Page 1

Chapter 1

APRIL

I swore by all that was holy that I’d burn my running shoes as soon as I got home. I fantasized about placing them in a metal trash can along with my anti-chafe stick and running belt. My sports bottle would be used to squirt gasoline; then I’d toss in the lighter and watch them go up in flames as if they were pictures of a scorned ex.

That’s how done I was. One could hardly blame me. Being a July morning in Pearville—a small town just outside of Houston—hot and humid were the words of the day every day, but this morning, the water gathered in the air, warning of rain. It was like running through a sauna. To make matters worse, I’d been fighting a stitch in my side since mile three. The pinch in my knee started at mile five. By mile eight, I was living on a prayer and a marshmallow-flavored gel pack. And I still had two miles to go.

The worst part? Ten miles wasn’t even considered a long run in my training plan. It was just a casual Monday morning jog because my end goal was to complete an Ironman, and in one of those torture fests, you ran a marathon—twenty-six point two miles— after swimming for two point four miles and cycling for 112.

These races were for masochists, the insane.

They were the stupidest thing dreamed up by man. Worse than the colored ketchup in the nineties or those shutter shades everyone was wearing, thanks to Kanye.

But come hell or high humidity, I would finish one. Most people wanted to finish an Ironman to prove, to themselves or others, that they were undeniably badass. Some people completed them to stay in shape—though one might argue putting that many miles on your body is a little overkill. I, on the other hand, wanted to finish an Ironman because that’s what my mom had wanted me to do. Not only that, but I felt further from her every day. It had been twelve years since she passed. I couldn’t remember her scent or the sound of her laugh. I knew her eyes had been green, but I couldn’t picture the exact shade. I was becoming numb to her absence, and compared to the sharp edge of grief I’d experienced at seventeen, it was almost a relief, but it made me feel horrible. I should have held onto her better.

So here I was, running to catch back up to Mom. She’d been a triathlete, an Ironman finisher. I’d become the same, even if it killed me, which I was starting to think might be a real possibility.

I tried to shove that down because I was already battling enough negativity. Specifically, the voice in my head that said, This is a waste of time. You’re just going to DNF again.

This was my fourth shot at Ironman. Four seasons—four years of training with nothing to show for it . . . okay, my quads and shoulders looked pretty toned, and if I turned my torso in just the right light, you could almost imagine the outline of my abs. But ghost abs meant nothing to me. I wanted that Ironman title. I wanted it so freaking bad.

Wanted it enough to suffer through this run and the bike tomorrow and the swim on Wednesday and even the bike/run combination workout that would take up four hours of my limited free time on Sunday.

I would do it for Mom.

I closed out my audiobook and flipped through my music until I found a beat that could revive a corpse. Then, I readjusted my ponytail before shaking out my hands as if to physically rid myself of the doubt.

Two miles is nothing. I’ve got this.

That Ironman title is practically mine.

This is my year.

Freshly showered and ready for work, I stopped at the smoothie shop a few doors down from the triathlon shop my family owned. My coach, Clay, wanted to have a quick meeting. We usually communicated over a training app, but I had a local sprint triathlon next week, so I figured he wanted to go over the game plan.

He texted me to say he’d be a little late and asked if I could order him a Super Green with a shot of wheatgrass. I’d nearly finished my blueberry oat when Clay sauntered up, wearing his matching sweats from Sweat-E, his latest sponsor. It had to have a real feel of ninety-five degrees outside, and Clay still rocked the sweatpants. I didn’t know if it was admirable or ridiculous to risk heat stroke to make your sponsor happy, but Clay sure was proud to be a brand rep.

I smiled and waved, but the corners of Clay’s lips barely quirked—nothing new there. He had this permanent smolder, which I’m sure worked wonders for many ladies, but there was something about those puckered lips that made him resemble the kid in class who never wins bingo. That was fine. I hadn’t hired him for his chipper disposition. I needed his guidance and his training plans.

“Sorry I’m late. The Triple Threat meeting took a direction I wasn’t expecting.” Triple Threat was the triathlon coaching company he worked for. It started drizzling outside, and Clay watched the drops splash against the window near our booth.

“Oh. Is everything okay?”

“Actually . . . ” He leaned back in his seat, and from the dramatic pause, I thought he would say he’d been fired. Instead, he said, “They are giving me a shot at A-Team.”

“But . . .” I stopped, confused because his words seemed to contradict his body language. “That’s a good thing, right?”

I didn’t know all the details, but he’d been gunning for A-Team for years—something about having the opportunity to coach world-class athletes and collect a meaty bonus while he was at it.

“It’s a great thing.” He took a long pull from his green smoothie. “But it’s not a done deal. If I want a chance at this, I need to have a near-perfect season. They will be judging both my own performance as an athlete, as well as the athletes I’m coaching.” He looked pointedly at me, and my stomach soured. “Every athlete on my roster has to perform this year. I need every single one to bring their A-game.”

This conversation felt like it was dancing dangerously close to an edge, and if I didn’t get a handle on it, my Ironman season would sashay off the cliff.

“Okay, well, I’ve been following the training plan. I haven’t missed a single workout.”

“I know,” he said, but his expression remained somber.

“Do we need to change the plan—make the workouts more rigorous?” I thought about my morning run and how I’d barely scraped by. But I could handle more. I would handle more if it meant keeping my Ironman season on track.

“I have to take you off my roster, April.”

“You're dropping me?” I thought of the x’s on my calendar at home. Yesterday, I’d crossed off the three-month marker until Ironman. “But Ironman is only a few months away.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. If they’d told me sooner, I wouldn’t have even taken you on this season.”

He hadn’t meant to string me along. That’s what he was trying to say, but it stung. He must have seen it in the way I reeled back.

“I’m not trying to upset you, but this position is really competitive.”

I put out a hand to stop him before he could crush my confidence further, which was already made of sand and built too close to the tide. “I get it.” And honestly, I did. I worked hard. I put in the time and the effort, but I didn’t have the competitive spirit he thought was so essential. I’d never been a podium chaser. Hell, I didn’t even care what my finishing time was in a race. I just wanted to finish.

Like Mom had.

Running across the red carpet of the Ironman had been one of her proudest moments. She wanted that experience for me, so I wanted it, too. But that didn’t make me the fighter Clay needed.

The ache behind my eyes warned I was in danger of crying in the middle of Frooty Tooty Smoothies, and I couldn’t think of anything more pathetic. I stood suddenly, empty cup clutched in my grip. “I better go,” I said. “My schedule is full. Lots of tune-ups before the sprint next week.”

Clay’s lips pulled into a grimace, giving me a pitying look. I thought I hated the pouty face, but pity was so much worse. “I’ll keep giving you training plans until after the race next week.”

“Thank you,” I said, as if he was doing me a favor by providing me with only a week’s worth of training when he’d already committed to the entire season. As if he hadn’t completely taken the wind from my sails, leaving me stranded midseason. I could see the shore from my spot in the ocean, but I’d never make it to land on my own—not with my luck.

I walked briskly toward Just Tri. Even under the awning, the sideways rain licked at my arms, washing away my pep talk from earlier.

This was supposed to be my year.

Now, it would be the year I’d have to face an Ironman alone. And I could fight the negative self-talk all I wanted, but at that moment, the DNF looked less like a weather forecast and more like a certainty.