Wheeler: A Sports Romance Story: Wheeler, #1

By Sara Butler Zalesky

Loren Mackenzie is at the top of her game, leading her team of pro cyclists through the highs and lows of intense road racing in the women's peloton. Beneath her cool façade lies a darker truth, one she desperately wants to keep buried. 

 

A change in the management of the team brings Loren face to face with a man she had tried hard to forget. While she rebuffs his attempts to resume their relationship, fear keeps her from revealing his growing intimidation. When a chance meeting leads to a whirlwind romance between Loren and an A-list actor, the affair not only attracts the eye of the tabloid media, it sparks a menacing obsession. 

 

Emotions run hot with each exciting race in the Women's World Tour, testing the bonds between teammates. As Loren proves herself on the road, her success adds kindling to a rivalry that could threaten her chances at the World Championships.

When Love and Obsession collide in the first book of the Wheeler series, can Loren withstand the storm, or will she lose all she has fought so hard to achieve? 

 

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Butler Zalesky
• Release date: Jul 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533356314

Sara Butler Zalesky

Sara has never lacked for imagination, but it wasn’t until the Fates decided to give the string of her life a tug, bringing her romantic leanings together with her passion for the sport of cycling and Poof! A story was written down and completed, much to her surprise and chagrin. She is a (self)published author of women’s fiction/sports romance series Wheeler featuring a female MC who is a professional cyclist.  Wheeler: In Darkness, There is Still Light is the second novel of the series and will end with Wheeler: One Fire Burns Out Another’s Burning currently in the editing stages. The author resides in the suburbs of Philadelphia, PA, with her husband and their son. Sara is a paralegal for a law firm in Chester County, Pa, an avid road cyclist, and indoor cycling instructor at a national chain. Connect with the author on Twitter and Instagram @sarazalesky

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Dedication

This novel is dedicated to the women in professional cycling, for their spirit, talent, and grace that inspired the fictional women’s cycling team,

Innovative Design Cycling (IDC).

Disclaimer

THIS IS A WORK OF fiction. For the good and the bad, names, businesses, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

That said, portions of this novel are derived from actual names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents, and as such, are meant as fictionalized depictions and/or dramatizations of those names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents. The use of such names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are not intended to disparage or harm any such person, place, business or event. That is, unless said person, business or organizer replied to the author’s contact and consented to the use.

Speaking of persons, the individual characters in this work are fictional and/or inspired by several individuals and/or are from the author’s wildly creative imagination. That is, unless said person replied to the author’s contact and agreed to have a cameo.

Otherwise, the use of such personal characteristics is not intended to injure or vilify that individual personage. You have the author’s sincerest apologies if you feel injured or vilified. Hit me up on Twitter and we’ll hug it out.

Lastly, Mr. Jude Law, I hold you in quite high esteem and use you as a comparison only because you are awesome. I hope you don’t mind and at least got a chuckle out of it. Let’s go on a bike ride together sometime.

7 June

PHILADELPHIA, PENNSYLVANIA

Loren Mackenzie?

She spun around at her name, her lime-green Nikes squealing on the linoleum. Her stomach flipped at a nurse in navy scrubs with UPENN stamped in white on the pocket standing at the threshold of the Emergency Room doors.

Hi, Loren called out, then moved forward. Is Evette alright? 

The nurse tilted her head, her eyes traveling up and down. She’s being prepped for surgery, but she wants to see you. Follow me. 

Oh, thank you. Confused, she looked down at the red polka dot jersey she wore. She took a breath to explain but the nurse had already started down the hall. Adjusting her messenger bag strap over her shoulder, Loren set off after the nurse.  

Holy shit. I knew she was hurt, but surgery? She chewed on her lower lip, reliving her own clavicle repair surgery when the nurse came to a halt before a half-open sliding glass door. 

Not too long, okay? After knocking, the nurse headed off to the main station nearby. 

Loren eased the door open and entered the tiny room. Evette Nadal was a talented climber, and not averse to diving into the scrum for the sprint. But, seeing her team’s lead rider lying there, with wires and tubes snaking out from under a blanket as white as her skin, took Loren’s breath.  

Evette?

The prone form stirred at her name. Her eyes fluttered and slowly opened and she cracked a lazy smile.

Hey, you. 

Loren forced out a chuckle. They must’ve given you the good stuff, huh?  

Oh, you bet. Morphine’s great. She moved to sit up, then gasped. The machines chimed their alarms, sending Loren to her bedside. 

Easy, just lay back down and relax.

Her breathing quick and shallow, Evette settled back into the pillows with a low whine. Loren sat down on the chair next to the bed when the nurse poked her head into the room.

Don’t do that again, ya hear?

Not without more drugs, she muttered. 

You look like shit.

That’s what Felix said. Evette brushed the back of her hand over her cheek. How’d the race finish? You at least got something out of it. She pointed to Loren’s jersey. 

Yah, I got fourth. I couldn’t catch Samantha on the eighteen percent section of the Wall. She looked back at the pale face on the bed. Felix said you got hung up. 

Evette sniffled, her frown turning bitter. I was with you before the turn to Levering Street when Chantal and that rider from SportMatrix tried to push in between us. They clipped wheels right in front of me and I went down on the curb. I couldn’t avoid it.

Loren glanced away. Damn it. I told Chantal not to go. She let out a breath and tried to put on a brave face. But hey, UPenn has a great orthopedic team. They’ll fix you up and you’ll be back to training with us in time for the Giro.

No, I won’t. I’m not coming back.

Don’t say that. Loren reared back in her chair, shaking her head. You have to.

Her team leader opened her eyes to hit her with a bloodshot glare. 

