TWICE VICTORIOUS

by Judith B. Glad

  "Couldn't sleep?"

  "No, I had a breakfast meeting, so I got up extra early to do my exercises first."

  Her minivan was parked close to the sidewalk. As she unlocked it, he said, "I thought we'd go to Washington Park." His favorite picnic spot with a view looked out at Mt. Hood and the entire city panorama. "I'll lead, because the place I have in mind is a little off the beaten path. If you lose me, I'll wait at the Zoo parking lot." He caught her car door as she started to close it. "Drive carefully."

  Her smile lit up the world.

  At least I'll have her to myself this evening. He felt almost selfish. Almost. The longer he knew her, the less inclined he was to want to share her with the demands of world class competition.

  Maybe he was worrying unnecessarily. It was still questionable, in his opinion, whether she was going to get better enough to compete. From the white lines of strain often marking her face, he rather doubted that it would.

  Silently he vowed to expose her to as much pleasure as he could, so she would forget her obsession with being the best. It was possible. He'd done it.

  Somewhere, in the far back of his mind, a little voice asked him if he hadn't simply traded one obsession for another.

  He did his best to ignore it.

  * * * *

  "You can choose my picnic foods anytime," Stell told Adam when they'd tucked the few leftovers into the cooler.

  He sipped his wine, looking at her across the rim of the glass.

  Even though his face was shadowed in the twilight, desire was writ plainly in his eyes.

  Stell's insides quavered. For long seconds their eyes were locked together. When, his gaze promised. Not if. When.

  She finally found the strength of will to look away, knowing that the games were almost over. Decision time was imminent and she still didn't know what she wanted--needed--most. With an effort she pushed the quandary aside. With luck, her choice would become obvious. Until she had to make it, she refused to worry. She already had enough stress in her life.

  "Such a lovely night," she said, hoping to distract herself. "We don't get many like this."

  "Don't worry. Rain's forecast for tomorrow."

  "Oh, good. More than three clear days in a row and I start to worry." Actually, she was tired to death of always-gray skies. Thank goodness it was June. Pretty soon the rains would stop and summer would come.

  Adam divided the last of the wine between their glasses.

  "You're spoiling me," she said. "This is superb wine."

  "You need spoiling. I'll bet you don't know the meaning of self-indulgence." He blew on her ear, chuckled softly as she shivered.

  "You lose. I've got my weaknesses, just like everyone else."

  "Like what?"

  "Like not being able to resist fresh peaches. Not being able to go to sleep until I finish a book. I can't resist buying tapes and CDs, so I restrict myself to one visit to Music Millenium a month. I don't have an ounce of will power where some things are concerned."

  Adam nipped at her ear. "What things?"

  You her mind said, but she managed to bite the word back before her runaway mouth shaped it. If only he didn't fit the empty place in her life so darned well. She really didn't want him to become necessary, not until she'd decided whether she could fit him into her already hectic existence.

  On the other hand, maybe it was time to face up to the truth and admit she wanted to keep seeing him. What she needed to do was concentrate on making sure she didn't fall in love with him. A brief, merely affectionate relationship she could handle. An intense love affair would be too distracting. Not to mention how painful it would be when it fell apart, victim to her training schedule.

  She had a better chance of winning the lottery than a relationship with Adam had of surviving the total devotion she gave to serious training.

  She yawned. "I've got to get home before I fall asleep right here." She rolled to one side, ready to start the awkward and sometimes painful process of getting to her feet. Adam caught her under her arms and lifted her.

  Grateful for his help, yet resenting its implication that she was helpless, Stell let him stand her on her feet. Waiting while he gathered the blanket, ice chest, and their unused jackets, she found herself wishing she didn't have her car. Right now she wanted to be with him. Not alone.

  Yet she needed to be alone. She was tired. Her leg ached. She was suffering residual depression. She was finding it more and more difficult to be at the velodrome and not race. Seeing women she knew she could outride winning right and left was getting to her. She also begrudged them the points that should have been hers. If she didn't get back on her bike soon, she wouldn't even be a candidate for the Sawtooth Classic team next year.

