by Kara Isaac
“Peter Carlisle. I’ve had a call from Sergeant Grant.”
The flicker of recognition turned into a mental connection. “Ah, you’re the brother. I’ll just get the sarge for you.”
Peter drummed his fingers on the front desk as the constable disappeared through the door behind him. In a few seconds, he returned with Sergeant Mark Grant behind him. His friend opened the partition off to the side and let him through. Mark looked weary, annoyed, which was to be expected.
No point wasting any time. “What was it this time?”
Mark strode ahead of him through the bowels of the station. “The usual. Drunk and disorderly. Urinating in a public place as a bonus.”
Classy, his brother. Peter glanced at his watch. “It’s barely lunchtime.” He’d only last seen Victor a few hours ago at training. They still had the second session of the day this evening. What on earth was wrong with him?
“We picked him up at ten. I gave him a couple of hours to dry out before I even called.”
A sigh escaped him. “Thanks, Mark. I really appreciate it.”
His friend studied him with a somber face. “He’s got to sort it out, Pete. And I mean soon. This is the third time this month. At this rate, it’s only a matter of time before he’s going to get charged with something. And when that happens, there’s no special favors. He’ll get exactly the same as anyone else.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll talk to him.” Like Victor would listen. But what else could he do? His brother’s wild ways were already breaking his parents’ hearts, and they didn’t even know the half of it.
“You ever think that you might be making it worse by constantly rescuing him?”
Well, it clearly wasn’t making it any better. “What happens if I don’t? If you call me and I don’t come, then what?”
Mark shrugged. “Depends on the situation. But maybe it’s time to let him find out.”
And take the risk that the papers would get wind of the fact that the future Viscount Downley spent half his life sobering up in the slammer? No thanks.
Victor would be off the squad for sure if Sean had any idea what he got up to. Even if the race was only weeks away. The head coach had no tolerance for stuff like this and there were plenty of reserve rowers desperate for Victor’s spot. Who wanted it more, deserved it more. Which would be a relief for Peter. Not having his brother rub it in his face every day that he was living his dream. So why did he keep on saving him? Most of the time he didn’t even know.
“Think about it, okay?” Without waiting for Peter’s response, Mark nodded to the copper at the entry to the cells and pulled out his keys as they went in. The stench of urine, vomit, and body odor hit Peter like a wall. Why anyone would put themselves on a path that led to getting locked in here more than once was beyond him.
In the end cell, his brother lay on the rudimentary bed, hands tucked under his head, staring up at the ceiling. He looked as relaxed as if he were enjoying an afternoon on a lounge chair in the Bahamas.
Mark gave the bars a shake. “Time to go, sunshine.”
Victor rolled over, his expression revealing nothing when he saw the two of them. Pushing himself up, he stood and waited for Mark to unlock the door and swing it open. “Excellent hospitality as always, Sergeant. See you next time.”
“There isn’t going to be a next time.” Peter quashed the desire to push his brother behind the bars and tell Mark to lock him back up.
Victor cocked an eyebrow at Peter. “Says who? The fun police?”
“You are such a pillock.”
“Look, little brother. No one made you come here to get me. Lord knows I certainly didn’t ask to see your smug, sanctimonious mug. If you want me to grovel with gratitude for your liberating me again, then like I’ve already told you, you’re going to be waiting a long time.”
“You’ve got five seconds to get out of my cells or I’ll arrest you myself.” Mark intervened before Peter lost his cool and did something that would put him where Victor had just been.
“Sorry, officer.” Victor gave Mark a mock salute.
Striding out of the cells, past the station traffic, Mark led them back out into the main entryway. And closed the gate behind them
“No lecture this time?” Victor tossed the question at Mark.
The bobby crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I’m done lecturing. I’ve got better things to do with my time. Let’s be clear, Victor. I don’t care what our family connections are. I will arrest you if you keep on this track. That will give our mothers something to talk about at bridge.”
For a second, Peter saw something flicker across Victor’s face that cut through his insolent, smug expression. But then it was gone, and the usual mask fell back into place before he could work out what that expression even was.
“Oh, look at that.” Victor checked his watch. “Perfect timing. I’ve got to check in with the professor at two. She’s always happy to see me.”
Only Victor could manage to be a full-time drunkard, genius scholar, and top-level rower. Peter should’ve just left him in jail. Let him see what it felt like to be on the losing side for once.
Thirteen
THE DAY OF THE BOAT Race. You’d have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind if you were within five miles of the Thames and didn’t know about the famous rowing race.
Emelia tugged her Oxford-dark-blue sweater down and peered at her fitted jeans tucked into her brown leather boots. She’d spent a decent chunk of the morning trying to work out what one wore to a rowing race. In London. And had landed on this. Only to show up at the river’s edge and discover that it really didn’t matter. The entire spectrum was there, from men in suits to women in yoga gear.
“You cannot be serious!” Emelia turned to where Allie was pointing a finger at Jackson. Who, at some point, without either of them noticing, had draped his neck with a scarf in Cambridge light blue.
