False Start (12 page)

Leaning over to his friend Scott Murphy, Nick asked, "Who's the new guy?"

Scott, the manager of intake services at the shelter and a former teammate of Nick's, glanced at the young man with short blond hair hunched over his plate. "I'm not sure. I haven't seen him here before, but I like his shoes."

While Scott hoisted an empty serving bin out from the rack in front of him and replaced it with one brimming with hot mashed spuds, Nick looked back at the table.

Running shoes.

When it was time for his break, Nick approached the table. "How's everybody doing? Got room for one more?"

He pulled up a chair next to the new guy and held out his hand. "Hi. I'm Nick."

On closer inspection, Nick could see that he was more boy than man. Seventeen years old, maybe eighteen. When he looked up, his expression was a mixture of defiance and shame. He smeared his right hand against the thigh of his dirty jeans before shaking Nick's.

"John."

"Nice to meet you, John."

The boy nodded and shoveled more food into his mouth.

The two sat in silence while the rest of the guests discussed everything from politics to religion to the latest episodes of reality television shows.

From what Nick could tell, John seemed to be a young healthy kid. He wondered what brought him to the shelter, but knew better than to pry. Instead, he asked, "You a runner?"

Putting his fork down, he responded. "Listen. I don't want any hassles."

Nick smiled and shook his head. He hadn't meant to imply that John was a runaway. Pumping his arms back and forth, he asked, "Do you like to
run
?"

Shifting in his chair, the boy replied, "Yeah, I used to. In school. Not good enough for college, though."

"So what happened?"

John let out a short laugh and stared at his plate. "Nothing. That's what happened."

"Listen. You got a place to stay?"

"Sort of."

Not wanting to drive him away with any more questions, Nick pointed to Scott. "See that guy over there? He works here and can set you up if you need a place to crash."

John nodded. "OK. Thanks."

Standing up with his tray, Nick added, "And if you ever want to go for a run, I can meet you here most mornings around eleven."

"Good to know. Thanks."

*  *  *

As Mattie's train pulled into her stop an hour later, she heard her phone buzz, indicating that someone had just texted her. It was Nick.

"Happy Thanksgiving."

She stared at the words. They agreed to skip their workout for the day, didn't they? Why was he texting her? Feeling an awkward obligation to reply, she typed,

"Same to you."

When the doors on her train opened, she stuffed her phone in her pocket, grabbed the bag of Claudia's old workout clothes, and got off. She was halfway down the stairs when she felt another buzz. Given the sparse number of people in the area and the time of night, she kept her phone in her pocket and decided to wait until she got home to read his message.

It didn't stop her from wondering what he wanted, though.

A reminder to not eat any pie?

Too late.

An addendum to his list of rules to eliminate wine, water, and breathing?

Wouldn't be surprised.

Or maybe it was another one of his tough-love, bumper-sticker philosophies.

Spare me.

When she got home, she flopped on her couch, and pulled out her phone to look at Nick's text.

"Forgot school closed tomorrow. Meet me at Y on Marshfield @ 9 for pool work."

"Not on your life, pal," she muttered to herself.

Her thumbs flew over her keypad.

"Sorry. No bathing suit."

Mattie 1, Coach zip.

Feeling rather smug, she had no sooner set her phone on her coffee table and was reaching for the remote when Nick responded.

"Get one. And bring a towel."

The only thing Mattie hated more than buying new clothes was buying a new bathing suit.

 
Where am I supposed to find a bathing suit first thing in the morning on the day after Thanksgiving? In Chicago?

She grabbed a nearby throw pillow and screamed into it until she emptied her lungs of all that was in them. Sinking even deeper into her couch cushions, she remembered the one thing she hated even more than bathing suit shopping.

 Wearing said bathing suit in the presence of Nick DeRosa.

She tugged the bag of clothes her sister gave her closer and started pulling out each item one by one, hoping to find something that could pass as swimwear. A pair of black spandex capris, two sport bras small enough for Mattie to use as ponytail holders, a pair of shorts with little panties sewn into them, and several long and short-sleeved dri-FIT shirts in an assortment of colors. No bathing suit.

