Page 2

Chapter 2

GAbrIEL

“ E asy, dammit,” Coach Rick growled as I made another pass at the knot in his calf.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, prodding the area. “You are always so tight here. You might need to switch shoes.” Most of the time, I saw Coach Rick as a father figure. He gave the advice, and I was quick to heed. This was a rare moment. When he lay on my massage table, face in the cradle, the roles were reversed, and I got to be the voice of authority. After all, I’d been doing sports massage therapy for eleven years.

“If I buy another pair of shoes this month, my wife will kill me. The number of shoes I have puts her collection to shame.”

That was the life of a runner.

“Buy her a pair first. You know what? Scratch that,” I said, because I couldn’t imagine Rick picking out a pair of women’s shoes. “Get her a gift card to go shopping.”

“She doesn’t need more shoes,” he said, annoyed with my suggestion.

“Then don’t complain when I get to the problem spots.” I tried to loosen up some of that muscle again .

“Ah! Torres!”

I sighed, relenting. “I’ll send you home with some stretches, but if you don’t take them seriously, you’ll have to let me work that knot out.”

I moved onto his hamstring, which wasn’t as bad.

“So, are we going to talk about your meeting with the board this morning?” Rick asked gruffly.

I slid my forearm down his hamstrings. “You already know about it. So, I’m sure you know how it went.”

“Jamal told me,” he grumbled. “The fact that you aren’t already guaranteed my position when I retire is complete horseshit.”

I huffed out a laugh.

“I’m serious, Gabe.”

“I know you are.” Of course, he wanted me to take his place. He’d been my coach since I was a teenager. Back then, he was a high school swim coach, but after I graduated, he quit to train triathletes, and I found myself back under his whistle and mercy. It wasn’t long before he had me starting my own coaching journey as a side hustle.

I wanted the position on A-Team. I’d have access to a slew of near-professional-level athletes. Talk about making an impact. I could help some of the quickest triathletes on the planet close the difference between themselves and their podium or personal record goals. But I’d be lying if I didn’t include making Coach Rick proud as a huge motivation for making the team.

“So, what will you have to do to get on A-Team?” he asked.

“Just keep doing what I’m doing.” I had more years at Triple Threat than Clay and coached more athletes. The board was transparent with how the application process would work. They were taking a “holistic approach,” meaning they would scrutinize everything: our own race times, athlete reviews, and athlete race times compared to their race history. In other words, they wanted to see athletes making actual progress while under our wings, which made sense. Clay's only advantage was he had an athlete who had never completed an Ironman because any time she made on the race would be considered progress as long as she finished. Even still, I wasn’t too worried. My athletes always showed growth.

“We need you at peak performance for Ironman Texas. How was your last ride?”

“Fine,” I said. Truth be told, I’d completed it at the targeted speed and power but just barely. Afterward, I’d collapsed on my tile floor, lying in a pool of sweat, staring at the ceiling fan and regretting all life’s choices.

“Good.” Then he went into full-on coach mode, talking about our plan of attack for the month in the form of training and racing schedules.

Three more months. I could hold out on this training schedule for three more months.

“I wish you hadn’t taken on as many athletes this season,” Coach scolded. “You need to be strong for your own race.”

“When have you known me to skimp on workouts?”

He mumbled something about stretching myself too thin as I finished the session and began washing my hands in the massage room’s tiny sink.

“How is Ashley doing?”

“Oh, uh—” I hadn’t expected the sudden pivot to my personal life. I shut off the water. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He said it like I told him my abuela passed away.

I popped my head up. “It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.” It truly wasn’t. Ashley and I hadn’t really even been dating. Coach just assumed we were because he’d seen the two of us together a couple of times.

“What happened? I thought you liked Ashley.” He still sounded hurt, like I’d broken up with him.

I had enjoyed Ashley’s company. We had a good amount of physical compatibility, but eventually, she started catching feelings that I couldn’t reciprocate—that I’d never be able to reciprocate. Breaking up with her was the humane thing to do.

She’d been upset, and I hated that. But I’d made my intentions clear in the beginning, and I wasn’t going to change my mind. Love was too messy an emotion, too slippery to get a grip on, so I’d stick to casual.

“I did. It’s just . . . she wanted something more serious.” I toweled off my hands. “And you know I don’t do that.”

“Gabe, it’s okay to have fun. You’re in your twenties.”

I bit back a smile. “I’m thirty-one.”

“Christ, I’m getting old,” he said, slowly lowering himself from the table.

I chuckled. “No denying that.”

He shot me a glare before continuing. “My point is, you’re still young, and I think you should be having fun if that’s what you want. But if you’ve got some fear of commitment because of your dad, you need to knock that shit off. You’re not him.” He pointed a meaty finger at me. “And you never will be.”

“I know,” I said because any other answer would summon a longer conversation, and I’d rather have a fingernail extracted than navigate that topic.

“He chose to be that man,” Rick said, continuing even though I knew he could sense my discomfort. That was his style. He’d always been okay with pushing his athletes past their comfort zones. “You don’t have a mean bone in that freakishly tall body.”

I laughed, then straightened to my full height. “I passed you in height over a decade ago. You gotta let that resentment go.”

Coach Rick rolled his eyes but, to my absolute relief, started for the door.

“You’re a good kid, Torres.”

“Thanks, Coach.” And because I couldn’t stand him leaving on too serious of a note I said, “Be sure to do those stretches I’ll send you, or you’ll have a different outlook the next time you leave my massage table.”