Finish Line: A Playing Hard Novella Page 2

  “I was prepared to say goodbye to the World Championships. But the money, man.” The thought of losing the cash prize prompted me to turn back to my dessert. It was on the house, but the next food I ate wouldn’t be. “Once the sponsors hear I’m not heading to worlds, they’re going to drop me like last year’s shoe style.”

  Scooping up a large heap, I licked at the edges, savoring the bloom of fat and sugar on my tongue. Life was too short not to splurge like this, and I hadn’t for so long.

  “How did you… I mean, if you’re sick…” Wow. A guy who didn’t mind taking an athlete’s career down a notch was suddenly tongue-tied asking me a personal question.

  “How did I win the race—legitimately win the race—if I have cancer?” I took my time answering, finishing off my spoonful. “Caught it early. Like I said, it’s hereditary, and I’ve been getting screened for years. The mammo this year was hot, I guess.” The doctor had acted like I should be thrilled with how soon we caught it. Better survival rate, blah, blah, blah. But she wasn’t the one whose life came to a screeching halt. I would’ve preferred not to have it at all.

  “Don’t you need a second opinion?”

  “Nope.” Another languid spoonful. He could wait on me since he screwed me out of the title. And maybe because I liked how close he was sitting and how intently he was paying attention. “With my family history, I had always contemplated the idea of getting a double mastectomy. But I couldn’t do it and not affect my racing.”

  I had planned for the eventuality of losing both breasts, but it was with a detached viewpoint, like it was someone else I was planning it for. Once I was in a gown, sitting on a cold cot, waiting for surgery, all the reasons why not would probably bring me to my knees. But all I had to do was remember how sick Mom got, and how helpless I had felt.

  “Damn, Nellie. I had no idea.”

  “No one did. That was the point.”

  He didn’t say any more as I finished off my dessert. I forced myself to lick every last drop I could get on the spoon. When my stomach started churning, I ignored it. And Coach still hadn’t left.

  “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” I asked. “To be ready to support the athletes and all that?”

  “I don’t have anyone racing tomorrow, just meetings with the sponsors.”

  I rolled my eyes toward him. “And what was tonight? Schmoozing with the sponsors. Did they wave their dollars around enough to get you to dance?”

  I almost choked on the acid churning in my belly. I would never have talked to a coach like that—ever. But the only luxury this disease gave me was the freedom from not having to live and die by my sponsors. I could run now because I enjoyed it.

  I loved racing. The adrenaline. Constantly pushing myself. Commiserating with the other athletes. Never the sponsors. They made it possible to do what I was good at for a living, and most of my reps were nice enough people, but their dollars came with high expectations.

  “They did,” he agreed. “Wave their dollars to make me dance.” The surprise that passed through his gaze nearly made me laugh. He’d never confessed that out loud.

  “That must suck.” I’d never taken running for a living for granted. Somehow, I knew my number would be punched and I’d have to move on. I just thought I had more time.

  “What do you do?” He waved around us. “This event wouldn’t exist without their support.”

  “Is that why you had to make sure their athlete won?”

  His eyes darkened, but I didn’t miss the beat of guilt. “You interfered with her race.”

  Our moment of bonding was obviously over. “I didn’t even touch a strand of her hair,” I hissed and slid off the stool.

  My dramatic exit was cut short by a gut ache. I pressed my hand into my belly and tried not to double over. His heat surrounded me as he jumped off his stool and rested a large hand on my back.

  “Have you had anything solid to eat since the race?”

  “Yeah.” My mind spun. I had, right? I tried to remember a burger. Or maybe even a lean chicken breast with a bread basket indulgence.

  But no. I’d been so incensed, so off-kilter thanks to him and my race, that I’d forgotten to have more than water. The gut bomb on my tender stomach didn’t help at all.

  “Yeah, you think so, or yeah, you don’t remember?” he asked.

  Trying to bullshit the coach didn’t work.