  Chapter Six

  CHECKPOINT: a point in a race route which riders must pass (may be for time, distance or both)

  "It's not getting better, Carl. Sometimes I think it's getting worse." Stell clenched her fists, as if doing so would hold back the tears threatening to well up.

  "Let's see." The P.T. gestured her onto the table, touched her leg here and there. He directed her to move it, twist it into positions that were uncomfortable or, worse, still impossible. After a few moments' examination, he nodded. "You've been overdoing it again, haven't you?"

  "No. Well, only a little," she admitted when he frowned at her first answer. "I've been doing the exercises you gave me every day instead of every other day, and some other things, besides. But they don't hurt. Honest."

  "Operating on the assumption that if some is good, more is better. Right?"

  She nodded, wondering why he looked so grim.

  "Stell, you're right. Your hip is getting worse. And so's your ankle, but that we can take care of pretty easily. I'll just put it into a brace, too." He reached for a pen. "Your insurance should cover most of the cost of this orthotic," he continued, writing rapidly. "But even if it doesn't, it's not too expensive."

  Cold fear held her flat on the examining table. "You're trying to scare me, aren't you Carl?" She grabbed his arm. "I'm not really worse, am I?" But she knew he was telling the truth. The pain in her hip had become constant, not intermittent as it had been, easily attributed to overuse.

  "I'll make you an appointment with Dr. Pauvel, if you don't trust my word." His tone was strained. Stell knew Carl was proud of his professional ability and regretted her implication that he had erred.

  "No. No, you don't need to do that. I believe you. It was just that...well, I didn't want to...."

  "No one ever does," he said. "Look, Stell, people aren't machines. You can't work a muscle constantly and not give it any rest." He grinned. "As a matter of fact, you can't work a machine that way either. You've got to stop it for maintenance every so often." As he spoke, he was massaging her leg, working his knowing fingers along the muscles and tendons, bringing relaxation and alleviation of pain.

  "I don't think you've done any permanent damage, beyond what your accident did, of course, but we'll have to wait and see. But you've got to be patient. Soft tissues just don't heal overnight."

  She listened--really listened--as he carefully reviewed the extent of her injuries and reiterated her course of therapy. When he warned her again that she was going to have to be patient, she drew a deep breath. Patience had never been her greatest virtue. The deadline she'd given herself to be back on her bicycle was next week. She knew she'd never be able to ride that soon. Dare she wait another month? Would her enormous points lead be enough to last through a summer when all the other contenders for the Superbe Products team were out there racing? As it was, she'd have to race every weekend all fall and winter, just to catch up.

  "If you keep overdoing your exercises, I guarantee you'll never race again. As it is, I'm making no promises."

  * * * *

  Vowing to be good and doing it were two different things, Stell decided Tuesday morning. The few exercises Carl was allowing her to do daily seemed too easy. She hardly felt her leg working at all. S
he was losing all her muscle tone. By the time she got back on the bike, she'd have to start all over.

  She put the dumbbells down after only a few arm curls. What was the use? If her legs were out of shape, her upper body didn't matter.

  She wandered into the kitchen, conscious of a vague gnawing in her middle. The bowl of fruit on the counter didn't look appetizing, but she took a few grapes anyway.

  If only it would stop raining. This was the wettest year she could remember. The gray days and constant sounds of dripping trees were beginning to get to her.

  Maybe she should call Cindy. They could have lunch together, steal a couple of hours to shop. No, Cindy had said she would be tied up in an audit all week.

  She opened the refrigerator, looking for a seltzer. There were none, but there was a can of Coke Classic hiding behind the milk. That sounded good. Caffeine and sugar together. Just what she needed to stimulate her dragging body.

  Maybe she should thaw something out for supper. She was getting tired of frozen entrees. Pawing through the freezer, she found a pint of Haagen Daz. Chocolate chocolate chip was her favorite flavor. Just a spoonful wouldn't ruin her appetite for lunch.

