locker room. He wasn’t married, and he got better looking every year, yet he had a strict no dating policy with his athletes—with all athletes. Or runners, at least.

  One time, one of my old college track buddies had seen him at the movies with a gorgeous blond. With each re-telling, the girl in question sounded like she’d walked out of the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. Not that I was jealous of a woman with a little T&A. I had my own chiseled ass, and it’d all come from hard work, but it wasn’t the off-season, and leaning out robbed my boobs of size.

  I was about to return to glowering at my glass when Coach Keating turned his head. His eyes flared briefly, only the second expression I’d ever seen from him. Even when his runners legitimately won a race, his jaw was rock hard, and his eyes were narrowed, like he was sizing up his racer’s ability for the next race.

  “Coach Keating.” I made sure to drip as much acid as I could into his name. He’d covered up the shock on his face, but I caught him doing a double take.

  Yeah, I clean up well. I was twenty-six and didn’t spend my life in barely there running shorts and a sports bra. Sometimes, I wore yoga pants. But not tonight. I had sprinted through the shower, blow-dried my stick-straight nearly black hair, and tossed on canvas slacks and a billowy yellow top. I topped off the look with my post-run flip-flops.

  A simple change in appearance, and I suddenly looked like your average young professional out for a fun night in the middle of summer. Which, technically, I was.

  “Ms. Pelton.” He was always brusque when he addressed me. Dismissive. And I hated him for it. Just like I hated that he was so damn attractive.

  His sandy brown hair was buzzed close to the scalp, and for once, he wasn’t wearing a Victa ballcap pulled low. Without the brim of the cap shadowing his features, it was easier to see his patrician nose and those muscles that jumped when he chomped a piece of gum while pacing and watching a race.

  He clenched his jaw and reached into his back pocket like he was going to pay for a drink and leave. What the hell. This is my last chance to tell him how I felt. It might be my only chance.

  He’d go back to Denver and work with his world-class athletes and toe the cheating line to get them placed higher, and I… Well, I had a completely different life waiting for me.

  “You’re an ass,” I said.

  The corner of his right eye twitched. “Go back to your room, Pelton. You’ve had too much to drink. I won’t mention it to Coach Simmons.”

  As if I needed to ever hide my behavior from my trusted coach. He and I were a team.

  I used the most sarcastic tone I’d ever summoned. “You’re so kind. So. Fucking. Kind. Strip me of my title and assume I’m drinking.” I shoved my glass toward him, the ice tinkling. “It’s water, you arrogant, entitled, cheating jerk.”

  He laid both hands on the bar top. “I did not cheat—”

  “Oh.” I swung on my stool to face him. “I did not touch Aria. I didn’t even breathe on her. You had no footage, no witnesses to corroborate your story, so you brought in your sponsors to bully the judges.”

  He sucked in a measured breath. “There were witnesses. You interfered with Aria on the final turn.”

  Witnesses were not the same as footage of a race that was filmed at all angles.

  “I didn’t have to,” I hissed. “She was running out of steam. It was one of the easiest passes I’ve ever
made. But I wouldn’t be surprised if you told her to crowd the line when she felt me passing. To fling her elbow out and make it look like I bumped her.”

  There were those muscles jumping in his jaw. “She wouldn’t do that. You’re making a scene, Pelton. What are you doing hanging out in the bar tonight anyway? Aren’t you going to cheer on the rest of your team during their day tomorrow? Or are you going to sit here and throw a pity party over a simple mistake you made?”

  “Fuck you, Coach.” I hadn’t officially quit the team yet, but there was no going back on this decision.

  “You bumped her. Deal with it and move on.”

  “I didn’t. And you couldn’t deal with your runner not getting the prize.” I turned back as the bartender slid the ice cream drink I’d forgotten about in front of me. “I could’ve really used that money,” I mumbled.

  “So could Aria. And she earned it.”

  “Victa would’ve made sure she didn’t go without. I think I saw her in first class when I flew out.” I lifted my brow and gave him a that’s right look, then swiveled to face the dessert I planned to demolish. My sponsor was awesome, but I barely earned a livable wage after everyone got their cut.

  “What the hell is that?” His face was screwed up in disbelief more than disgust.

  “It’s, um, a…” I racked my brain for the name of this opulent concoction. In a beer mug, it was solid ice cream, piled high on top with whipped cream, two chocolate chip cookies, fudge shavings and drizzle, and two cherries. “Cookie dough milkshakarita.”

  “You’re going to make yourself sick.”

  He of all people would know the strict diet regimen I’d been living under for the months during race season. Even in the off-season, I’d be wary around this beast of a dessert. But I didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

  I plucked a cookie out and licked off a dab of whipped cream. Coach Keating was watching me with another new expression. His brow was scrunched, but his eyes tracked the cookie to my lips and stayed there.

  “Have a good night, Coach. Don’t you have athletes to screw over in the morning?”

  He retrieved his wallet and laid a few bills on the counter. “Here. Let me get that for you.”

  “Nope. It’s on the house. On account of me getting the shaft by the great Coach Lincoln Keating.” I grabbed the spoon, heaped with ice cream and a glob of cookie, and shoved it in my mouth.

