Page 15

Chapter 15

GAbrIEL

I n the twenty-four hours between seeing April at the pool and Billie’s party, I think I typed out a message only to delete it roughly fifty times. Ultimately, I decided it would be best to just talk to her in person.

What I hadn’t accounted for was a call from Rick, wanting to do an in-depth recap of my athletes and their training. It was all going fine until we reached the last name on my roster.

“And how’s the new athlete?”

“She’s great.” Unfortunately, I had a hard time making myself sound convincing after what happened the day before.

“I wish you hadn’t picked her up. Sometimes you are too nice.”

“She’s a hard worker.”

“She’s a wildcard,” he countered.

“She just needs better guidance than what Clay was giving her. Besides, she hasn’t completed an Ironman before, so any time she gets will be considered progress.”

“ If she makes it across the red carpet. If she doesn’t, she could cost you A-Team. She doesn’t exactly have the best track record. ”

“She’s had some bad luck,” I conceded.

Rick answered in a softer tone, “You know, I would normally never advise you to do this when we’re in the middle of the season, but . . . it’s not too late to drop her.”

“Rick—” I sighed.

“You have until the middle of Oct—”

“Rick,” I said firmly, “I’m not dropping her.” She’d completed every workout I’d thrown at her. Even when her knee hurt, she hit the times I designated. April had been under my direction for only a month, and she’d made leaps and bounds. When I looked at her, I didn’t see a DNF risk. I saw an advantage. “I’m telling you, this is her year. You’ve done a great job mentoring me. Trust that your training has paid off.”

There was a long pause. “Okay. Alright. Fine. It’s just the idea of that little bastard, Clay, taking over my spot is making me lose sleep.”

I thought of the half-assed coaching Clay had done for April and how he’d upset her at the pool by calling her a DNF risk. I felt my pulse pick up. “Don’t worry. He’s not making A-Team.”

Billie’s apartment was packed by the time I arrived. I weaved past the normal groupings of friends because cliques assembled even in a niche group of triathletes. There were the diamond runners—who left the group and their shirts behind on long runs, the chill group—they didn’t care about times, just having fun completing triathlons, and the elitists—who spent most of their time arguing about form, shoes, nutrition, and which training methods had the best impact. I noticed Clay’s absence from that usual grouping. Good. I didn’t know if I could be civil to him after what happened at the pool.

I said some quick greetings to a couple of my athletes, but I kept pushing through the crowd. I had a specific one in mind. My height had many advantages, one of which was that I could look over heads when searching for someone. I found April sipping a margarita with Billie in the kitchen. She had on an olive-colored jumpsuit, and usually, I would have seen that kind of outfit as industrial. Something worn in a factory. Not on April. It cinched at her waist, showing off her curves even under the dark fabric. She topped off the outfit with gold earrings, dressy sandals, and even curled her short hair in waves. The sight of her made my intentions turn fuzzy.

I am her coach , I reminded myself as I refocused on the goal at hand—making sure that asshole, Clay, hadn’t gotten to her.

I stepped in her direction but was intercepted by someone who’d heard I was a massage therapist and wanted to know what I thought he should do for hip pain. By the time I had him booked with me for a Tuesday afternoon, Blake, a new guy in the tri group, had saddled up to April.

They laughed together, and I felt a sharp edge of jealousy that didn’t make any sense. Other people were allowed to make her laugh, even if those other people were guys who had ulterior motives.

So, I joined a conversation about bike bags and pretended to be interested, even though I watched April out of my peripheral. Billie poured them both another drink. With generous giggles, heavy blinks, and a sway to her stance, April was looking less and less tipsy and more drunk. I knew April was just having fun, and she deserved that, but it took quite a bit of self-control to keep my feet planted instead of pouring all of Billie’s tequila down the drain.

My plan to be a casual observer dissolved when April slid past our group for the restroom. Blake’s eyes were glued to April’s ass. I could hardly blame him. She looked killer in that jumpsuit, but I excused myself from Ned and Jessica’s conversation about bike modifications to head to the kitchen.

“Hey.” I nodded at Blake.

“Hey, man.”

I dipped a chip into the artichoke dip and tried a bite. Pretty damn good coming from a woman who ate cold spaghetti for lunch. “Listen,” I said, leaning on my elbows, trying to look as least threatening as possible, which I learned was hard to achieve at six foot, four inches. “You know nothing is happening between you two tonight, right?”

“What?” Blake asked.

I nodded at the direction April had gone. “You and April. I’m not saying you can’t shoot your shot with her some other time.” It was physically challenging to get those words out, but she was my athlete, not my girlfriend. I had no right to play gatekeeper. “But she’s had too much to drink tonight.”

Blake’s eyes widened. “Oh, yeah.” He straightened, but he smiled good-naturedly. “No, man. Of course. We were just having fun.”

“Great.”

“I’m actually about to head out. Early run tomorrow.” Even better. “You know how that goes.”