No, I don’t. You finding me on the floor last week really hammered it home. She turned away. I’ve got to get my head straight, and I can’t do that while still racing. 

Loren chewed at her lip. She had walked in on Evette making herself sick in the hotel room they shared in California.  

We all have our secrets. 

Evette turned to squint at her. Listen, Ulrik and I got to talking about you on flight from California. We were going to ease you into the idea of being lead rider, but... She gestured to the bed. It’s your chance now. 

I-I can’t. I don’t... Loren slumped into the chair, her breath stuck in her throat.

Bullshit. Evette took a few deep breaths before continuing. You’re higher than me in the Cup standings. That puts you closer to a spot with Team USA for Worlds. She leaned closer. And you do deserve it. 

LOREN PLODDED THROUGH the security doors to the waiting room, her messenger bag clutched tightly to her chest. Thoughts swirled inside her head faster and faster, making it hard to breathe. 

I can’t do it without her. I’m not ready. 

Movement near the windows drew her attention, and a dark-haired man in a red polo and black slacks was coming toward her. 

She groaned inwardly. Oh god, leave me alone. Her face flaming, she pretended not to see her team’s Directeur Sportif, and hurried toward the hospital exit. 

"Loren, arrêt!" Felix Lalonde jogged a few steps to intercept her. She flinched at the warmth of his hand on her bare wrist before pulling out of his grasp.

You could have at least washed your face. I told you to wait for me. How did you get here? 

I took a cab. I needed to—. Don’t do that, please. She rolled her shoulder away from his touch, then clutched the strap of her bag across her chest. Her glare narrowed at the soft curl at the corner of his mouth.

You enjoyed my touch the other night. He closed the distance between them. She dropped her chin, not wanting to look into his eyes again but she couldn’t stop herself. 

Yah, well, that won’t be happening again. Her blush intensified with his smirk. 

"So you say, mon trésor," he chuckled. 

Just leave me alone. She shoved past him and through the sliding doors. Once outside, her senses were assaulted by honking cars and bus engines revving, billowing black smoke mixing with the high humidity of Philadelphia in early summer.

Hospital staff milled on either side of the doors, their loud voices and cigarette smoke adding to the attack. Two policemen stood in the middle of the street, blowing their whistles in an attempt to direct traffic. A yellow taxi had stopped directly in front of her, and Loren moved out of the way of the opening door. 

In her peripheral, Felix had exited the hospital doors, pushing through the sea of people to get to her. Despite the hot summer afternoon, a shiver went down her spine. The door of the taxi was still open before her. Escape, however brief, was possible. She ducked down to see the driver through the front passenger window. 

Can you take me to Manayunk? 

Yeah, sure. Get in.

She tumbled into the back of the cab and slammed the door, huddling her bag close.   

HEY, I’M BACK! HER voice echoed through the Conarroe Street house the team had been occupying over the past few days. The musty smell that plagued the home tickled her nose, making her sneeze three times in a row.

"Dai linn, a chuckling Irish brogue replied from the front room. In here! Come help me!"

Loren entered the room and burst out laughing. Her teammate, Cece Taylor, was sprawled over her bright orange duffle.  

Shuddup you! Get over here and help close this. Cece shifted to flatten the bag. How is she? I knew it was bad when Chantal and that SportMatrix girl were gettin’ up but Evette was screamin’.  

Yah. It’s bad. Loren knelt down, then glanced at her watch before reaching for the zipper pull. Fractured pelvis. She’s in surgery by now. She had to give the pull a good tug to close it. You can’t take one of those Wawa convenience stores home with you, you know.

What, the coffee’s good, her friend huffed and brushed a lock of blue black hair out of her eyes.

Loren plopped on the floor, the weight of her conversation with Evette pushing her down. 

She’s not coming back to the team. Glancing over, she raised a brow at Cece’s pensive expression, her cupid’s bow lips pursed in thought. 

We were talkin’ about it on the plane, but she told me not to say anythin’ to ya until we got back to England. She slid down her duffle to the floor and bumped her shoulder. Don't you get any ideas. The Ice Queen needs to take the throne.

Loren gave a dark look. That reporter started callingl me that because I’ve got resting bitch face.  

Cece laughed and put her hands up. Don’t get all aggro, but you do need to step up. Evette didn’t get us the win in California. That was you, taking charge after she got dropped with a mechanical. Her blue-green eyes narrowed. And it wasn’t the first time. 

Yah, I guess so. Loren put her head back on the couch, her gaze following the swirls in the plaster ceiling for a few moments. Birdsong floated on the breeze through an open window. Even if they did make me team leader, Ingrid thinks it should be her. 

She'll be cross no doubt, but she's no good with strategy, and forget handling Felix and his moods. He looks at her cross-eyed, and she's near tears. You give him the what’s what.

Loren smothered a wince. No, I don't. She sighed again and scooched down to put her head on her friend’s shoulder. What would I do without a friend like you?

Cece burst a laugh. You'd be a right pew, that's what!

11 June

ENFIELD, ENGLAND, UK

Loren rolled her shoulders to ease the tightness there, then dropped her head for a quick look at the nine riders behind her, decked out in IDC’s red and white cycling kits. Five were her pro teammates, and mixed in were riders from the Under 23/development squad. 

Too much change in such a short time. No wonder we fell apart.

Their young faces brought her thoughts to the beginning of the season, where a tough loss at the Gent-Wevelgem race in Belgium seemed to herald a string of difficult changes. Two teammates who had been with IDC since her first year, accepted transfers to other teams. Not that she could blame them. The life of a women’s pro cyclist was neither high-paying nor glamorous, and often one accepted whatever was offered. 

