Spokes (19 page)

"I'm sorry, Luca. I thought I was doing this right."

"Why should they trust me to honor endorsements? Why should they have my face on their ads? No reason," Luca mocked. "Wait
another month, they get for free. Problem for me though. I don't have next year to do different, they have long memory. Now I have to win
everything, no tactics, no surprises. All I have left are appearance fees. I have to be worth more money to ride in their race, because saying,
'I love saddle' is free."

"I'll stop, Luca." What did he still have out at
CycloWorld
that hadn't printed besides race chat?
"I'm really sorry; I didn't think this would be a problem."

"You didn't think. You know, but you don't want to think about it." His voice grew low and fierce. "I
have ten years more career, if I'm lucky. If not lucky, might have ten days more career. Or ten minutes. I
have
to make money now, while I
can, because all goes away fast. Then what do I do? Be directeur sportif? Hundred old riders want each job. Hundred more old riders want that every year.
What then? I cut meat in father's shop?"

Christopher doubled over, acid washing through his gut. "You always talk like you're indestructible."

"Hundred percent accident rate, Christopher. I talk confident because I have to be confident to win. And I talk confident because I
don't want you to think of me like--Stu. But I know." His voice dropped into gentleness that hurt all the more for being
gentle. "I might meet turtle tomorrow."

"Luca, I am so sorry. I didn't realize--" Ten thousand apologies wouldn't get the Jindo rep back on the
phone.

"I'm sorry too. I thought biggest problem of boyfriends was getting outed. Not problem, or not problem yet, no one looks at me funny in
locker room or sauna. Maybe they don't know, maybe they don't care. Maybe just my fear, except I don't think so. But never
did I think boyfriends would make me poor. I take big risk with you, worth being happy, but real risk to reputation was reliability and honesty."

Too stunned to say more than another "I'm sorry," Christopher rocked slowly. "I won't quote you
again."

"No, no more quotes. My reputation might recover from one mistake, but not two. I need endorsement money for rest of my life. Mother and
father's lives. What happens when father can't cut meat any more? I have to take care of them too. Can't waste opportunities
when all could end tomorrow." Luca stopped for a moment, letting Christopher stare into the abyss he'd helped dig. "I took
big risk with you, Christopher. Bigger risk than I thought. Now I don't trust you, can't trust you. What else will you only tell me
half?"

"I wasn't trying to tell you only half, Luca." The distance between them now was far wider than the Atlantic and half of
North America.

"But you did, and it cost me. I'm sorry, Christopher. I was happy with you."

Was.
Oh shit, Luca lived in present tense. "I'm happy with you too."
I love you--please don
'
t say whatever you
'
re going to say next, please don
'
t.

"Goodbye, Christopher."

Chapter 17

Another big stage race started only three days after Gent-Wevelgem, but Christopher didn't get up early enough to watch the cyclists sign in and
mount up. Two days of phone silence and grieving destroyed Christopher's sleep; when he did finally fall asleep the race was only a few hours in
the future. He woke to find Luca contesting for King of the Mountain on the climb at the Berendries. "He's already accumulated twelve
points on the hills, Frank. Looks like Biondi's trying to take it all," the announcer said.

"And he might just do it. If he can get around--"

Christopher would push the star with the long career off the road himself to clear the way for Luca.

"The strong winds have taken a toll on all the riders. They averaged forty-five kilometers per hour the first hour, but after the climbs I
don't think we'll see that kind of pace once they get back on the flats. It will take better than that to catch this breakaway. The
leaders are increasing the gap to the chasers, and the peloton's falling farther behind the chase. That's going to be quite a
deficit."

Oh man, Luca was pushing it for all he was worth, nudging ahead of the other rider. Who cared about the stragglers three minutes back? The cameras came
back to the leaders who pounded toward the summit. "The Berendries rises sixty-five meters over less than a kilometer, averaging 7.2% and the
steepest section is 14%. That's going to be some pull, and it's the second time the riders will see it today." The announcer
offered words of doom--even the Super-Jamestown route didn't have anything over a 14% grade. Luca and the others would be going the next
thing to straight up.