  “I forgot to eat.”

  “That’s almost worse than getting trashed.” He steered me toward a booth and waved the server over. “Chicken breast and rice with a side of whatever veggies are in season.”

  I didn’t even see the server. Lincoln had used his coach voice, and the server was gone by the time I sat, probably setting her own PR for entering an order.

  Propping my head in my hand, I sighed. “You don’t have to stay with me.”

  “I know.” He looked around. Another expression to add to his repertoire. Uncertainty. I didn’t like that look on him. “So, what’s going to happen after you talk to Coach Simmons tomorrow?”

  “I’m taking the week and sightseeing before I move home.” I smacked my lips against the sour taste in my mouth. Lincoln noticed and slid out of the booth to grab my water from the bar. I watched him walk back, trying to maintain a bored expression, but damn, the guy looked good. My career was over, and I could ogle Lincoln Keating all I wanted, from his intense expression to his tapered waist and that slightly bowlegged walk. He was hot in his coaching attire, but in an unbuttoned suit coat and slacks, he could’ve walked right out of an ad.

  Setting the water in front of me, he sat and looked at me. “What sights?”

  Gulping my water, I tried not to quiver from the sudden onset of nerves. Lincoln had been an adversary my entire running career. I was the girl who got sponsored by the underdog, yet competed for the top spot against the biggest name in the industry. The way he’d always looked at me before tonight—assessing, like I was a puzzle that he had to figure out, and not one of the fun kinds. The kind that had so many similar colors it was torture to put together. And when he couldn’t figure me out, he’d cheated and claimed I bumped his runner.

  I hated him. But here I was, not wanting him to leave.

  “I’ll hit Manitou Springs first. Then Pike’s Peak. The first item on my list is finding a new hotel.”

  His gaze sharpened. “Why can’t you stay here?”

  “As if my sponsors are gonna let me keep staying here when I quit?” I let my attention wander around the room. I recognized a few faces, but most of the athletes were in their rooms asleep already. “And I don’t want to be a spectacle.” Any more than I had been already.

  He was silent, but watching me. Lincoln. How quickly I dropped the “coach” part. Maybe because his proximity wasn’t inspiring coach-like thoughts.

  The food came, interrupting the moment. The plate slid in front of me, but the last thing I wanted to do was eat. The two cookies left me nauseous and bloated. But Lincoln was right, this time. I needed quality food in my belly or I was going to experience the milkshakarita again.

  “Can I get you anything else?” the server asked. Her voice was peppy. It was probably just a show for work. Hadn’t I been doing that for the last week?

  Lincoln answered. “That’ll be all, thank you. Put it on room 321.”

  I waited until the server left. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know.”

  His scrutiny was the most controlled thing about him, and he didn’t take his eyes off me as I delicately cut my chicken and scooped up a slice with some wild rice. The salty flavor burst over my tongue. The seasoning was just right, and the taste was already settling my twitchy stomach.

  I finished chewing. “I guess I really did need this.”

  “I’ve had enough athletes over-imbibe on otherwise forbidden foods too soon after racing. Your milkshake might go over better after a marathon.”

  I didn’t reply. The reminder that he was Coach Keating dampened my lifting mood.

  I finished off the plate, taking my time. Before the shake, I would’ve demolished the entire thing. But this was only the beginning of a week of eating the good stuff. An entire week of burgers, fries, and desserts, but maybe no more milkshakes.

  Sitting back, I hooked my hair behind my ear. After living a life with it constantly in a ponytail, what was I going to do with it now? My hand dropped into my lap. What if my cancer spread? Then I’d probably lose it all.

  “What?”

  I lifted my gaze. He was still watching me.

  “What?” I echoed.

  “You looked like you were feeling better, and now you look like you’re going to cry.”

  He was probably used to being blunt with his athletes. So, I told him exactly what I was thinking. “I was wondering what I was gonna do with my hair since I don’t have to wear it up all the time. Then I wondered if I’d end up doing chemo and lose it all.”