“Sure do.” I huffed out a laugh, thinking of my own early morning run.

When he was gone, I looked at Billie, who had been drinking at the same rate as April but seemed unaffected. She rested a hip against the counter and smiled mischievously at me over her drink. “Scaring off the competition?”

“Just making sure April isn’t taken advantage of.”

“Hmm,” she said, then took a sip of her drink. “What a gentleman.”

She was definitely onto me, so I decided to switch the subject. “Is your goal to ensure she can’t walk in a straight line?”

“Oh, let her have some fun. She’s having a bad day, which I know you already know about.” She crossed her arms, resting the margarita glass against her shoulder. “And why haven’t you called her—talked to her?”

“I thought it would be better to talk in person, but that was before I knew you’d have her drunk by the time I got here.”

She waved me off. “She’ll forget about her problems for the night and be good as new tomorrow.” Then Billie laughed, her dark fingers prodding even darker braids. “But goddamn, she is such a lightweight.”

A loud laugh near the restroom stole our attention. April leaned her hands on her thighs as she belly laughed. Ned and Eddie looked at her like she’d grown another head. “I’m sorry,” she said, wiping at her eyes and smearing her makeup a bit. “It’s just—” She erupted into laughter again. “You boys think you know everything about bikes.” Her laughter continued as she entered the kitchen. “Where is Blake?”

“He had to go,” I said. “Early morning run.”

“Oh.” April shrugged, and it pleased me that she didn’t seem bothered he’d left. “I should go too. I open the store tomorrow.” Some loose salt from the chip bowl had fallen onto the counter. I watched April push several grains together before pinching them between her fingers and tossing them over her shoulder.

I cocked my head but focused on the task at hand—encouraging April to leave before she had to be carried out. “That’s probably for the best.”

April’s attention snapped to me. She had plump lips to begin with, but they really looked full when she pursed them in contemplation. I didn’t get to enjoy them for long, however. She narrowed her eyes and turned to Billie, exclaiming, “Let’s do one last shot!”

Billie laughed. “Atta girl! ”

“I think you’ve had enough,” I said.

April put her hands on her hips, trying to look tough—which was hilarious, seeing as I towered over her—and I realized I was making the situation worse.

“You might be the boss on the track, and in the pool, and even on my bike.” She poked a finger into my chest. “But you have no power here.”

I leaned back against the counter, biting the inside of my cheek as April threw back the shot Billie handed her. “You feel in charge now?” I asked as her face pinched.

“Shhhh, Gabe. Just let me have this.” She giggled. The action threw her off kilter. I straightened her and realized Billie was right; she was definitely a lightweight. Not that I had room to judge. I could have been one, too, but I’d never know. My dad’s habits had turned me off alcohol for life. “Now I’ve had my nightcap. I can go.” April gave Billie a clumsy peck on the cheek and started for the door.

“She can’t drive like that.” I looked to Billie for help. Then, I scanned the crowd and realized I hadn’t seen Trevor at the party.

“You’re right,” she said, eyeing Jessica as she bent over the ice chest to get a beer. “I have a party to host, so go get her, Coach.” She winked and then went back to pouring shots.

“I—” My argument died when I realized April was already out the door. I left Billie with her shots and snaked around people to get to the exit. I feared I’d make it outside and April would be gone, so I was equally annoyed and relieved to find her mounting her bike on the sidewalk.

“What are you doing?” I asked as I approached. Under the twitchy lamplight, I got a look at her commuter bike. It was mint-colored and had a basket. Of course, it would. This woman was equal parts grime and glitter. She’d wear makeup but have a grease smear on her cheek. Her job was rusted gears, but she made repairs with bubble-gum pink nails.

Her ass slipped off the seat, but she recovered. “Uh . . . riding my bike?”

“You can’t ride like that. You’re drunk.”

“Pshhhh,” April said, unimpressed by my concern. “Could a drunk person do this?” She took off down the sidewalk before I could intervene, then removed her hands from the handlebars, raising them in the air but remaining surprisingly balanced.

I was impressed she could do that in her state, but I kept my expression neutral as she jerked the bike around. She stopped right in front of me and had to put both feet out to keep from falling. “Yeah. That’s pretty good. Still can’t let you ride home like that.”

“Hey, Coach, listen.” Lots of people called me coach. That’s what I was. But for whatever reason, when she did, it seemed to awaken every cell in my body. “I’m not taking this thing down 288. I’m just going down that—” She waved a finger in one direction, squinted, then shifted so she pointed in a different direction. “That trail. My house is on the other side.”

I peered into the darkness, looking for said trail. Then my eyes popped open wide as I realized she referred to the barely there path eaten by thick darkness as it wound into the tree line. “Through serial killer woods? I don’t think so. I’ll get you an Uber.”

“And wait thirty minutes for a two-minute ride?” April shook her head, and it made her entire body sway. “No way.” She meant to push off again, but I grabbed the handlebars. She looked at my hands gripped there for a long moment before meeting my gaze.