And then they went down.

"
No!"
Christopher flipped to kneeling before the laptop. "Oh fuck! Luca!" he roared across the miles.
"Are you okay?

Maybe not--he and two others skidded across pave, entwined in each other and their machines. Slowly, too slowly, they unwound from
bikes turned scythes. Luca rolled to his knees, rising to unsteady feet. He put his hand down to a rider in white, tugging him to his feet, and they both
offered a hand to the third man on the ground. What were they saying to each other? Were they sorting out who would win now, who would try hardest and who
would hold back a little to favor an injury or for some other reason? Or were they finding out what vital bits had broken and by whose fault? What language
were they speaking?

They untangled their bicycles and swung astride. Luca moved the least slowly of the wounded leaders--was he hurt? Or just shaken? Oh fuck, that
was blood staining his legging, and the shoulder of his jersey and everything under it hung in tatters. Red-mottled white skin showed in the gap. The road
had taken its ounces of flesh. Spectators materialized around the riders. They shoved Luca into motion before he clipped into his second pedal. Two men
pushed, running alongside him, bringing him to speed. The other riders struggled to regain momentum with their own amateur assistants. Luca had a slight
lead, bursting away from his helpers. They could almost pace him on foot on this steep section.

"They're back on the road, Biondi leading, but the chase group is less than two minutes behind now, and the peloton may catch them yet
on the descent," opined the announcer.

Oh no, they wouldn
'
t.
If Luca had pushed so hard on the way up, he'd be lightning on the way down. Nothing short of another crash would stop him. Maybe no one else
knew what that set of his jaw meant, and surely no one else had seen him in his crazed rush to the best goal, but Christopher had seen that desperation on
Luca's face, and could only urge him on now as he'd done before.
Go, Luca!
warred with
are you okay?
But Luca was okay
enough to summit ahead of the others, and then he started down. Christopher couldn't bear to watch. He couldn't bear to look away.

Luca swooped down the narrow road, crosshatched with cobbles laid down in the time of the Romans. He flew through the curves, veering from the inner edge
of the road to the outer, keeping his speed with the widest curve. He was some kind of bionic centaur, leaning over his handlebars.

"Biondi's opened a fifteen second lead on his two closest pursuers, and the chase is two minutes back. The peloton missed their chance
to reel in this
fuga bidone
; the breakaway has a good two and a half minute lead on the peloton, and the leaders are uncatchable."

"Look at Biondi take those curves."

Must I?
Christopher couldn't look away, even though he needed to find something he could safely vomit on. Acid backwashed in his chest.
Don
'
t find a rock. God, let there be no turtles. It
'
s too cold for turtles. Luca, just get down safely.

He did. Luca sailed away from the foot of the hill, across the flat, and stayed ahead for another ten kilometers into the town of Zottegem. His
legs had to be screaming, his vision blurred--even this dynamo had to be feeling close to five hours of heavy exertion now.
Christopher's heart thudded with every revolution of Luca's pedals.

"This is a brute force effort--Biondi left his team behind on the other side of the Berendries, and he looks like he intends to go all
the way to the finish line alone."

Oh yeah, he did. Luca intends to go everywhere alone now.
"Go," Christopher whispered. Luca fought the wind in single combat, never looking behind to see who might be gaining. The moto stayed
with him, its relentless lens recording sweat stains growing across his back even in the freezing wind. "Just make it to the finish, okay? You
don't have to prove anything."

And then he was across the line, his speed dwindling to a stop on the far side of the logo-bedecked arch. A teammate ran to him, a blanket in his hands to
throw around Luca's shoulders and protect him from the elements and rejoice with a hug, a yell, and a grin.

The noise had gone very soft from Christopher's hearing--perhaps it had for Luca as well. The cowbells and waving turquoise inflaties
went far away, and Luca's chest heaved against a man who couldn't possibly love him the way Christopher did. "You did it,
Luca," Christopher mumbled. "But what did it take from you?"