  His jaw tightened, and he glared toward the bartender. “Don’t get shit-faced and get taken advantage of.”

  I shoved my spoon back into the glass and chewed fast. He was all of what? Thirty-five or six? Maybe ten years older than me. And since he’d never been my coach, I never had to listen to him. “Oh my god, do you ever take a break from being an asshole? I had water all night while I thought about what you cost me. Then I had this—non-alcoholic, for reasons that don’t include running. And I’m twenty-six. So, listen here, Mr. World Champion, I’m an adult. Unlike your athletes, I don’t need to be coddled.”

  His lips flattened. Shaking his head, he pushed off the bar and strode out.

  The place suddenly felt completely empty. And cold. Coach Keating was a furnace of a man that blazed with intensity.

  Or it could be the giant tub of frozen goodness in front of me making me cold. Or it could be— Nope. Not thinking about that tonight.

  I swiped a dollop of whipped cream off the top and stuck my finger in my mouth.

  Like I was standing in the middle of an empty track with a storm rolling in, the air grew charged. If I was outdoors, I’d expect a stiff wind to blow me off my stool.

  Movement in the mirror above the bar caught my eye.

  Coach Keating was storming back to the bar. And he was pissed. If he was good-looking when he was intense, he was so hot when he was angry that it blistered my eyes.

  Popping my finger out of my mouth, I shot him my best bored look. Why had it taken something so momentous to free me from caring what people thought?

  “You know what, Pelton?” he said, keeping his voice down. We didn’t attract much more than curious glances.

  “Tell me, oh wise one.”

  Now he had full race face. Eyes blazing, jaw tight, body rigid. I half expected him to look at a timer. “You’re sulking in the bar, being a poor example for your team. You’re not planning on supporting your teammates tomorrow, and you have the worst attitude I’ve seen in an athlete. And you can’t take responsibility for what you did today. But you’re still the nation’s top female runner—in the 1500 and the 5000-meter races. You have a top-ranked coach and a sponsor. You’ve attained a level very few make, and you have a full career ahead of you. I don’t believe you right now. If you were my athlete, I’d tell you to find another coach.”

  My resolve to not tell anyone my real plans bonked with his words. My coach should hear them first. My agent and the sponsors. Hell, my own parents. But I needed to set Lincoln Keating straight.

  “Listen up, Lincoln.” I loved causing the twitch in his right eye. “You’re going to be the first to hear, and if you respect my team at all, you’ll shut your mouth until I tell them.”

  He slapped a hand on the countertop and put the other on his hip. His expression said he doubted I had anything worthwhile to say. But that stance? His lean hips made his shoulders look wider.

  “I’m quitting.” There. I blew out a breath. The words were said out loud. My reality was sinking in.

  “You’re quitting? Why?”

  I snagged the second cookie and eyeballed it. “Because my plans have changed.”

  He gave his head a shake, like he couldn’t believe a word I just said. “Because of today?”

  I faced him, my cookie forgotten as I uttered the rest of my reason out loud, also for the first time. “No. I’m quitting so I can take a vacation before I have to go home for surgery. I have cancer.”

  Chapter 2

  I thought I’d thrill over the admission and his reaction. Instead, the figurative rain clouds gathered over me.

  Tears burned the backs of my eyes, and I focused on my dessert. My appetite was gone, and that adrenaline I’d had all night faded. Fatigue hung on me like a thousand race medals. I hadn’t allowed myself to be tired for weeks. There’d been too much to do.

  Lincoln’s gaze burned into me. He slid onto the barstool next to me, and his heat was back. Soothing. The way he sat facing me put one of his legs on each side of me. I liked it.

  “Eleanor,” he breathed.

  “Nellie. My grandma was Eleanor.” My smile was sad. “She died from breast cancer when my mom was young. Mom caught her cancer early and has been cancer-free for almost twenty years.” I let out a scornful laugh. “I thought I was doing my due diligence getting mammograms done as early as they’d allow and never missing a year. Like, if I checked that box, it wouldn’t happen. Turned out, I needed it.”

  “Coach Simmons doesn’t know?” Lincoln sounded human. His voice was softer, and there was genuine emotion.

  My tears welled, and I tried hard to blink them back. “I haven’t told anyone. I got the confirmation a few weeks ago. It was just supposed to be a routine screening.” I risked a glance at him and regretted it. His handsome face was etched with concern. “We caught it early. I never would’ve thought I was sick.”

  “How’d you even race?”

  “I knew it was my last time. I’m having a double mastectomy, and I don’t want to rush healing. I’ll either have surgery, they’ll learn it hasn’t spread, and I’ll be fine, or I start chemo treatments.” I shrugged, but the hot tears poured down my cheeks. “God, this sucks.”

  “You can still come back. There’s been athletes, runners even, who’ve faced similar things and kept their career going.”

  “My health has to come first. I’ve seen what this did to my mom. I can’t…I need to concentrate on me.”

  He stared at me, and for once, his eyes brimmed with compassion. That had to be what kept me talking. That, and in a way, he was a neutral party, someone I didn’t have to act strong for.