The team’s transition took a hard left a few weeks later when their long-time Directeur Sportif, Jack Thompson died suddenly of a heart attack. A vocal supporter of women’s cycling and a former Tour de France Champion, his death was a blow to the entire organization. His status had brought sponsors and without him, two had decided not to renew their contracts, claiming a loss in profits. 

It was only a week later that IDC’s owner, Darren Wickersham announced the hire of a new sports director, former Grand Tour champion Felix Lalonde. The news didn’t sit well with anyone, Loren least of all. Whether anyone was aware of her ties with Felix, she didn’t know but she made sure to avoid being alone with him. 

A glance over her shoulder brought the dark blue Volvo sedan into focus. His overtures were subtle at first and would leave her unsettled. He hadn’t lost any of his sex appeal. 

Or his ability to manipulate. Her lip curled and she faced forward again. She was suspicious of his motives when he promoted her to lead rider for the multi-stage Tour of California. Evette had been supportive of the change, but a rift began between Loren and teammate, Ingrid Jorgensen. 

She’s hardly spoken to me since, which is something given we’re roommates. She peered over her shoulder at Ingrid, gliding along slightly behind and on her right. They shared similar talents, both were good all-arounders - cyclists who could hold their own with the climbers and challenge the sprinters. What Ingrid lacked was tactical experience and forethought, and often missed the signs that an attack was imminent. Loren’s attention returned to the sedan and its driver. 

Selfish bastard. To her chagrin, the press had quickly discovered they had both been with the same team years before. Although she denied any relationship, Felix refused to comment either way. It had been humiliating for her to repeatedly defend herself at press conferences after each race. To make matters worse, a tabloid reporter had gotten wind of their ‘story’ and was pestering IDC’s media relations office for an exclusive.  

Sniffling at the thought, Loren lifted a hand from the hoods of the handlebars to wipe her nose. A screech of alarm turned her head. Brake pads squealed against carbon rims. Her bike lurched to the right, throwing her off balance. She flung her arm out to save herself but hit the tarmac hard enough to rattle her teeth. 

Blue bits of sky were visible through the trees overhead. Her hip burned, a telltale sign of road rash. She moved her arm to get up then recoiled with a hiss to hold it close. A hot zing from her elbow brought tears to her eyes. Then, a shadowed face blocked her view. 

Goodness, I’m so sorry, Ingrid said, then helped her sit up. I swear, that evil squirrel came out of nowhere! 

A squirrel. She took off her sunglasses and squinted up at her.

Ingrid shrugged with an apologetic grimace. I’m sorry, but you know how much I hate them. The blue Volvo came to a halt nearby, drawing her gaze. 

"Klootzak," she muttered and retreated as Felix jogged toward them.

Despite her discomfort, Loren could barely keep a straight face, knowing the Belgian called him a ball sack in Dutch.  

"S’écarter! Felix brushed a thick lock of dark hair out of his eyes. What’s happened now?" 

Nothing. I’m fine. Loren waved him away but he still took a knee at her side. 

That was a hard fall. A tiny curl appeared at the corner of his mouth. He was trying not to laugh. Quite graceful in fact. 

Yah, I’m sure. She got to her feet without his proffered help and retrieved her bike. Stooping to inspect it for damage, Loren winced at various skin abrasions making themselves known.  

Your elbow is bleeding. Felix crouched next to her and lowered his voice. While I don’t mind seeing your bare skin, it would be better to cover that up. 

Disgusted, she shifted away from him and touched her hip. A gash in her shorts revealed a bit of raw skin. His husky chuckle was met with her scowl. 

Charlotte has a solution for you. He nodded to beyond her, then started back to the car. 

Cece appeared at her side holding a roll of white athletic tape and a couple of bandages. 

I’ll tape the flap closed, but there aren’t any plasters that big. She grimaced. At least the Lycra won’t stick too much to the rash. The plasters are for your elbow there. 

Thanks."

It was a bit dodgy, blaming a squirrel, Cece said. But, I did see one on the road a couple of seconds before she squealed. 

Loren bent her elbow to look at it. Dudes dig scars, right? 

We like to think that. 

As Cece helped patch up Loren’s shorts, the rest of their teammates took advantage of the stop. Some took sips from their bottles while others brought out snacks from their jersey pockets. Before anyone could separate from their bikes, a car horn interrupted their impromptu break. 

"Allons-y! Let’s go, Felix bellowed out from the car window. There’s a storm front coming. You might melt if you don’t move on."

He had that smirk on his face as he drove off, and it took a generous amount of self-control for Loren not to flick a finger at him. 

Her elbow and hip complained at the abuse of moving but she got back on her bike to roll out behind the group. The pace soon ticked up for a couple of miles when her rear tire began to feel spongy. She stood on the pedals to get a look, and sure enough, it was flat. 

You’ve got to be kidding me! She pulled over to the side of the road, muttering curses in three languages.   

I’d stop to help, but... Cece pointed at the car when she passed. 

Yah, thanks! Loren snarked, then dismounted and removed her helmet, hooking the straps over the brake hood. A quick glance at the GPS unit on the handlebars gave an idea of her location relative to the training center. Wiping her forehead with the back of her glove, she squinted up at the cloudless blue sky. 

Maybe I should move. The lack of a breeze sent a bead of sweat down the side of her face. She stood on a wide gravel shoulder and away from traffic, but there was no cover from the sun. Opposite her, a small grove of trees provided a shadier spot. A car speeding down the lane quickly changed her mind. The driver seemed to not anticipate the tight curve and had to cut across the gravel shoulder to make the turn. 