  “Shit.” He slumped in his seat and swept his gaze around the room, taking a deep breath. “When will you know?”

  “Not until it returns. My doctor’s optimistic, but I can’t forget what my mom went through. She didn’t catch hers as early and needed a round of chemo before her mastectomy. Her hair was just like mine when she lost it. After chemo, it grew back thicker and coarser, with more body. She said it was one of the only benefits of chemo, you know, besides surviving.”

  “How is she taking the news?” He looked around the room again, only this time, it was like he was searching for someone. “Didn’t they come to the race?”

  “I haven’t told them. I downplayed this weekend.”

  “But it’s nationals.”

  “I told them to save their money for worlds in Athens.” It was the biggest sort-of-lie I’d e
ver told them, and it felt awful. But I didn’t want them to be here when I walked away from it all.

  “You knew you were done and told them not to come?”

  “Yep.” The way he said it sounded heartless. After years of watching me run, they would’ve been in the front row. I felt guilty, robbing them of my last race, but I didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with their reaction to the news of my cancer while quitting my career in the same day. “I’m calling them in the morning after I talk to coach Simmons.”

  “You had this all planned out.”

  “After that day in the doctor’s office, I decided to be selfish for a couple of weeks. I’d give myself this race and a little vacation, and then I’d go do whatever the doctor told me to, and be cared for by my parents during recovery.”

  His expression went from introspective to sober. “Do you have someone to go with you when you talk to Simmons?”

  “I was serious when I said no one else knows.”

  “No one? Not even a friend?”

  “Just us two. It’s kind of nice, actually. You’re like a neutral third party.”

  “I’m neutral?” An eyebrow ticked up.

  “In this only.” My improving mood took another dive when I recalled the botched race call from earlier and his role in it. I scooted out of the booth. “I better get to bed. Thanks for dinner. It was unexpected.”

  He slid out and stood with me. For the first time ever, he looked unsure about what to do.

  I put on my best bright smile. “Well, good night. Have fun at all those meetings tomorrow.”

  “Get some rest, Pelton.”

  His stare burned into my back as I walked out. My night had taken a different turn, but a fitting one before my week of vacation. It might’ve been Lincoln Keating, but a hot guy still bought me dinner. Not a bad way to begin. And since I was never going to see him again, I didn’t have to puzzle out my mixed feelings about it.

  Chapter 3

  I was shaking when I came out of my meeting with Coach Simmons. We’d grown close during our time together, but not in a brother and sister way, nor in a romantic sense. I had no thoughts about Coach Simmons like that. We were colleagues. I paid him to coach me, and he helped make me the best runner I could be so I could continue paying him. We were close professionally, with a relationship built on trust and respect.

  But the pale man I just left with the tears in his eyes was unfamiliar to me. And I left him to battle my agent and the sponsors’ reps. They weren’t as grief-stricken, but they’d been compassionate. That would only last until the dollars spoke louder than their feelings. They needed an athlete. I would be forgotten in T minus 5…4…

  There was a tall guy with familiar broad shoulders tapering to a fine ass waiting at the end of the hallway. The Sunday morning was quiet, the races were going, and no one was loitering in the hallways or entry. It was exactly why I had insisted on this time for a meeting.

  “Lincoln?” He’d mentioned not having any races today, but I thought he’d still be out there between meetings sizing up the competition.

  When he turned, his gaze swept over me from head to toe like he was making sure I didn’t have any bumps and bruises from my own meeting. “Are you going back to the hotel?”

  I frowned. I hadn’t thought I’d see him again. Last night I drifted off dreaming of the dark-eyed man who’d bought me dinner and refused to acknowledge it was Coach Keating. “Yes. I need to checkout before eleven.”

  It was another reason I’d asked to meet with my team early. I didn’t want to do this hauling my luggage, and I feared I would need a place to crash after the upheaval.

  He fell in step next to me. “I can help you move your things.”

