Page 3

Chapter 3

APRIL

M y hand slipped once again as I worked furiously to tighten a bolt. The workbench was usually my happy place at Just Tri—our family’s store. As a one-stop triathlon shop, my focus was often split between bike repairs, shoe fittings, and the occasional question about flippers. So having a moment to be alone with the BMX on my stand should have been solace, but instead of getting lost in the puzzle of bolts, cones, and axles, I kept replaying the morning—of being fired as Clay’s athlete.

With each turn of my Allen wrench, my mind circled the feeling of being lost—wondering how I’d tread the path to Ironman without guidance—and feeling hopeless.

“Every athlete on my roster has to perform this year.” Clay’s voice echoed and bounced in my head, then morphed into the hidden picture camouflaged by his words: You are just going to DNF again.

I tried to shake it off because he hadn’t said that. He needed an aggressive team. I just wasn’t competitive enough .

That’s okay. I don’t need to be fast. I just need to finish, I thought, but my fingers spun the Allen wrench faster as if racing my thoughts. It slipped from my grasp and clattered to the floor. My cousin, Trevor, got to it before I did.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he asked.

I knew the conversation was coming. I’d seen the concern creased on his forehead as I’d entered the shop earlier. I’m sure I was a sight, drenched from the rain and just barely keeping the tears at bay.

Mercifully, Trevor had been inundated with customers, and Billie, one of my closest friends and Just Tri’s cashier, didn’t work on Mondays. I had just enough time at my workbench to gather myself—to let my emotions settle to frustration, but I still felt pressure in my chest warning me that tears were still possible.

I took the Allen wrench from Trevor’s hand, then leaned back against my workbench, looking at the tool instead of Trevor.

“I uh—” I sniffed. “Clay’s not going to be my coach anymore.”

“What? Why?”

“He is trying to get on A-Team—It’s some sort of promotion, and he needs his athletes to be competitive.”

“What does that even mean?” Trevor was something like a big brother to me. In fact, many people thought we were twins. With him only being a couple of months older, we’d been in the same grade throughout school, had the same dirty-blond hair—so dark it argued as a light brown in the winter. Had the same hazel eyes, though his needed glasses. Our moms had been twins, so they’d always been delighted when people mistook us as womb-mates.

The protectiveness in his tone only made the urge to cry all the more powerful. It was having someone on my side saying my situation was fucked. Both validating and a bit soul- crushing.

“I don’t know. He just needs a reliable team to give himself a real shot at the promotion. Can you blame him?”

“Yes. I can definitely blame him. You are reliable, April. Those DNFs weren’t your fault, and you know it.”

My eyes bore into the framed picture above the checkout counter. After eighteen years, it was still my favorite picture. My mom and a ten-year-old version of myself stood with our backs to the camera. My mom showed off her fresh Ironman tattoo on her calf. On my calf was my own crude attempt at the Ironman symbol. However, drawing it from such an odd angle made it look more like a chubby butterfly. Even still, that was one of my most potent memories of Mom—the way she’d laughed delightedly when I’d shown her my copycat leg.

The memory usually made my heart swell. Now it just hurt. I felt like my plan to be an Ironman was sitting on Jenga blocks, and Clay had taken a corner piece from the bottom.

It was going to come toppling down. It was only a matter of time.

“Maybe it’s just not meant to be,” I said wetly. “Maybe I’m not meant to be an Ironman.”

“No, fuck that!” His exclamation was enough to rouse Johnson from his slumber in his usual spot beneath my workbench.

The one-eyed dachshund waddled out and looked at Trevor with less puppy dog eyes and more of a singular, Pick me up, bitch, expression. It worked and came with a side of under-the-collar scratching.

“It’s fine, Trevor.”

“Maybe someone else would buy that, but I know what this race means to you.”

Johnson had turned his head to look at me, and I shrugged under the gaze of three eyes .

Trevor was quiet for a moment, and I could almost see him mentally grasping at straws. “Maybe this is a blessing. Maybe you’ll get a better coach.”

I scoffed.

“I’m serious. That guy is a prick, and what is wrong with his face, anyway? He always looks like he’s in danger of shitting himself.”

That had me laughing for real. “I think that face actually works on some women.”

“Do you want me to talk to Gabe? See if he has any openings?”

The name sent a zing down my spine, along with a memory from nine months ago after my bike wreck during the last Ironman. Gabe had bent over me, black hair messy and sweaty. He’d been mouthing something—my name, I surmised, by reading his lips—but I couldn’t hear anything after just regaining consciousness. His brows furrowed in concern, and the brutal scar that cut through one of them captivated my attention. My brain couldn’t compute why I was staring at Gabriel Torres, so it locked onto one physical thing. Every time I’d seen him at the shop, I’d wondered how he’d gotten it, but it seemed rude to ask. Hazily, I’d reached up to touch it, and that’s when pain electrified my collarbone, shooting all the way to my fingertips.

The rest is a blur of pain jumbled with Gabe’s hand on my uninjured shoulder and his low whispering encouragements keeping me grounded until the ambulance arrived.

Though the moment towered like a monument in my memories, I really didn’t know Gabe that well. I saw him occasionally at the shop, triathlon parties, and races, but we weren’t anything more than acquaintances. The idea of joining his team made me feel uneasy.

The guy didn’t just coach the quickest in town, but he was one of the quickest in town. Asking him to take me on was like giving a college baseball coach a little league player. It felt like I’d insult him just by asking to be on his team.

“I think I’m just going to try and do it on my own,” I decided.

Trevor’s eyes narrowed. “But you are still going to try to do it. Right?”

“Of course,” I said, but the conviction in my voice had the integrity of a paper straw.

Trevor looked at Johnson and, with a who is a good boy voice, said, “Does that smell like bullshit to you, Johnson?” Johnson wagged his tail once as his vote in the matter.

“I’m going to try. Of course I am, but it just feels pointless.”

For a moment, Trevor’s eyes looked far away behind his glasses, but when they refocused, they were bright. “How about this? If you really take this season seriously, I’ll finally apply for a position at Exposure .”

I straightened. I’d been trying to get him to apply to the nature magazine for years, but an accident after high school graduation sucked the spark right out of him and his photography career. Even though he still took the most beautiful pictures, he didn’t try to pursue anything other than local gigs, race day shots, things like that. “Seriously?” I asked, unable to tamp down my reaction.

“Sure. I’ll give it my best shot. But you have to give this race season your best shot, too. Deal?”

I took Johnson’s grubby paw in my hand and shook. “Deal.”