Jackson smirked at his fiancée as she tugged at her opposing dark blue scarf. “It’s a win-win. No matter what happens, at least one of us will be victorious.”
“If Cambridge wins, I’ll choke you with it.” Emelia raised an eyebrow. For someone who had been at Oxford all of six months, Allie had certainly drunk the Kool-Aid.
So much, in fact, that they had been there hours early to stake out a prime spot on the Thames bank by the finish line. At least England had finally gotten into the swing of spring and the skies were blue and the sun shining.
Emelia patted her phone in her pocket, confirming it was still there. Over the last couple of weeks she’d exchanged a few sporadic emails and phone calls with Peter about the fund-raising idea. All very professional and aboveboard. He was clearly very busy with the team and absorbed with race preparation. The distance had her half-convinced that she’d overblown the attraction that she’d felt between them.
Though not even that had prevented her stomach knotting itself up when she’d texted him an hour ago, wishing him luck, despite the talk she’d given herself about how he probably wasn’t even near his phone. She probably wouldn’t even see him today. He had much more important things to be doing than responding to her lame message, but she still couldn’t help but check her screen every time a phone went off. Which was often, since she was surrounded by a crowd of people.
Emelia glanced over her shoulder to see that Allie had her grip on Jackson’s scarf, holding on to its ends as she tugged him down for a kiss. That was what she got for agreeing to be the third wheel.
A helicopter buzzed overhead. The hum of the crowd seemed to get louder as the minutes counted down to the start. The women’s race had already happened, followed by the men’s reserve crews.
The banks of the river were awash with people in the two shades of blue. According to the news reports, they were expecting over two hundred and fifty thousand in the crowd along the course. Another fifteen million would be watching it on TV. It was like the British version of the Rose Bowl. She’d had no idea this would be
so huge. And to think that Peter was in the middle of it all.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out, her breath stalling as she saw his name on the screen.
Thanks. Thanks for being here.
She read the message once, twice.
“What are you smiling at?” Allie had curiosity written all over her face.
“Oh, nothing.” She tried to slide her phone back into her pocket subtly, but her roommate’s eyes missed nothing.
“If that was nothing, I’d love to see something.”
Thankfully Emelia was saved from having to reply by another helicopter roaring right overhead.
It was stupid, whatever it was. She’d come to England to reinvent herself, to make amends for what she’d done. The last thing she needed was a relationship. Not with Peter. Especially not with Peter. Instinct told her that he wasn’t a guy who went into something lightly. The idea of dating someone just for a bit of fun wouldn’t even be on his radar.
Not that it was on hers, but it was all she had to offer.
Which made a text that made her wistful a big problem. As big as the strapping guy who’d sent it.
“They’re coming down.” Emelia craned her neck to look at one of the big screens nearby. They’d been erected along the river’s banks especially for the race. Sure enough, the cameras panned across the cox of the Oxford team leading the dark blues down to the water.
Emelia’s heart thumped against her rib cage. She didn’t know a single guy on either side, with the exception of one ginger-headed assistant coach, but suddenly she felt like she was as invested as anyone.
She craned her neck back up at the screen again. It showed the two teams maneuvering at the start line, both coxes’ hands in the air to show the umpire they weren’t ready to start.
The commentators droned on about each athlete in each boat, reeling off height, weight, and rowing lineage. Emelia stopped listening and focused on the boats bobbing in the current. The race was meant to start when both coxes’ hands were down, signaling their boat was ready. But the two seemed to be playing some kind of game of rowing Ping-Pong, one dropping his hand, only for the other to shoot his up. A few more seconds passed, the crowds growing silent as they waited for the two boats to finally be ready.
The Cambridge cox dropped his hand but the Oxford one remained upright.
Finally, his hand dropped.
“Attention, go!” The umpire wasn’t wasting any time.
Both boats surged forward, all sixteen men pulling their oars in perfect unison. Forward and back, forward and back. The boats leapt, accelerating swiftly.
Emelia was peering through her fingers without even realizing it. How was she going to survive this for another sixteen or so minutes? Oxford had a nose in front, then Cambridge. The slight coxes yelled instructions through their headsets, hands on the rudders. Oxford managed to get maybe a quarter of a boat length ahead.
“C’mon, Oxford!” Allie’s yell ripped through Emelia’s right eardrum. She sure had a lot of volume for such a small person.
Emelia watched, her heart trying to break out of her sternum, as the Cambridge crew drew back even. Then Oxford managed to get a slight lead back in the first bend.
She kept her eyes glued on the screen as the crews approached Hammersmith Bridge. The perfect synchronization of the oars, the bodies in motion. The crowd roared as the boats swept along the course, coxes screaming, the rowers’ bodies flexing and straining. She’d never seen anything like it before.
The boys almost tumbled out of the boat as it pulled up to the riverbank. The buzz of adrenaline and euphoria saturated the air.
“Good work.” Peter hugged crew member after crew member, clapping backs, shaking hands, rubbing heads.