Next, she reached for her laptop and checked store hours. Many opened at five in the morning. Since she was already getting used to functioning at that early hour, she set her alarm and headed for bed.

Eight hours later, she was on a bus bound for a shopping mall not far from her apartment, her legs still stinging from being shaved for the first time in she didn't know how long.

The mall was packed with people. As she elbowed her way into a department store, she followed the signs to the women's department. A harried clerk pointed her to the sorry display of bathing suits they had in stock.

She found a rack on which hung the only one-piece bathing suits in her size that she could find. All were either in a gaudy floral print or solid black. Whimpering, she checked her watch. It was already 7:30. While she made sure to wake up on time, she sorely underestimated how long it would take to shave her legs.

Panicking, she jogged to a sporting goods store at the opposite end of the mall. As providence would have it, not only did they have a generous amount of tasteful, affordable one-piece suits, they were giving extra discounts to purchases made before 8 a.m.

Mattie grabbed four that she liked and ducked into a fitting room to try them on.

The one in which she looked the least awful was plum-colored and had a special tummy-trimming feature with a little bit of a skirt on the bottom that hid the razor burn along her bikini line.

Sold!

Rushing home, she put it on under her workout clothes, grabbed the largest beach towel she could find in her linen closet and zoomed to the pool, hell bent on getting into the water before Nick even arrived.

The first thing that hit Mattie when she entered the YMCA building was the intense odor of chlorine. While it didn't prompt any particular memory, it gave her an inexplicable urge to slather herself with suntan lotion. The second sensation to hit her was the humidity. The windows were thick with condensation, causing the curls in her hair to become more coiled with each step she took toward the pool entrance.

"Excuse me, you can't go in there," the girl behind the desk gurgled after swigging her iced coffee. She was wearing a gray tank top and jean shorts over her royal blue racing suit. The employee identification card and shiny silver whistle dangling from her neck made her look like a professional beach bum.

Mattie, who had been trying to sneak into the woman's locker room behind a pack of lithe, chlorine-bleached swim team members, stuck out like a sore thumb.

"Why not?" she said in her best take-no-prisoners tone. Peering at the girl's ID, she added, "Samantha."

"Because there's a meet," the attendant snapped back. "Swim team members only."

Laughing with the joyous exaltation of a schoolgirl who had just been informed that it was a snow day, Mattie asked, "Really?"

The girl behind the desk did not share her in excitement.

"Really," she droned while examining her nails.

Mattie 1, Coach double-zip.

"Is the weight room open?" a low voice behind her asked.

Mattie spun around. It was Nick. His hair was tousled and the scruff on his face indicated that he hadn't shaved for the past few days. Still, wearing snow-white sweat pants and a matching hoodie that had the Olympic emblem in the upper left-hand corner, he looked, much to Mattie's chagrin, quite magnificent.

Oh, who are you trying to impress?

He spoke over her turned head to the girl behind the desk who had abandoned her iced coffee and gushed, "Hi, Nick."

"Weight room?" he repeated.

The girl nodded like a bobblehead doll. "Yep, it's open."

"Thanks, Sam," Nick replied with a full-wattage smile-and-wink combo.

Addressing Mattie, he simply said, "Come on," before stepping away.

When the girl's eyes finally fell on Mattie, still standing at the counter, dressed in her usual gray sweats and her hair twisted into two braids tucked behind each ear, a vague curiosity creased her face into a frown.

Mattie knew that expression all too well. It meant, "
You're
with him? How is that even possible?"

And just like that, she was back in high school, standing in front of Marina Buckley, a cheerleader whose favorite afterschool activity was berating Mattie and accusing her of stalking her boyfriend, Eddie.

"He'd never go out with someone like you," she would announce in front of all of her other beauty-queen wannabes. Then she'd explode in a haughty, oh-this-is-too-good-to-be-true laugh while her minions joined in.