Loren pulled off her fingerless gloves and shoved them into her back pocket. Strands of her hair tickled her cheeks as she bent to release what little air remained in the back tire. With a few clicks of the shifter and a spin of the pedals, the chain moved to the smallest rear cog for easier removal of the wheel. After loosening the quick-release skewer, she lifted the black matte frame of the bike to take the wheel off and a hot zing shot down from her elbow. The bike clattered to the ground while she sucked in a breath and shook out her hand.  

I didn’t see any damn fucking squirrel. Flipping the frame over to rest on the seat and handlebars, she removed the wheel and the items she needed from the slim bag tucked under the bike seat, then trudged over to the stone wall and sat down. Birds chirped overhead, chasing each other from branch to branch. The smell of freshly cut hay tinged with mulch wafted on the slight breeze, tugging at her memory. 

Smells like home. Shaking off the thoughts, she got to work removing the tire from the rim. After a quick inspection for debris inside the tire, she added a little air to a spare inner tube with a C02 cartridge inflator before shoving it inside the tire without twisting it. The ache in her elbow and hand from just handling the spare tube was only just bearable. Putting the hard rubber tire back on the rim was going to be painful. 

She stood to wipe her hands on her thighs and stretch her stiff back and shoulders. The nerve pinch was coming from her neck that much she could tell. She thought about calling her friend, Anthony, who was really more like a brother, but quickly discarded the idea. A blaring truck horn brought her head up in time to catch a dark gray Jaguar swerve out of the way of an oncoming lorry.

Another idiot. She picked up the wheel and sat down again. A few minutes of wrestling with the tire to get it on the rim had her swearing under her breath with the pain. Her frustration increased when the same gray Jaguar crept to a stop a few yards away.

They did not just turn around. Loren refused to look up at the thud of a closing car door, muttering, "Like I’m some fucking damsel in need of saving." The man’s stifled chuckle stilled her hands. 

All’s well, miss?

Uh, yes, everything’s fine. I can manage a tire, thank you. Loren continued twisting the last bit of tire over the rim and almost got it over when the opposite side popped off.  

Dammit. She stood with every intent to hit the Good Samaritan with a hard glare but froze like a deer in headlights at the sight of him. He was tall, and looked in need of a sandwich, dressed in a loose fitting blue and red plaid button-down shirt and jeans. 

Oh my god. Graham Atherton. Every single film she’d seen of him flashed through her mind, followed by the handful of times she had seen him in the coffee shop near her house. The last time was a few weeks ago, before she left for the Tour of Colorado when Loren had gathered enough courage to smile at him. She had nearly melted on the spot when he smiled back. 

Those blue eyes crinkled with the same grin, but now outlined by a trim goatee. His arm rose to drag his long fingers through his rakishly unkempt brown hair. 

I can help, if you’d allow me, he said, a rich-toned British accent tickling her ears. I’ve got strong hands. See? He moved closer with his hands out and palms up. Loren stiffly bent to retrieve the wheel from where it had landed then cleared her throat.

Say something! But not something stupid. Uh, thanks, but I’ve almost got it. Thanks, though, for stopping. 

His smile grew, and she forgot how to breathe. I thought I recognized your, um...uniform? He gestured at her and squinted. 

She looked down at her jersey. You mean my team kit?

He snapped his fingers. Kit! I’ll have to remember that, he chuckled and glanced around. I passed your mates back there, then I turned the corner, and here you are. The cyclist from the coffee shop. 

She blinked. Did he just say... His expression drooping into a concerned frown shook her thoughts loose. 

You’re looking a bit worse for wear, he said. 

Loren flexed her elbow. Oh, it’s not that bad. Heat bloomed across her face when she noted he was actually looking at the angry abrasion on her hip. She quickly patted the tape back into place. 

I’m fine. Just a bit of road rash, no biggie. 

He gave a soft hiss. I’d be complaining quite loudly about that, not shrugging it off. His frown became more pinched. Ah, your elbow’s bleeding a bit there. 

She glanced at her elbow. The bandage had fallen off at some point and red streaks ran down her forearm. He reached for her then, and her startled flinch sent the wheel she hadn’t realized was in her hand clanking off of several rocks as it rolled away. Another hot flush hit her cheeks. In his hand was a white handkerchief. 

Uh, thanks. She took the square of cloth from him to hold it against her elbow, and in the minute of awkward silence, she tried to look anywhere else but couldn’t help herself. She grinned stupidly at him for what seemed far too long. A bead of sweat rolled down the small of her back.

Oh, god. He’s staring at me. A faint breeze caressed her cheek, bringing with it a hint of his cologne. 

You smell very nice, she said, then cringed internally. 

Thank you. The broad grin was back, sending her blush to heat her ears.

Um, I don’t need help with the tire. 

I’m certain that’s true, however, that elbow needs some attention. He gestured to the stone wall a few feet away. I have a first aid kit in the boot.   

She backed up a step. Oh, n-no, really, I’m fine.

He raised a brow, looking unconvinced. I’ll be right back. 

Loren pursed her lips, watching him go to his car then come back with a small box with a red cross on it. He then claimed her spot on the wall and patted the flat stone next to him. Hesitating a breath, she joined him but didn’t present her injury. 

How about I clean it myself and you can put the tube inside the tire there. The smirk he gave was one she’d seen so many times before, but on a screen. 

I reckon I can do that. He opened the box and handed her a packet of towelettes. While Loren cleaned her scraped elbow, he quickly had the inner tube inside the tire again without twisting it. Impressed, she gave him a nudge with her shoulder. 

That was pretty good. We should hire you for the team car.  

I am certainly not qualified for that. He returned her shoulder bump with a little ‘heh-heh-heh’ chuckle. I caught a few stages of the Tour de France last summer. Some of those descents were bonkers. 

Yah, some of them. Screaming down a descent, it feels like flying without leaving the ground.