  What she should really be doing was setting up the accounts for Cards and Letters, her newest client. The little stationery store was already three months into its fiscal year and nothing had been done. Its owner-manager, Catherine Greene, had been ill and her sister, though competent to keep the shop open, hadn't known where to begin on the books.

  Tossing the empty ice cream carton into the trash, Stell stuck her head into the pantry. Tomato soup and a tuna sandwich sounded good for lunch. With potato chips.

  The only good thing about not being in training was that she could pretty much eat what she wanted, could indulge her sweet tooth and her craving for salty, fatty foods.

  She ate another handful of grapes as the soup heated. Maybe she'd just take today off, watch a little afternoon TV, and work tomorrow. She might even make a batch of peanut butter cookies, something she hadn't done for years. And she could turn the phone bell off, let the answering machine handle her calls. Her clients weren't the sort to have accounting emergencies.

  * * * *

  "Oh, go away," Stell muttered to whoever was leaning on her doorbell. What was the matter with him anyway? If she didn't answer her door, he should assume she didn't want company. She slipped the earphones over her head, returned her attention to "Cinderella."

  She didn't hear him enter. She hardly saw him, because her vision was streaked with tears as two little mice gallantly climbed endless stairs with a key bigger than they were. It was only when two long legs planted themselves between her and the screen that she noticed her visitor.

  She set the almost empty popcorn bowl on the floor and pushed the stop button on the VCR control.

  "Where the hell have you been?" Adam demanded, loudly enough that she heard him well through the earphones. "I've been calling you for three days."

  "I haven't been out of the house," she said, "since day before yesterday. And then I was only gone for about a half-hour." She definitely wasn't glad to see him. In fact, she resented his presence, almost enough to tell him to get lost.

  "Why haven't you answered your phone, then?"

  "It's my phone. I can decide whether or not to answer it." Even to herself, she sounded petulant. She didn't care. She didn't care about much of anything. "What do you want?"

  "I came to see if you were all right." He was still standing between her and the TV.

  She wished he'd move, so she could turn the VCR back on. "I'm fine." She looked pointedly at the control in her hand, hoping he'd take the hint.

  "Turn that damn thing off." Adam snatched the control out of her hand and aimed it across the room. All the lights on the VCR went out. "And get rid of those, too. I want to talk to you."

  With reluctance, Stell pulled the earphones from her head. "So talk." She waited for him to sit on the sofa, but he remained standing. "Wait a minute! How'd you get in here?"

  "I came through the back door. It was unlocked. In fact, it was ajar."

  "I wondered where the draft was coming from," she said, remembering how cold her feet had gotten last evening when the wind was from the east, but it was too much trouble to look. She'd been right in the middle of "National Velvet" and had pulled up the afghan instead of seeking the source of cold air.

  Adam towered over her, his eyes travelling around the room. "How long have you been holed up in here, Stell?"

  She looked where he was looking and saw the tray full of dirty dishes, the empty potato chip and pretzel bags. At least she'd taken the pizza box and the Chinese take-out cartons into the kitchen yesterday. "I don't know. What day is it?"

  "It's Friday, and we have a date."

  "We do?" Strange. She couldn't remember agreeing to go out with him again. He was an old poop, too serious for fun and games.

  "We do. I've got tickets for a chamber music concert at Reed College. You'll enjoy it."

  On short notice, Stell couldn't think of anything she'd enjoy less. But that was all right. She wasn't going anyway.

  "Come on." He grabbed her hands and started to pull her to her feet. "Hit the shower."

  She twisted free and flopped back into her chair. "I'm not going anywhere. Just go away and leave me alone." To her surprise she felt a stinging behind her eyes.

  Adam stood very still, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her. For a moment he was tempted to walk away and leave her alone in her self-pity. Instead he knelt beside her. Taking her chin in one hand, he forced her to look at him.