Drowning in the memory of one of her many high school horrors, Mattie was frozen to the spot. Just as she was about to sink into a familiar puddle of nothingness, Nick re-appeared.

In what seemed like slow motion, he draped his arm across her back, gripped her shoulder with his hand, pulled her close, and said just loud enough for the attendant to hear, "This way, babe."

When Mattie felt his lips press firmly onto the top of her head, she surrendered to the tumble of emotions at war within her and melded into Nick as he led her away.

For the first few steps, she relished the warm sensation of his body moving against hers and the eyes that watched in wonder as they passed.

Take that, Marina Buckley.

When they turned a corner, though, the jilted working girl in her returned. Slipping out from under him, she demanded, "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"You shouldn't let people treat you like that," Nick scolded.

Mattie's cheeks flared, "Oh, and your solution is to just waltz right in and whisk me away, is it? I suppose you expect me to bow down and thank you for rescuing me."

Nick stood before her, nostrils flared, jaw clenched.

When he said nothing, Mattie added, "And you kissed me!"

She swatted her hand over the top of her head as if a bug had just landed on it.

"You know, I can manage just fine on my own," she continued. "I don't need you or anybody else to police my level of self-esteem. Got it?"

Nick just smirked at her and shook his head. "I just realized something."

"What?" By now, Mattie was certain her cheeks were crimson, but she so didn't care.

"You've never had any problem standing up to me," he said quite calmly.

Out of words, Mattie put on her best exasperated expression. "Whatever. I think we should talk about boundaries."

"Knock yourself out."

"First and foremost, kissing. Highly inappropriate."

He jutted out his chiseled chin. "And why's that?"

Mattie held up the ring finger on her left hand as if to issue an expletive.

Nick looked at her coolly for a moment.

"If it wasn't for that," he said, nodding at her ring, "I would've gone straight for your mouth."

He held the door of the weight room open for her. "After you, slugger."

But she couldn't move. The air had left her lungs and her bones had turned to cement.

That kiss.

The night of her wedding rehearsal, she should've known it wasn't Eddie when he didn't resist her. Maybe a part of her did know, and she kept kissing him, regardless. Either way, she never forgot the feel of Nick's bristly but soft face in her hands, his lips parted against hers, his breath in her mouth. Taking in the very essence of him all in one fleeting instant.

Apparently Nick hadn't either.

He stood patiently waiting until she was ready for her first ever lesson in the benefits of resistance training.

*  *  *

When an unseasonable warm spell blew into the Windy City right before the holidays, Nick informed Mattie that they would be running outside and arranged to meet at an intersection in Lincoln Park. From there, the pair jogged slowly down Fullerton Avenue passing elegant row houses, coffee shops bustling with early morning commuters, and students from a nearby university.

Mattie felt like she was in a fish bowl. Certain that all eyes were on the short, out-of-shape girl huffing and shuffling next to the clearly in-shape Olympian barely jogging next to her, every jiggle seemed magnified ten-fold. Each gasp for air seemed like an unspoken plea for an oxygen mask.

She glanced up at Nick. He wasn't even breaking a sweat.

"I don't like it out here."

"Why not? It's gorgeous. And, last time I checked, the marathon is not being run on a track, so you'd better get used to running outside."

On their way toward the lakefront, Nick pretended to check his watch while glancing at her as often as he could without being obvious. Since their run-in at the YMCA, their verbal exchanges had become sparse.

"How ya feeling?" he asked every half mile or so.

"Fine," she replied.

Traffic noise and pedestrian chatter punctuated the rhythm of their feet hitting the pavement in unison. To fill in the gaps, he'd toss out some pointers, doing his best to sound encouraging.

"Don't hit the ground with your heels. You'll get shin splits."

"Slow down your breathing."

"Relax your shoulders."

"Stop clenching your fists."

When they hit the asphalt path that skirted Lake Michigan, he pointed to their right, and they both swerved south.