Cycling Downhill: A Sweet Young Adult Romance (Love is a Triathlon Book 3)

by Chrissy Q Martin

  “No headache, dizziness, problems with vision?” Dylan asks.

  My head shakes slowly back and forth. “I don’t think I have a concussion. It’s just my hip.”

  “I’m glad I was nearby.”

  My hand rests on Dylan’s chest and I can feel his heart pounding hard. “You were keeping an eye on me.”

  “I told you I would.”

  I grip Dylan’s t-shirt in a fist and twist my face in pain. “I hope I’m better in two weeks.”

  “You’re tough,” Dylan says. “And even if you aren’t better, that’s okay. You don’t have to do the triathlon if you’re not up to it.”

  “But I owe you,” I say.

  “You don’t owe me anything.” Dylan speaks so low I nearly miss what he says.

  Paul’s truck drives up the empty road at us, and he leaps out after putting it in park. “I’ll get her,” Paul says, taking my hand and tugging me away from Dylan.

  “Careful!” Dylan scolds. “Don’t hurt her more.”

  “You can both help me.” My voice is huffy and they each take a side. I limp my way to Paul’s truck. I settle in the seat while Dylan and Paul place the bike in the back.

  When Paul gets in the driver’s seat, I notice his injury. “Your knee,” I say, and point at his right side. “You got hurt too. I’m sorry.” His knee looks like mine after the Spring Fling, a bloody mess. Paul wears shorts and his knee must have dragged across the pavement.

  “It’s fine,” Paul says, as he turns his truck around. “I’m more worried about you.”

  Dylan runs after the truck and disappears when Paul pulls in the driveway. He unloads the bike while I remain in the truck. A few minutes later, through the side mirror, I see Dylan pull his car into the driveway and exchange words with Paul. Neither boy looks happy and I don’t want to be bothered with this anymore. I’ve got enough bruises to deal with and don’t need the lingering emotional ones from them.

  Dylan opens my door. “I’ll take you home,” he says.

  “She’s already in my truck.” Paul stands behind Dylan, his hands in fists. “I can take her home.”

  I slowly slide out of the truck, and Dylan helps me. Using my left leg to support me, I lean against Dylan and point at Paul’s knee. “You need to take care of your knee. Dylan can drive me home.”

  “It’s fine,” Paul says as his face drops. “I can still take you.” Blood drips down his shin and he tries to hide it from my view.

  I reach out and grip Paul’s arm. “Go take care of your knee. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  Paul’s shoulders sag in defeat. “At least let me help you to the car and I’ll get your stuff.”

  I nod in agreement. Once I’m settled in the car and Dylan pulls out, I turn to him. He’s smirking.

  “Don’t gloat,” I say. “You didn’t win.”

  “I didn’t say anything.” Dylan keeps his face forward, but he hasn’t wiped the smirk off.

  “You two said enough,” I say. “And your face says it all. I’m not some bet to be won.”

  Dylan pinches his lips together and I lean my head on the headrest and close my eyes. I’m not the kind of girl to have two guys fight over her. It’s not a competition and I’m not a prize. Remembering something, I open my eyes, and extend out a hand. I click open the glove box, peer in, and slam it shut. I recline my head against the headrest again and close my eyes. I avoid looking at Dylan and try not to smile. I can imagine the look on his face, his satisfied mischievous grin. My bra is still in his glove box.

  When we get to my house, Dylan picks me up in his arms, and makes sure my good side is next to him. When he walks into the house, we’re greeted by Grandma Sparkle. She bustles over to us wearing a glittery blue and purple shirt.

  “Oh, dear!” Grandma exclaims and places a warm hand on my arm. “What happened?”

  “Ashley had a bike crash. She hurt her hip.” Dylan still holds me in his arms and walks into the living room as Grandma follows. He places me on the couch while Grandma watches him with wide eyes.

  “You must be Dylan,” Grandma Sparkle says when Dylan straightens up after placing me on the couch cushions.

  Dylan wrinkles his forehead. “Yes, ma’am.” He turns back to me. “Ice and pain meds?”