He couldn't offer congratulations on a win with a cost he'd made so much heavier than it needed to be. Top three in three stages and a
kickass mini-time trial to end it would have taken the yellow leader's jersey. Instead, Luca felt the need for this ass-whupping victory that
might just whup his own ass out of contention for the next two days.

Christopher found his phone. **How bad was it? R u ok?** It would be an hour at least before Luca would see his phone. And Christopher could only hope to
get an answer.

***

Christopher'd given up hope and gone to work. Luca hadn't responded. He'd meant his goodbye.

The post-race commentary hadn't offered any clue to the depths of Luca's injuries, and his breakneck finish didn't really
help. A few years ago, in the Tour de France, Johnny Hoogerland had been hit by a car, finished his stage, and then been pieced back together with fifty
stitches. Luca was just as strong, just as determined. More determined.

A man who stood on the podium for the King of the Mountain, for the intermediate sprints, and for the win and the leader's yellow jersey had to
be the most determined man in the entire sport. That didn't mean he'd have anything left for the next day. He'd stood on the
podium in enough clothes to weather a Rocky Mountain winter, waving a bottle of champagne and a bouquet that was already showing frost-bitten petals. Thank
God for Paolo. Someone had to nurse Luca back from the brink.

An entire display of water bottles went down with hollow pops when Christopher's phone chimed. Later, he'd get them later. He ran for
the stock room. Half an hour later than usual--had Luca taken time to bandage before calling?
Please no stitches, or shoulder separations, or other hidden injuries...

Livid scrapes across Luca's pale shoulder filled the tiny screen. A second picture of a familiar, hairless, and abraded knee showed the rest.
Okay, damages, not fatal wounds.

**Looks bad, isn't. Am ok. Ride tomorrow, no problem**

Relief misted Christopher's eyes and made his thumbs clumsy on the tiny keyboard.

**Good. Glad. U did good. U kicked ass today**

Christopher racked every water bottle neatly, unloaded two pallets of bicycles, and stared at an uneaten sandwich for half an hour without a peep from
Luca. Maybe he was asleep?

Chapter 18

If Luca was asleep, he napped until the start of the next day's stage, and then came stunningly awake. His performance today was somewhat more
restrained--had he and the directeur sportif had a chat about strategy, or was Luca merely exhausted? Or on the other riders'
radar as a threat? His every attack got reeled in nearly as fast as he made it, though he made far fewer today. Finishing fifth in the stage still kept him
in yellow, though his margin had been whittled to less than a minute.

Still worth a text of congratulations. Christopher hit send, wishing he dared add something more personal. Nothing came back, though Luca's usual
call time was still a few hours in the future.

When his phone chimed, Christopher was deep in discussion with a customer, and couldn't reach to his phone. By the time he rang up the bike, a
new helmet (the same brand Luca endorsed because Christopher talked it up), and a replacement saddle (a K-Aero because the customer insisted, not the wider
Cassowary that he'd have done better with), half an hour had gone by.

But Luca knew his schedule as well as he knew Luca's. He'd be forgiven for the delay.

**Went easy today. All good** Christopher read with knots in his gut untying themselves.

**U scared all the other riders yesterday. Miss you**

But if Luca missed him too, he wasn't saying.

Christopher's phone didn't chime again until after the end of the next stage, a brutal day of 112km on the roads and a 15km time trial
less than an hour after the road race finished. Luca struggled to get around a clump of riders, finishing third on the road race. None of the clump were
his biggest GC rivals, who'd taken the opportunity not to start. Slackers. Think they'd miss a day in the cold winds and be rested up
for the next big race on Sunday? Like they'd leave Luca in the dirt in three days' time because they wouldn't take him on
honestly now? Christopher seethed through the time trial: no one could get in Luca's way in this stage, and no one stood higher than he on the
podium. That yellow jersey meant no less because he hadn't trounced every single big name on the road. If anything, it meant more because
he'd terrified the competition out of contention.

**:D** waited for when Luca would be able to communicate. Christopher dared send no more.

**Tired and a little stiff, but all fine** Luca wrote back later, and again, silence met Christopher's reply.