Page 16

Chapter 16

APRIL

I had my head pressed against my workbench when a knock sounded at Just Tri’s door. The sound made me wince. It had been a while since I’d had a hangover, and I forgot what a sensory nightmare it was.

“We’re closed,” I half mumbled, half whined into the wood. When the knocking came again, I forced myself to straighten. I’d make this potential customer leave, and then I’d have thirty minutes to gather myself before I had to put on my best customer service smile, even if it felt like an elementary’s recorder band played freestyle in my skull.

My intention of shooing away the eager customer was quelled when I realized Gabriel Torres’ tall frame filled the glass door. He waggled fingers at me in greeting, and I tried to muster a smile, but it ended as a grimace.

When I unlocked the door and pulled it open, Gabe said, “Can we talk?”

I tried to remember if I said something that crossed the line the night before. I vaguely remembered being sassy, him helping me into his truck, his large, warm body around mine. And, oh yeah, telling him I was quitting Ironman. Which, I figured, was why he was there .

I may have said and done some crazy things the night before, but I was still sticking with that decision. Clay was right; I was a DNF risk. The universe played goalie to this plan of mine, and it would always win, would always find some way to knock me down before I reached that finish line. I was done wasting my time, and I certainly wasn’t going to drag Gabe down with me, but I still owed him more than a drunk explanation.

“Hurry,” I said, squinting against the sun’s assault on my corneas. “Before it follows you inside.”

He turned around, checking to ensure nothing was behind him. “What follows me inside?”

“The sunshine.”

His eyes roamed my face, and I was sure I looked like shit. I hadn’t had time for makeup—not when I’d wasted half an hour kneeling in front of my toilet, puking until I was dry retching. “That bad, huh?” he asked, voice soft.

“It feels like every light, sound, and smell has a personal vendetta against me,” I answered.

“I brought you this.” He held up a brown paper bag with a greasy outline coating the bottom half.

I gagged.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, pulling the bag to his chest wide-eyed. “Greasy food always helps my friends get over their hangovers.”

I fanned my face and wiped the tears out of my eyes. “Thank you. Yes. Greasy food . . .” I had to pause to keep from gagging again. “Usually does help. I just wasn’t ready for the . . . smell.”

“Here, is it okay if I set it on your workbench?”

I nodded and closed my eyes, working to take slow, deep breaths. When I felt like I wouldn’t throw up in front of Gabe, I opened my eyes again and found him pulling the blinds, blocking out the strong, natural light.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling brave enough to approach the Whataburger bag. The thought of food made my stomach roil, but I knew I’d feel better after a few bites. “So, you wanted to talk?” I asked, bracing myself for a coach-like scolding.

Gabe leaned against the counter next to me. I noticed he did a lot of leaning. I wondered if keeping that height upright was difficult or if he did it to be more on level with the rest of the population. If so, mission unaccomplished, he still had me beat by half a head.

“So last night, what you said about Ironman . . . was that just the alcohol talking?”

I unwrapped the greasy breakfast sandwich to give me something to look at rather than the disappointment on Gabe’s face.

“What gives you the impression alcohol did any talking last night?” I asked, then nibbled a bite of sausage, egg, and cheese biscuit.

Gabe smiled at the floor as if he remembered something specific. My face flamed. Good Lord. What had I said to the man? I wracked my brain, but it felt as though too-tight screws held my skull together.

Finally, Gabe shrugged a single shoulder. “Just a hunch.” Then he put his hands in his pockets. “But I’m specifically interested in the part where you said you were quitting.” His eyes lasered onto mine.

“Oh, that.” I took another bite, giving myself enough time to plot a course while I slowly chewed and swallowed. I decided on ripping the Band-Aid off. “I meant what I said, Gabe.”

I waited for him to show some emotion—anger that he’d wasted so much time on me or relief that I wouldn’t weigh him down anymore. Something, anything, but he didn’t let an ounce of feeling show. “Because of what Clay said about you being a DNF risk?”

“He’s right,” I said by way of answering.

“Do you control the weather?” I squinted at him, not at all sure where he was going with that question. “Because the race was canceled three years ago because of a storm.”

“Yeah, well—” I started, but Gabe interrupted me.

“Were you faking the flu a couple of years ago?”

“What? No!”

“And I know you didn’t fake last year’s injury. I was there.” I rubbed the phantom wound at my collarbone. “It’s not your fault you couldn’t finish the past three races. You aren’t a DNF risk. You’ve just had some bad luck.”

I lowered the sandwich. “That’s the problem, though, Gabe. I think I’ll always have bad luck when it comes to Ironman.”

He cocked his head, and strands of dark hair shifted above his brows. “What do you mean?”

I tried to think of a way to explain how I thought the universe didn’t want me to finish this race without sounding insane, but I ultimately decided on a different path. “Just that I have a mental block. I don’t think it’s going to happen for me.”

My eyes drifted up to my favorite picture—the one of my mom and me. My heart throbbed. I tore my gaze away, but judging how Gabe’s eyes studied mine, he’d clocked my internal struggle.

“Let me help you. What are you most worried about?”

Looking at the order of plagues that had kept me from reaching the finish line: weather, illness, and injury. What was the most logical thing the universe could throw in my path? A hurricane? A meteor? A busload of toads invading Ironman Village? Anything was possible. However, the idea of Gabe losing A-Team was at the forefront of my concern. “I don’t want to drag you down with me,” I said. “I would have never agreed to be your athlete if I’d known your career hinges on this race.”

“That sounds more dramatic than what it is.”

“Is it? Because wouldn’t you already be on A-Team if you hadn’t stopped after my wreck?”

He held my gaze. “I don’t regret helping you.”

“You are dodging the question.”

“And you are missing the point,” he volleyed back.

“The point is that if you don’t get on A-Team this year, it won’t be my fault because I quit.” I turned around, straightening a row of Allen wrenches.

“That’s your right, just like it’s my right to keep you on my roster anyway.”

It took a moment to process his implication, but once it clicked, I turned around so quickly that I had to pause to keep the two bites of breakfast sandwich from making a reappearance. Was he threatening to throw away A-Team if I quit? “You can’t do that.”

“I can.” He straightened to his full height and then stepped toward me. “And I will.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gabe. Just take me off your roster.”

“I’m not going to do that. I’m not giving up on you.”

I looked for a shred of bluff in his dark eyes, but I couldn’t find anything to contradict his threat. “I know you think you can help me, but you can’t. We’re both going to end up losing.”

He shrugged. “Win or lose, we do it together.”

His declaration made me breathless. “Why? Why would you risk it?” I whispered.

“Because I know how badly you want this, and I can help you.” His features softened. “So, let me. ”

The idea made me nauseous—more than I already felt. Because wasn’t I sucking Gabe into my own misfortune? It was like having strep throat and coughing in someone’s face. He would catch the bad luck that hovered over me like a black cloud.

No. I argued with myself. I don’t have bad luck because luck isn’t real.

I swallowed. “Okay.”

He backed toward the door. “I will let you recover today, but we hit it hard tomorrow.” He was halfway out the door when he called back, “We’re going to make Clay eat his words.”