I probably would be screaming.

She then reached for the wheel he held. Here, lemme me show you how–. 

He teasingly batted her hands away. No, no, allow me, please. She consented with a nod, pinching her lips as he gripped the wheel between his spread knees. Spots of white sealant turned into streaks on his dark jeans. He let out a growl of frustration at the last bit of tire refusing to cooperate. 

Loren pointed to a spot near his thumb. Hold it there with both thumbs, then roll it toward you. He adjusted his grip and with one last pull, the bit of rubber slipped over the edge. 

Damn, that was hard. 

Lucky for us, they change the whole wheel out, not just the tire, she said and chuckled at his rolling eyes.

Now she tells me. 

Loren cleared her throat and stood. "Now comes the real test, inflation. So long as the tube isn’t pinched, it won’t go boom." She puffed out her cheeks and mimed an explosion with her hands. 

They both cringed while the CO₂ cartridge inflated the inner tube, then chuckled when nothing happened. She brought the wheel over to her bike, held the rear derailleur arm down and slid the wheel into place. After tightening the quick-release skewer, a slow spin of the pedals re-engaged the chain with the teeth of the rings.

There. I thank you, kind sir. She bowed her head to him.

You are very welcome. He stood and returned the gesture, then dusted his hands on his jeans. 

Loren bent down to pick up her bike and helmet, a little nugget of thought grew, only to be smothered by doubt.

Oh stop it. He’s a movie star. You’re nobody. Well, I’d better get going, she said, offering her hand to him. It was good to meet you. His fingers closed around her palm in a firm grip instead of a limp fish. 

And you as well. 

His touch was warm and dry, and a little sticky from the sealant. He took a breath as if to say something else but let it go, along with her hand. Raking his fingers through his hair, his eyes flicked back to his car for a second. 

I-I could drop you wherever you needed to go.

Her brows went straight up. You would do that? She coughed to cover her cracking voice. Uh, no, that’s okay. She then gave a crooked grin. I’d lose all my street cred with my teammates. He snickered, but his humor evaporated into an awkward shuffle backward. 

Well, perhaps then, if it’s not too forward of me, may I ring you sometime? 

All the blood drained from her brain. Loren stared at him, her lips in a small ‘o’ shape.   

You’re asking for my phone number? 

Yes, but I understand if -.

Okay, she replied quickly. I’d like that. For you to call me, I mean. 

That gorgeous grin was back, stealing her breath. Wonderful! Here. He brought a mobile phone from his jeans pocket and swiped through a few screens. 

If you would put your number in? 

With shaking hands, she entered her number into the blank contact, added her first name, and handed it back. He touched the screen again and a few seconds later, her mobile vibrated in the back pocket of her jersey. 

There. Now you have mine. His eyes flicked to the screen. I look forward to talking to you again, Loren. 

Me too, Graham. There was a flash of amused surprise in his expression, and she took a guess. You didn’t think anyone would recognize you with a beard? His fingers raked through the scruff on his chin as his cheeks colored.    

Ah, well, in London, yes, but not around here. To them, I’m just another brooding Millennial. The sudden fading light brought their attention to the storm clouds gathering overhead. 

Oh, dear. Do you have far to go?

Loren shook her head. No, 10k or so. I ride fast. 

The smirk was back. I bet you do. Stay safe. Graham Atherton gave a wink and walked back to his car with the box of first aid supplies tucked under his arm. 

The growl of the Jaguar’s engine got Loren moving back to her bike. Her mobile buzzed in her back pocket again - a reminder of the unseen message, but she wasn’t going to take it out with him still watching. She strapped on her helmet then snapped her left shoe into the pedal. Pushing off the ground with her right foot to get the bike rolling down the lane. She swung her leg over the seat in a smooth motion, clipped into the other pedal and accelerated away. 

A few miles down the road, however, she had to stop. It was too good to be true, but a check of her phone showed a message from an unknown number. 

Lovely to meet you. We’ll talk soon! Graham

Her imagination took off on their own wild ride but she reined them in hard. 

Don’t be an idiot. Just get back to the center. 

EVEN SOAKING WET FROM the brief storm couldn’t dampen her excitement. Loren rode through the center of Enfield with a bewildered grin plastered to her face. Swerving to avoid oncoming trucks and several pot holes, she turned her bike off the main road and into a sprawling industrial estate which held the women’s team temporary training center. Although ‘temporary’ had been stretched to two years.  

Darren said it was cheap and central. Cheap is right. 

The nondescript gray brick building had originally housed a delivery service, with several offices and two garage bays for repairing the company’s trucks. The dirt outline of the former company’s logo was still visible above the double doors to the lobby.  

Her mood immediately soured as she rolled into an open bay of the garage. Felix was waiting for her, his arms crossed over his chest. 

You should have been back over an hour ago. Where have you been? 

She bit her tongue on a retort while racking her bike. My GPS was on. All you had to do was look. 

You will come to my office before you leave, please. His polite tone did not mask the command. Loren glanced around the garage. A few of her teammates were still there, carefully not watching the interaction. 

Yah, sure. With shoulders back and head high, she walked out of the garage and down the hall to the team soigneur’s suite. The door at the end of the row was open, an indication the physiotherapist wasn’t currently working with anyone. Entering the suite, the thick scent of lavender and herbs made Loren’s nose itch. The outer room was meant to be a calm and relaxing retreat, decorated with warm notes of green, brown and gold. Two chaise lounges were set near windows draped in heavy brocade curtains. In the corner was a bi-fold screen set as a makeshift changing area.

"Ciao, gattina," a voice greeted from the adjacent room. A woman appeared in the doorway, dressed in pink scrubs with her dark hair in a high bun. A fluffy white robe was draped over her arm.