  I nod and Grandma takes over. “Which hip?” She sits on the edge of the couch next to me. After I answer she starts to tug down the waistband of my leggings.

  “Grandma!” I push her hand away.

  “I want to see what we’re dealing with.” Grandma pinches the waistband in her fingers.

  “Dylan.” I raise my eyebrows and look in Dylan’s direction to let Grandma know there’s a boy here and she’s pulling my pants down in front of him.

  Grandma tugs my waistband. “He’s seen you in a swimsuit, this isn’t any different. As long as you have underwear on, and I hope it’s not grannie panties.”

  “Turn around,” I say.

  Dylan obeys my command, and his body shakes in silent laughter.

  “Oh. Ow,” Grandma says. Her lips pucker after she gently lifts the waistband of my leggings to get a view of my injury. It’s quite the bruise, and rather large. It covers my hip area and runs down the outside of my upper thigh. Grandma puts the waistband of my leggings back in place. “Be back in a jiffy,” she says and grabs Dylan’s arm. “You can help me get the ice.” She tugs Dylan away before either of us can protest.

  I get set up with some ice packs and take a pain pill to relieve swelling.

  “I’m making brownies, Dylan,” Grandma says to him. “Can you stay for a little bit?”

  “I thought we were having girl time,” I say.

  Mom dropped Jacob off with Grandpa for the weekend and brought Grandma back with her. We’re going to have a girls’ night tonight and celebrate Mother’s Day tomorrow. Dylan takes a seat at my feet, ready to make himself comfortable for a stay.

  “It’s fine,” Grandma says, heading back to the kitchen. “We still have time. The boy deserves brownies for saving you, and your mom isn’t home yet.”

  “I like her,” Dylan says after Grandma leaves. “And how does she know my name? Have you been telling her about me?”

  I bump my foot into Dylan’s thigh. “Don’t flatter yourself. Nora told her about you.” My phone pings with a text.

  Paul: How are you doing?

  “Turner?” Dylan asks, a dark look on his face.

  “He’s just checking on me,” I reply. Dylan starts to say something, and I interrupt. “I don’t want to hear it. Don’t say anything.”

  “Dylan.” Grandma sings his name from the kitchen. “Could you come help me please?”

  After Dylan leaves, I text Paul back.

  Me: I’m fine. How are you?

  Paul: Cleaned up. It’s hardly a scratch

  I don’t believe him because I saw his knee.

  Paul: I’m sorry

  Me: I’m sorry. It was my fault

  Paul: Can we do something together soon?

  My heart pinches. It doesn’t hurt like it used to, but it still tries to shelter itself from any potential hurt. I type out a reply before I think too much.

  Me: Sure

  FORTY-THREE

  When I get to the pool a week later, on the next Saturday morning, Dylan isn’t the one I see. Paul’s in the water swimming laps. I sit on the deck of the lane next to him.

  “Hey, Ash,” Paul says when he stops at the end.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask.

  “No track meet or practice today,” Paul says. “I thought I’d swim this morning. You can share my lane with me.” He gestures to the lane he’s in and I hesitate for a second.

  I’m supposed to swim with Dylan, but I guess I can swim with Paul until he gets here. “Sure,” I say and slide over on the deck. I stuff my hair in the cap,
put my goggles on, and rather than my usual jump in, I slide in slow.

  Paul grimaces at the huge bruise on my hip. He hasn’t been able to see it all week, but in a swimsuit, the bruise is visible in all its ugly glory. “I’m so sorry. Are you feeling any better?” Paul asks.

  “It’s fine, hardly hurts.” I glance at my hip, just under the water surface. The bruise is an attractive shade of purple and green and as big as my hand. Our crash was a week ago. It looks worse than it feels. It’s the hidden scars and injuries, like a tiny paper cut or a broken heart, that hurt the worst. The things with visible bruises and scars, they don’t hurt as much. “How’s your injury?” I ask.