  She was a mess! Her usually crisply waving hair was matted flat against her head, as if she had neither washed nor combed it for days. Her eyes were red and swollen, but he attributed that to the sentimental schlock she'd been watching. There were stains on her sweatshirt and crumbs on the floor around her chair.

  From all the evidence, she'd been on an eating binge. Junk food. Refined sugars and fats. Items not exactly forbidden to an athlete in training, but definitely to be taken in moderate amounts.

  He knew the symptoms. He even thought he knew the cause.

  "Your P.T. gave you some bad news, didn't he?"

  Her chin trembled. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. One lonely tear made a new track down her cheek as she stared back at him.

  "Tell me, Stell. What did he say?"

  "I'm worse," she whispered. "My hip. It's not healing. The tissues are still swollen and in spasm."

  Gently he wiped the new tears away with his thumb. "Did he say why?"

  She nodded, biting her lip. "I...I overdid it." A convulsive shudder went through her. "He says I pushed it too hard and made it worse. He says...oh, Adam, he says I won't be riding for weeks yet."

  "Of course you won't! What gave you the idea you'd be able to?" God! He'd like to punch out the idiot who'd given her false hopes. He knew, almost to a day, how many weeks an injury like hers took to heal. He'd been there.

  "I thought..." She faltered, cleared her throat. "I thought he was being too conservative. I'm not a wimp. I can exercise a lot more strenuously than he had me doing." Wiping her arm across her eyes, she sat up straighter. "So I did. And I made it worse."

  Adam gathered her into his arms, lifted her, and sat in the chair she had occupied. Once she was draped across his lap and nestled against his chest, he said, "How much worse?" He hoped she hadn't permanently crippled herself. Even if she had to give up racing, it had been too much a part of her life for too long for her to give up cycling entirely. She needed to have time to adjust, physically and emotionally, to her loss.

  "He didn't want to say. He wants me to take things really easy for a couple of weeks. Then if the swelling and the muscle spasms haven't decreased, he'll send me back to Dr. Pauvel."

  A deep sigh blew warm breath against his neck, making Adam shiver.

  "Until then, all I can do is one set of exercises every other day, and those only the ones that don't inv
olve the hip." Again the tremble in her voice caught at his heart. "By the time I'm back in shape, it'll be too late to get into training. I'll lose a whole year."

  He heard, and understood, the desperation in her voice. That first winter after his return to Portland, he'd fought the same battle. No matter what deprived an athlete of his sport, his passion, the results were the same.

  Denial. Depression.

  Stell had denied her loss by over-exercising. Now she was losing hope. The binge eating was a classic symptom of depression. He'd gone through a lot of beer at the same stage in his life.

  The odds of her resigning herself to a life without cycling were slim to none. She was even more obsessive than he'd ever been, and she didn't have something like KIWANDA OuterWear to rechannel her passion into.

  He was beginning to realize that it was very important to him that Stell be able to deal with her situation. He wanted her emotionally whole.

  He wanted her, period.

  Years ago Adam had deliberately chosen to be an ant. He forsook the delights of a grasshopper existence, with its emotional highs, its screaming triumphs, and the adulation of fans. When duty called, he'd answered. Now he could share what he'd learned with Stell, show her how to redirect her obsession into constructive channels. With luck she'd give her passion to him instead of to sports.

  Standing up, he set her on her feet. "Hit the shower," he said again. He swatted her bottom gently.

  "I told you. I'm not going anywhere."

  "Stell, you're going to shower if I have to carry you in there and wash you myself. Now scoot."

  "You wouldn't." But the look she gave him showed her doubt.

  "Try me."

  She bit her lip, staring up at him. Even with her unwashed hair and puffy eyes, she appealed to him. The niggling fear Adam had been shoving to the back of his mind for the past week or two resurfaced. He was teetering on the verge of falling in love with Stell McCray.

  It could be the worst mistake he'd ever made.

  Unless she could make the difficult adjustment to a life without competitive sports, he was setting himself up for a broken heart.