Sorry I’m late, Loren said, smiling at the nickname. I had a mechanical.  

"Si, I heard. Come, change into this, and relax while I set up." Aria handed over a robe and shooed her charge toward the screen. 

Loren took her time removing her ruined kit, her muscles and various scrapes complaining about the disturbance, then put on the robe and stepped back into the room. A small cup of steaming espresso was waiting on the side table next to one of the loungers. 

It's hot, and I need caffeine. With a sigh, she eased into its embrace then reached for the tiny cup and saucer. Sipping the bitter liquid, a particular actor’s smile floated across her mind, and a different sort of heat warmed her. 

Nobody would believe me, she muttered, and took another sip. 

Believe what? Aria stood in the doorway, her brows up and head tilted. 

Ah, it’s nothing, she answered, then sucked down the remnants of the coffee as she stood to follow the physio into the next room. A massage table was set up in the dimly lit space where soft tinkle of string music played from the far corner. Eucalyptus was just as strong as the lavender in the other room, making her sneeze.

"Salute," Aria chuckled. Loren removed the robe, hopped up on the table and snuggled in on her stomach with a deeper sigh. A heated blanket was draped over her chilled body, but before she could enjoy it too much, the warmth was removed from her damaged thigh. She grimaced at the cold burn of salve being applied to the raw skin. 

Ingrid told me she made contact with your tire, Aria said. 

It wasn’t her fault. Can’t exactly stop on a dime when something runs into the road. The masseuse’s hands glided over the parts of her body that weren’t injured, applying additional pressure at different points of tightness and when the knots released, it was bliss. When Aria was finished cleaning her elbow, she tapped Loren on the shoulder. 

How are you feeling, otherwise? Did you strike your head?

No. I was a little stiff, but the massage helped, thanks. Loren rolled off the table and put on the robe again. I’ll go home and have a good soak.

Good answer, Aria said. Off you go. Don’t be cross with Ingrid. She was quite upset.

I’m sure she was. A note of sarcasm colored her muttering as she crossed the outer room to the hall. The locker room was on the other side of the hall, with its bright lights and equally garish pink and orange color scheme. Ingrid was draped over a beige loveseat near the lockers, her long legs dangling off the arm and her mobile screen at her nose. 

You’re going to go blind staring at the screen like that, Loren said and opened her locker. She took out underclothes from her duffle and dropped her robe.

Yes, Mother, Ingrid snickered, flicking her ice blonde ponytail over her shoulder. You look terrible.

Gee, thanks. Pulling a t-shirt over her head, she then bent to tug on her joggers then grabbed socks and sneakers from her bag. It started raining on my way back, but hey, it’s fine that nobody waited for me. She cringed a little at the bite in her tone, but Ingrid didn’t seem to notice. 

You know what Felix is like. The younger rider came over to sit on the bench. I’m sorry for being angry with you. He was right to choose you. You’re the better-

I’m not better than you. Loren shoved her foot into her neon green sneaker, then turned to her teammate. "We have different strengths, but like Peter Donnelly likes to say, we make a formidable team."

"Formidable, Ingrid giggled, then bumped her back. Let’s get going. I’m so hungry my stomach has declared war on my backbone." She picked up their bags, and Loren followed her out of the door, only to stop short and groan inwardly. Felix was waiting near the lobby entrance, his arms crossed tight over his chest once again. He pushed off the wall and came toward them. 

Loren, I had requested that you meet with me before you left. 

Ingrid went even paler. I’ll get your bike and meet you at the car, she whispered. 

Yep, thanks, Loren answered, then reluctantly followed Felix down the hall to his office. His red polo shirt stretched across his back and shoulders, leading her view down to his expertly tailored trousers. 

God, stop looking at his ass. He opened the door to his office, then closed it after her, motioning for her to sit while he rounded his desk. Loren remained standing, her arms crossed over her chest. 

I’m tired. Can we make this quick? 

Are you alright? His deep brown eyes crinkled with the semblance of concern. 

What do you care? You just drove off. 

Felix lowered his chin but kept his gaze on her. I do regret that, but I have a responsibility to the other riders. 

She took a step forward and pointed at him. Bullshit. Jack never took us out without a mechanic, and he never would have left me by myself.

His glare matched hers for a moment, then softened as he rose. A tiny shot of fear doused her anger when he walked around his desk, but she stood her ground. 

"Je suis désolé, mon tresor, he murmured, brushing her shoulder with the tips of his fingers. I did not mean to be unkind." His hand drew down her arm to capture her hand and lift it. The warmth of his lips on the inside of her wrist shook her out of his thrall. She clenched her jaw, cursing the flush creeping over her skin.

I said no six years ago. My answer hasn’t changed. 

Ah, but you want to say yes. You are trembling. He drew nearer, his gaze moving to her mouth. You need me, and I need you just as much. 

She stepped back and yanked her hand from him. Yes, you know what drives me, but I will not let you manipulate me again. Loren opened the door and walked out of the office.

LOREN. Her name rolled off his tongue like good brandy. Graham pushed his hair away from his face with a groan. Her smile kept intruding on his concentration and he’d see her next to him, strands of her reddish brown hair floating around her face. Then, something he could have said to make her laugh popped into his head. 

It was her laugh that first caught his attention in the coffee shop, but when he turned around, she and her teammate were already outside and back on their bikes. The second time was a week later, and he had bumped into her while he was leaving and would have said more than ‘pardon me’ if he hadn’t been in such a rush to make the train to London. When he noticed her the last time, he answered her hesitant smile with a wave, but she disappeared before he could approach. 

I need to know more. Graham closed his eyes and pictured her. Strong shoulders and trim waist curving into legs that went on for miles. 