  Paul lifts his knee above the surface of the water. “Barely a scratch,” he says. It’s more than a scratch, but it’s healing and doesn’t look bad.

  “Have you been swimming long?” I ask.

  “Just a few minutes,” he replies. “Do you want to circle swim?”

  With only two of us in the lane, we could each take a side, or like we do on the team, we could swim in a circle by going down one side of the lane and returning on the other.

  “We can circle,” I say, and wonder if Dylan will get in the same lane with us.

  “You can lead,” Paul tells me.

  I smile at him before I dunk under the water and push off the wall. It feels good to glide through the water, to push against it and propel forward with each stroke. Taking the lead is what I’ve been doing lately, and I’ve finally taken charge of my life. Being friends with Dylan and Paul is a liberating feeling. I have more confidence in myself and I’m free to figure out who I can be, or what I want, or even who I want.

  After a warm-up, we rest in the shallow end by the wall. I check out the other lanes in the pool and don’t see Dylan. I almost forgot about him and wonder why he hasn’t shown up yet. He’s never late. I’m tempted to get out and check my phone, but Paul hands me a kickboard.

  “Your favorite, right?” Paul dazzles me with a rare smile. He knows kicking is one of my favorite swimming activities.

  I take the kickboard and his foot bumps mine in the water, a purposeful move. “You know me well,” I say.

  Paul steps closer to me. “Like how you’re ticklish here?” He reaches out and tickles my side, right above my hip bone.

  I laugh at the ticklish feeling and push his hand away playfully, but then I wince in pain when I brush my hand against my bruise.

  “Sorry,” Paul whispers. Our attempts at friendly flirting are rather cringe worthy.

  “If you weren’t such a nice guy and crashed yourself,” I say. “I’d almost think you were trying to take me out of competition for the triathlon.”

  “I’d like to take you out,” Paul says. “Like I used to.”

  I bite my lip and grip the kickboard. “Don’t forget our fresh start as friends.”

  Rather than circle swimming with the boards, we take a side and kick next to each other. Talking with Paul doesn’t feel as forced as it once did, it’s more natural now, even with the mention of him still wanting to go out with me. We talk about our project, things going on at home, and then he drops the water bomb.

  “I know you’ve been honest with me and I haven’t been with you,” Paul says.

  Saliva catches in my throat. “Oh.” This doesn’t feel comfortable any longer.

  “Bridgette kissed me.”

  “Oh.” I’m not too surprised with how she threatened me and has been after him. “Recently?” I ask.

  Paul shakes his head and drops of water fly off in an arch. “When we were dating.”

  I stop kicking for half a second, and then pick back up, my pace increasing to match my heart rate. Bridgette’s image is the one under my violent kicking. “When?” I can only spit out a one-word sentence now.

  “The weekend you went away to the college.” Paul darts a glance at me, and I see the uncertain look on his face through the corner of my eye. I keep my face still and forward. It all makes sense now. Paul was cagey when telling me about that weekend, and Dylan warned me Bridgette was at his house. It was after that weekend Paul said he wouldn’t be alone with Bridgette while dating me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me then?” My kicking slows, and exhaustion hits me like a freight truck. It’s like I’ve run a marathon and can see the finish line, but I can’t get there. We near the shallow end and Paul wraps a hand around my forearm. I stand on the bottom of the pool and face him. His hair is longer, and I know he’ll be getting a haircut soon. The splattering of freckles across his shoulders stand out against his pale skin when they’re wet.

  Those shoulders shrug. “For the same reason you didn’t tell me about the bet with him.”

  “Is that why you broke up with me?” I ask. He still won’t give me a straight answer.

  “It’s complicated.” Paul shakes his head and water droplets fall off him into the water. “I guess it’s one reason. She promised not to say anything to you, but when I didn’t kiss her at the Spring Fling, she threatened to tell you and I got scared. I felt guilty. It seemed I couldn’t make anything work or find a good solution.”