“I cannot, in good conscience, let you ride home like this.”

She leaned her butt on the seat. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Do what? ”

April huffed out a breath and gestured vaguely at me. “The whole chivalerous—” April narrowed her eyes as she quietly tested out the word. “Chivalrous. You don’t have to be chivalrous. I know that’s your thing—that’s why you stopped when I wrecked last year. But you don’t have to worry about me riding my bike home. And you don’t have to worry about me being a DNF risk because I’m bowing out.”

“Come again?”

“I . . . am . . . quitting,” she said it slowly like I was the one inebriated. “Now, you don’t have to worry about me ruining your chance at the dream team.” She made jazz hands at the end of the sentence, then tried to push off again, but I held onto the handlebars tight. I wanted, more than anything, to discuss her decision to quit Ironman, but I knew she wasn’t in the right headspace for that conversation. Instead, I focused on the most important thing—getting her home safely.

“We can talk about your race tomorrow, but please, for my sanity, let me bring you home. Or, if you’d prefer, I can get Billie or call Trevor.”

She rolled her eyes and let her hands fall to her sides. “Fine. Where’s your car?”

I led her to my Silverado, which she leaned against while I loaded her bike. When I closed the tailgate, I realized she was staring at me. I thought maybe she had a problem with the way I’d positioned her bike. “What?”

“Nothing.” She shrugged heavily. “It’s just—I picture you as the love interest in every audiobook I listen to. Tall, dark hair, the scar—” She reached over and pinched my bicep. “Muscular.”

“Hey, hands to yourself,” I said with a laugh, but I could feel my neck flush.

“It’s okay,” April said, teetering toward the passenger side. “I can call you hot. You won’t remember this tomorrow.”

She was drunk. She hardly knew what she was saying, but the compliment still had me grinning. Then, she tried to get in, only to slip back onto the curb, which was entertaining considering my truck wasn’t raised. “Let me—” I got behind her to serve as a guide right as she lost her footing again. I caught her by the hips, but her ass still fell into me.

The world narrowed to the press of her body against mine, and I imagined us in the same position doing something very different.

She. Is. Your. Athlete.

My hands jumped up to a safer spot—her ribs—and I held her at a distance as I helped her into the seat. Closing her door, I thought the worst was behind us, but as I started the truck, April’s hand roamed aimlessly over her shoulder, trying to find the seatbelt.

I reached across her to help. ?Dios mío! She smelled vanilla and fruity. As if she needed anything else to make her enticing. Between her curves and those lips—the color of strawberry sorbet, she always looked delectable.

“Thank you,” she mumbled drowsily as I clicked it into place.

“No problem,” I answered, my voice strained.

We were quiet as we exited the apartment complex. At the street, I stopped the car, waiting for her direction, but she just stared out the window. “April?”

“Hmm?”

“Which way am I going?”

“Take a right,” she answered. Then, “Do you think my mom would be disappointed in me?”

My eyes flashed to her. “What? No!” Her head lolled against the seat. She looked on the verge of tears. “It’s not your fault you haven’t finished an Ironman yet. You’ve had some bad luck, that’s all.”

“But that’s the problem. I’m always unlucky. ”

“I really think this year is your year.”

“You think , but you don’t know.” She closed her eyes. “Anything could happen.”

“You’re right. I can’t guarantee it, but all you can do is worry about the things within your control.”

“That’s such a coach-y thing to say,” she said, her sassy tone back momentarily before turning somber again. “I wanted to do an Ironman to feel closer to Mom, but I feel further every day.” Her admission was so raw and vulnerable. It felt like someone had dropped a rock in my stomach. She wiped at her tears hastily. “Shit. You were supposed to turn there,” she said, pointing at a street as we passed it.

“You know your mom would be proud of you, right?” I said as I hooked a U-turn.

“Yeah,” she said, still looking miserable.

“April?”

“Yeah, I know. I just miss her, is all.”

We finished the drive silently, save for April’s directions, which all came a beat too late. I parked my truck in front of a cozy house. I could make out the light-yellow paint even in the dim streetlight. There was something so welcoming about the enclosed porch, the way the bay windows looked out to a wild garden. It reminded me of the homes I’d always see on TV as a kid, where the mom weeded the flowerbed, and the dad grilled. A home where families looked happy and whole.

“Nice place,” I said.

“Thanks,” April answered as I helped her step down from the truck. “It used to be my parents’.”

She looked more balanced as I walked her and her bike to the front door, but I had to ask. “Are you going to be okay on your own? You won’t choke on your own tongue in your sleep, will you?”

She laughed as she fought to fit the key into the hole. “That’s not a thing.” She finally got it in. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” I said. “Lock the door when I leave. Okay?”

“Yes, Coach.”

And as I walked to my truck, I was already making plans because I wasn’t done hearing her call me that.