Blue-gray eyes, high cheekbones, kissably full lips. And that glorious smile. He then focused his inner vision on the one area he tried not to stare at in person, her chest. He opened his eyes and snapped his fingers.

There was a light bulb logo on her jersey. Opening his laptop, he typed in a few keywords and several hits for cycling lights came up. Scrolling down, he found a link for a cycling team called Innovative Design Cycling, with locations in Enfield and Harrow. He clicked on the link to the website and let out a breath. 

Hazzah. He scanned through the images, finding several he thought might be her with her teammates, smiling and carrying on. While their names were indicated, he wasn’t certain who was who until the last one. His lips parted at her image on the screen.

My goodness. The photo was of her crossing a finish line with both arms raised. She was beautiful; more so in person, but it was the expression of pure joy in the photo that held him. 

Loren Mackenzie. Hmm. He took out his mobile and chose the number of his friend and talent agent. The line rang once before a gruff Scots voice answered. 

Ron Hudson.

Mate, I have a favor to ask, Graham said. I’ve met someone. 

There was a pause before Ron answered. Nine months. I’m glad you’re ready to return to the land of the living. 

Perhaps you and my sister are right.

Indeed, Ron chuckled. What’s her name?

Loren Mackenzie, Graham answered. She’s an American pro cyclist. Possibly Scots descent. 

She can’t be that perfect. The clicking of a keyboard came through the speaker. Well, isn’t she a sporty bird. He muffled a cough. Alright then, I’ll let you know what I discover.

Do it today, yah? Graham winced. Sorry. I don’t mean to dictate. 

She must have made quite an impression, Ron replied, followed by a faint click. 

12 June

LOREN WAS THE FIRST to arrive at the training center the next morning for the team meeting, and performed her usual routine of turning on the lights, the coffee machine and electric kettle to heat water for tea. 

Heady scents of summer blooms and fresh hay still filled her sinuses from her short motorcycle ride to the center. Being on a bike, whether with pedals or a motor, helped to clear her head, but anxiety had ridden on her shoulder. 

Ingrid’s attitude had done a complete turn around from yesterday’s apology after a phone call from her mother. While she understood her younger teammate’s parental angst, Loren was grateful she wasn’t in constant contact with her family. 

She met her reflection in the mirror above the carafe station, her hair in a messy bun and a few swipes of mascara on her lashes. There were pink pressure marks on her cheeks from her helmet, and rubbing them only made them worse.  

She closed her eyes. You’re the leader of the team now. You’ve worked hard for it. You deserve it. The words felt strange in her mouth, being the total opposite of the little voice in her head. Then, she thought of Graham Atherton as King Philip, dressed in full armor and rallying his soldiers to stand their ground and fight. The speech never failed to give her chills.  

He can’t be interested in me. I’m not special. Her frown curved upward into a little smile at a warm shiver over her skin. But he did ask for my number. The beeping kettle shook her out of her daydream. and tilted the pot, pouring hot water into her mug. 

Stop it. It's not going to happen anyway. After setting aside her tea to steep, Cece’s ringtone came from her mobile on the table: It’s a Small World After All.

We’re leaving. Did you forget something?

Her chuckle was cut short when she recalled her rain jacket. Aw, damn. I need to get my shit together, she muttered and typed a reply. 

My rain jacket is in the closet by the back door. Thanks.

Loren sat down at the conference table with her tea and breathed in the delicious mix of chocolate and cherry before taking a sip. Savoring a few minutes of teavana, she then brought out her laptop from her messenger bag to load a video of one of the Women’s Tour stage routes to make note of any locations for attacks or possible obstacles. 

When her mobile rang a half hour later, she glanced down at the caller ID, but didn’t recognize the number. Normally, she would have let the call go to voicemail but found herself fumbling with the phone to press the connect icon. 

Hello?

Hiya, Loren? 

Her mouth popped open at his voice. Oh shit! It’s him!  She covered the speaker and cleared her throat. Play it cool. You get calls from movie stars all the time.

Well, hello there, Mr. Atherton. 

It’s not too early, is it? I didn’t wake you? 

Loren glanced at her watch, it was half past nine. Nope. Not too early for me. 

Ah, good. I had wondered if you got stuck in that thunderstorm yesterday. 

Sadly, yes, but the rain did wash off most of the dirt.

Oh, darling, he murmured. I’m sorry. Sounds like you could have used a hot drink. 

That, or maybe a warm hug? She tucked her lip in her teeth, grinning.

I know I can fulfill at least one of those requests. His deep voice rumbled in her ear, raising goosebumps on her skin.

You sure know how to give a girl the shivers. 

Graham gave a soft laugh then cleared his throat. Are we turning it on a bit too much for a first conversation?

I’m still smiling, so that’s a tick in your column.

We could see how well it works in person. Would you happen to be free later this afternoon?

Ah, I wish I was, she groaned and slumped in her chair. We’re scouting out the stage four route of our next race, and then there’s this team bonding ...outing ...thing. 

The Women’s Tour, yes? he said. I believe my mother mentioned something about that. When does it start again? The clicking of keys in the background came through her phone. 

Tuesday, in Bury St. Edmunds, Loren said. There’s a time-trial to figure out who starts off as the leader. That’s how the general classification is set.

I’m sorry, how is what set?

All of the riders who start a multi-day race are considered part of the general classification, she said, and picked up a pen to doodle circles on a post-it note. The rider with the lowest accumulated time after each stage is the leader of the GC, even if they don’t win that day’s stage. If that rider’s time is the lowest at the end of the final stage, they win the tour.

Ah, he drawled. I had wondered how one bloke could keep wearing the yellow jersey without winning that day’s race.