He should have been as euphoric as everyone else but it all felt a bit hollow. He pasted on a broad smile, forcing himself to pretend he wouldn’t have given anything to be one of the guys in the boat, stroking their way to victory, instead of just a bystander, a glorified water boy.
It killed him even more that his brother had been in the boat. And he hated himself for having the fleeting thought, more than once, that if they lost it would be good that Victor would know what it felt like, for once, to taste defeat. Never mind the other seven rowers and cox in the boat, who would be utterly heartbroken.
“Great work, Grant.” He clasped hands with their slight cox, towering over him.
“You too, Coach.”
He hadn’t done anything. This day had no more to do with him than if he’d been standing on the banks of the Thames as an average-joe spectator.
“Bunny!” His brother’s voice boomed in his ear, one of his hands slapping him on his bad shoulder. Peter tried to cover up a grimace as pain radiated out from his brother’s palm print.
Peter turned his head and braced himself for his brother’s usual smug smirk. Victor’s hair was wet from the combination of the Thames and the magnum of champagne that had already been sprayed over the team. His brother grinned at him, for once no hint of cynicism or loathing in his expression. Just unrestrained joy. Even his scar seemed to fade into the background.
“Congratulations. It was a great race. You earned it.” Peter found himself actually meaning the words. Maybe this could be a turning point. Maybe they could finally leave the animosity between them in the past.
“Tough luck you’ll never know what it feels like again.” His brother gave him another whack on his shoulder, as if to underscore his point, and just like that the magic was gone.
Before Peter could even conjure up a response, some curvy brunette was hanging off his brother’s arm, and Victor’s attention had shifted.
Whatever joy he’d had in the win evaporated, and Peter left the boys to their celebrations. Busying himself supervising the removal of the boat from the water, he tried to ignore the press pack still swarming around, snapping photos from every conceivable angle.
He stayed as far away from them as possible. More than a few requests for interviews with him and Victor had come in since the Blue Boat lineup was named. All of them framing their story as some variation of a human-interest piece on “passing the torch” from the tragic injured Olympic hopeful to the rowing-prodigy brother who hadn’t so much as picked up an oar in his life until he’d decided to try out for the team. Uncharacteristically, Victor had been no more interested in the attention than Peter. Declining every single overture was the first and last thing they’d agreed on in years.
Exhaustion seeped through him. The Boat Race was over. The thing that had driven him to get out of bed every morning for the last six months was done. Tomorrow morning he’d wake up and there’d be no training to go to. No drills to oversee. No tactics to strategize. The boys would go back to what they were ostensibly here for—academics, prepping for exams—and he would be left with a few beginning rowing courses that he could teach with both hands tied behind his back. At least he still had the fund-raising for SpringBoard to keep him going while he waited to hear back on the latest scans of his shoulder.
“Did no one tell you you won?” Emelia’s voice came from behind him. He turned to see her standing about six feet away. One of her hands held her hair off her face. She wore a navy sweater for Oxford.
“The boys won. Not me.”
Emelia sized him up with a long look. “I may not know much about rowing, but even I know that Sean Bowden doesn’t have anyone on his team out of charity.”
How did she . . . ?
Emelia smiled at his look of confusion. “Allie loaned me Blood over Water when I said I was coming. I’ve only just started though, so don’t expect too much.”
Peter tried not to read anything into the fact that she was reading his favorite book, about two brothers who rowed on opposing teams in the Boat Race one year. She probably wouldn’t even finish it now that the race was over.
Emelia pulled her hair into a pile on top of her head, took a hair tie from her wrist, and twisted it around the knot as she crosse
d the distance between them. “If you’re this sad over their win, I would hate to see you if they lost.”
He would never confess that there had been moments where he’d hoped for just that. So he wouldn’t be the puddle of failure in a sea of victory.
He tried to summon a smile. “I was just thinking it’s going to be weird waking up tomorrow. Without this.” The beginners’ courses he had lined up would keep the bills paid, but they weren’t exactly all-consuming like the Boat Race had been.
But then the plan had been that by now his shoulder would be ready to get back into some serious training. So much for that.
“Well, you don’t need to worry about that. I have plenty to keep you occupied.”
“Is that right?”
“While you’ve been busy in London, I’ve been busy with the spreadsheets and planning. How do you feel about origami swans? One of the schools SpringBoard works in is having an origami contest. Could get us a good profile. Now that you’ve got some time on your hands I thought we could put them to good use folding.”
Peter flexed his large hands, trying to imagine them transforming pieces of paper into birds. “Are you serious?”
She looked at him straight-faced, her head tilted, her hands tucked into the back pockets of her jeans. “It’s not a real contest without origami swans.”
He waited for her to give him some clue that she was joking, but she gave him nothing beyond big blue eyes and a Mona Lisa smile. It didn’t even matter. There was something about this girl that made him want to learn to fold ridiculous shapes out of pieces of paper if it would make her happy.
“Peter!” One of the staff gestured at him. Almost time to go and claim the trophy.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight. To talk about the swans?”
Emelia sent him a smile that made him feel like he was trying to breathe underwater. “Wouldn’t miss it for anything.”