  I stopped and faced him. He looked like he always did. A Victa hat pulled low to shadow his eyes, a red polo shirt, and lightweight black sweats, the kind that whispered when you walked.

  The way he looked last night in a suit could inspire wet dreams, but this was what I was used to. It was who I was familiar with. That’s why his offer to help me move hotels left me out in limbo wondering how to react. “Isn’t your day full of meetings?”

  He lifted a shoulder. The man was always efficient with his moves, not wasting energy on overstated efforts. It was what made him a tight and efficient runner—not that I’d watched reruns of his races way more than was necessary for my own career.

  “Meetings are easy enough to reschedule, and I never understood why they insist on face-to-face when there are programs like Skype and FaceTime nowadays.”

  A chuckle bubbled out of me. “I’d love to see you FaceTime with the Victa guy.”

  The corner of his mouth kicked up. I continued walking in the direction of the parking lot. After a restless night’s sleep and the rabid case of nerves this morning, I hadn’t packed much before I left. I should’ve checked out before coming here, but it had all been too much to handle.

  Lincoln was following me. He was serious. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be fine.” Yet, I didn’t want him to leave either.

  “How did your parents take the news?”

  My pace slowed again, but I forced myself to keep moving forward. “I… Haven’t called them yet.”

  “Nellie, you need to do it before this gets out.”

  I stopped and snapped my phone out of my pocket and punched their number, glaring at him the whole time. It was childish, but he was right. There were better times and places to do this, but did it ever really matter where when the news was so horrible?

  When Mom answered, I had to turn my back on him to talk.

  The call went about as well as I could imagine. I stared at the wall while Lincoln’s watchful gaze seared into my back. He was listening, and I didn’t care. Mom had put the phone on speaker so she and Dad could hear everything. Hot tears streaked down my face, but other than some voice wavers, I held it together as I recounted it all. The results of my annual screening, my decision to run the race alone, and my wish to have one week of vacation before returning. The story poured out of me, and I felt like the worst daughter in the world. I had to tell them that I’d been back and forth from my home in Oregon to the hospital in Indianapolis, getting set up with a new oncologist and surgeon, making appointments and follow-ups, all without telling them what was going on.

  It was why the eight grand that came with the title was so important.

  “I’ll have my phone on me,” Mom said. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. And… I understand.” The break was clear in her voice, but she was No-nonsense Mom. She was Cancer Survivor Mom. She understood, but that didn’t mean I hadn’t hurt their feelings.

  “You say that, but I haven’t told you yet that I plan to move in.” I almost lost it then. The week before my race had been spent breaking leases and packing my apartment. When I was supposed to be resting, I’d been packing. Movers were hired to pack the remaining items after my little sightseeing tour was done.

  There was a catch in Dad’s voice. “Don’t you dare take all this on yourself, kiddo. We’ll worry about moving your stuff, you just have some fun and get home.”

  I disconnected the call and crumpled. Strong arms caught me and held me close, wrapping me in the furnace that was Lincoln. The call was done. It was what I had dreaded the most since all this started. Giving up my career had always seemed inevitable. Preparing to move had felt surreal, but telling my parents only made my ordeal all too real.

  Lincoln waited until the worst had passed, and then he whisked me out of the building. He had a good sense for the least-populated areas, and we managed to exit with very few witnesses to see my meltdown. We ended up at an unremarkable black sedan.

  I scrubbed my eyes and sniffled. My face had to be red and blotchy. “Whose car is this?”

  “Mine. Do you have one in the lot?”

  I took a few calming breaths and let the hot summer sun seep into me. It was no match for Lincoln’s heat. “I didn’t want to waste money on a rental, so I took the bus here.”

  He nodded once like I’d confirmed his suspicion. He opened the passenger door and ushered me inside. My mind had yet to process what was going on.

  “Have you eaten yet?” he asked as he pulled out of the lot.

  “I had a banana before I came here.”