  “You could have told me,” I say. “I would have understood.” Dylan kissed me after I broke up with him, and I remember liking it for a second before I angrily pushed him away. I wasn’t going out with Paul at the time, and this feels more like Paul cheated on me. I have a feeling he didn’t tell me because he returned the kiss. “Did you kiss her back?” I ask.

  Paul’s hand remains on my arm and his fingers dance against my wet skin. “She doesn’t make me feel the way you do.”

  That’s not an answer. I take a deep breath, and with the tidal wave of emotions bearing down on me, I decide to stand strong. “Thanks for telling me.” I’m going to navigate the rapids of friendship with Paul before I decide which way to go. He needs to do the same. I dunk back into the water and Paul’s hand falls off me. I push off to kick some more laps. Paul doesn’t join me and when I’m halfway across the pool, I stop and turn back to him. “Come on.” I smile at him. “Come kick with me.”

  A relieved look covers Paul’s face and he hurries to catch up with me. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Can you forgive me?”

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised with the amount of drama in my life this year. Bridgette kissing Paul is just another sprinkle on my sundae of problems. “Yes,” I answer. “We’re friends. It’s water under the kickboard now.”

  “Do you want to come over later? You said you’d do something with me. As friends, of course.” It seems Paul adds the last part as an afterthought.

  I’d really like to hang out with Paul, as friends, but there’s something else nagging me. I don’t want him or me to be a friend like Bridgette. One who wants more and will do whatever to get that.

  “You should go out with Bridgette,” I say, and Paul crinkles his cute nose. “On a date.”

  “I don’t see her like that.”

  “Just see what it does. Maybe someone’s feelings will change,” I say. It should help Paul figure out where his feelings lie, with Bridgette or me, or elsewhere.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Paul says.

  “She’s not going to give up on more with you.”

  Paul’s eyes bore into me, drilling deep. “I know the feeling.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  I check my phone in the locker room after swimming with Paul. I’m still reeling from his admission, but there’s a text from Dylan. It looks like it came not long after I got in the pool.

  Dylan: Sorry. Something came up. Can’t swim today

  I text him back.

  Me: Everything ok?

  Dylan replies after a minute.

  Dylan: Yep. Plans changed

  Me: Can I see you now?

  Dylan: Aren’t you seeing Paul?

  I wrinkle my nose. Why is he asking abou
t Paul? Dylan knows we’re done with our project.

  Me: No. Can I come over?

  Dylan: Sure

  Me: You missed swimming. Be ready to run in 30 minutes

  Dylan is ready to run when I arrive at his house. He’s dressed in track pants and a t-shirt.

  “I missed you swimming,” I say, as we head to the paved path which circles the lake.

  “I’m sure you did fine without me.” Dylan seems a little grumpy. “How was it?”

  “It was okay,” I say. “Paul was there.”

  “He didn’t try to drown you today, did he?”

  “The bike crash was an accident and my fault,” I say.

  “Maybe you should’ve drowned him.” Dylan’s voice is rough and on edge.

  “Dylan.” I say his name in a scolding way.

  “I’m sorry.” He puffs air out his pursed lips. “Are you doing okay?”

  “I swam and now I’m running. I think I’ll live,” I say. We run next to the lake, and I enjoy it much more than running on an indoor track or a treadmill. Time passes faster when you have a variety of things to look at and a friend to talk to.

  “Is Turner doing the triathlon?” Dylan asks.

  “He’s doing it solo,” I say.

  “He’s probably happy he doesn’t have to compete against me. We’ve gone back and forth for years. I’m faster at swimming, but he’s usually faster at biking and running. Some years he wins, and some years I win.”

  “Guess you both get to win this year,” I comment. Paul could win in the individual male high school category and Dylan could win with me in the coed duo category.

  “We’ll see,” Dylan replies.

  We run around the lake and sit on a bench to rest. It’s another gorgeous day, warmer than normal and the sun is finally out. The grass is green, leaves are on the trees, and the water shimmers with the sunlight hitting it. Over Dylan’s shoulder I see someone on the walking path, headed our way. A sudden urge hits me.

  “Will you kiss me?” I ask Dylan.