Well, winning a stage will get you points too, she continued. And there are locations in each race where a rider can earn seconds off their time and points for specific prizes, but that’s where things get a bit more complicated.

Prizes? Like the polka dot jersey?

Yes, that’s right, she laughed but cut it short and dropped the pen. I’m sorry. I tend to over-explain when people ask me questions about what I do.

Never apologize for your passion, Loren, he murmured, then paused for a moment. Bury St. Edmunds. Isn’t that north and east a bit?

She nodded. It is. Stage one ends in Aldeburgh, on the North Sea coast. Stage two leaves from Braintree and ends at Clacton-on-Sea. Stage four starts in Waltham Cross and finishes in Stevenage. That’s where we came from yesterday.

Graham began typing again. That’s not far from where I live. I reckon I might have to show up. 

I can make sure there are some VIP passes for you if you’d like. Loren’s stomach did a flip, picturing him at the stage finish.

Thank you. I would like that very much. He cleared his throat again. Where does the Tour end?

In Hemel Hempstead, she replied.

My mother and her fiance live there, he said. I could have a cheering section waiting for you.

We’d appreciate the local support. She kicked at the table leg, then remembered something. Did you say you live around Enfield?

Yes, I live in Northaw. Not far from where we were yesterday, in fact.

She scrunched her nose. Oh, right. I know how to get places, but not the names of the villages.

It’s quiet here, which I like, Graham said. I have a spectacular view of the open lands from the back terrace. I’ll send a picture.

So you really did leave London. She then groaned and smacked her forehead with her hand. I swear, I’m not a stalker. 

I’ll admit, I did a bit of a search about you as well. You clean up rather nicely.

Loren fanned a slip of paper in front of her face. Oh, well, thank you, sir. She smiled at his funny ‘heh-heh-heh’ laugh. 

Anyroad, my walk-up in London was no longer the sanctuary it had been, he said. Being out of the hustle of the city has been good for me, I reckon. I tend to go all hell for leather about things.

I guess I can understand that, she replied. I rarely do anything without analyzing every step to death.

Ah, but oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises, Graham said, his accent becoming more proper. That was Shakespeare, by the way.

She shook her head. I thought as much. 

So, chatting up strange men on the side of the road is out of character for you?

Loren sat back in her chair. See that. You’re already a bad influence. He burst a laugh, but it faded into a brief silence. 

I feel like I know you already. Isn’t that strange?

Well, yesterday wasn’t the first time you’ve seen me, she deadpanned. One time you nearly spilled your coffee on me walking out of the shop. 

That is true, he snickered. I’d very much like to see you again. 

I’d like that, too, but like I said, we have this team bonding thing. She let out a sigh. Every month, we choose something fun to do as a group and going out dancing was this month’s choice. Loren frowned. Just like last month.

You have quite an action-packed day.

She scrunched her lips. I suppose, but if everything goes the way it should, I may–.

There’s that planning thing, he muttered, making her laugh.

I was going to say I might be able to meet you for coffee in between, but now I don’t know.

How may I make up for teasing you? 

His rumbling baritone sent another shiver through her, and she bit her lip.

I’m not sure, but I could probably think of a few things.

Well, you have my number, Graham said. Let me know how your plans are going.

I can do that.

I'll talk to you soon, Miss Mackenzie.

"Au revoir, Mr. Atherton." A few seconds after the line disconnected, her mobile pinged with a text from his number.

View from my terrace. I hope to share it with you soon.

The photo attached was a large stone patio overlooking a manicured lawn. Green pasture lands rolled off in the distance. She typed out a reply.

What an incredible view. 

I can picture us sitting out there 

with our feet up and a pint of something.

Her mobile pinged a minute later, with another attachment.

How did you know what I was doing?

The image was of his bare feet atop a wicker ottoman with the same view, but instead of a pint of beer, there was a cup of coffee. Loren giggled as she wrote back.

I think our first date should be getting you a pedicure.

His reply was his face, sticking out his tongue. 

A HALF HOUR LATER, Loren was still chuckling at the random texts and photos between them as the first of her teammates joined her in the conference room. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Irina Bendsen placed her bag on a seat near the door and went to the cafe station.

Ashley Hargrove entered the conference room shortly after Irina and scurried over to Loren’s side of the table. The younger rouleur sat down and removed the hood of her sweatshirt to reveal a bright pink bob haircut. Loren almost fell out of her chair. 

What did you do to your hair? 

You sound like my mother, Ashley replied. 

Loren shook her head. No, no! I love the cut, and the color. I so want to do something like that, but I’d end up looking like a poodle. Ashley grinned and touched Loren’s shoulder length waves.

I can see you with some pink, but don’t you dare cut it off. I regret that part.

When Cece and Ingrid walked into the room, Loren chuckled at them staring at Ashley's pink hair.

My mum would birth a cat if I did that. Cece stroked her own ink-black pixie cut, then gave Ashley a high-five. Way to break some rules!

The team’s second sprinter, Chantal Tremblay was the last to arrive and took a seat across the table. Loren smiled at her, but Chantal pursed her bow-shaped lips and turned away. 

Right. That attitude needs to end before something else happens. Loren sighed and adjusted her posture. The twinge in her back had subsided, but as Felix and their silver-haired manager, Ulrik Vislosky, entered the conference room, it erupted.  

Good morning, ladies, he greeted and sat down at the table. 

I hope you have your rain gear out, Felix added with a smirk. It’s going to be a soggy sixty kilometers. 

Ulrik put his hand up. Yes, we’ll be leaving for Waltham Cross shortly, but I wanted to review our strategy for the upcoming tour. 

IT WAS STILL DRIZZLING when the group of six returned to the training center later that afternoon.