Gold Medal Hero

by Jena Petrie

  "I know that, Connor, and I'll ring every night."

  A frown. "Not the same and you know it."

  "I've got a feeling about this article. A good feeling. Perhaps it'll be the one to get me accepted as a regular contributor to a magazine."

  "And how many times have you said that?" Snatching his bag, he left the room.

  Blast.

  Neither spoke as they started the meal, creating a tension she didn't need. "You know I've been frustrated about the job situation," she began, accidently dropping her cutlery and cringing as it clanged down on the plate. "Can't you imagine how lonely you'd be if I hadn't moved north? Or did you have someone else in mind for that eventuality?"

  "Don't be ridiculous. You know that's not right."

  "Then it would be good if you were grateful that I moved instead of criticizing me for not going to Nationals. And don't forget I supported you at the Hamilton regatta." Pushing back her chair she marched to the kitchen, grabbed the glass of water she always gave him with his meal, and dumped it on the table in front of him. For a split second before she sat, their fingers touched, their gazes met.

  "I am glad you moved. Glad you attended that regatta, and I'm counting on you to be at every one this season, including the Sherdon regatta the weekend after this. But I can't hide the fact that I'll always be disappointed you're not coming to Nationals. Any chance you'd change your mind or is it set in stone?"

  "I've confirmed the interview, booked accommodation and arranged for the article to be viewed by an editor as soon as it's written, with a probable sale. So yes, it is set in stone."

  Cutlery clattered onto the table as he leaned back in his chair, his eyes huge and his mouth open in shock. "This really is the one?"

  "Remember my newspaper article? I sent it to this magazine for the editor's perusal and she liked my style. It's not definite, but a sale looks promising."

  "Oh, Bailey, that's..." His shoulders sagged, as if he'd given up on a dream in favour of hers. Highly unlikely, of course. "That's awesome." Standing, he came around to her side of the table and kissed her forehead. "Good luck with it, babe."

  "Thanks." But the word almost stuck in her throat. Had he really given in? It seemed too quick, too easy and too smooth, especially after his hasty departure this morning.

  "I don't suppose you realize, but attending Nationals would be really hard for me. My old crew will be there complete with replacement cox, while no rowing club in this district has had a vacancy for me." She shook her head. "That and having no job has even made me question if I did the right thing in moving." Her voice had wobbled towards the end of that statement but really, the things she'd given up for him!

  Connor had resumed the meal but stopped abruptly at her tone. Now deep grey eyes stared at her across the table; so different from their usual soft, warm shade. "You must have made friends within your old club. Why wouldn't you want to catch up with them?"

  "They were only rowing mates. Nothing more."

  "Yet they applauded you for the organization of your club's anniversary dinner."

  "Doesn't make them friends. Anyway, I'm not involved in the club any more; not even rowing, so I really have nothing in common with them."

  "I see." Although he picked up his cutlery he didn't resume the meal, chewing his lip instead as if something still puzzled him. But not till he'd gulped his water did it finally come out.

  "My club captain contacted me a while ago, asked if I'd be interested in rowing the octuple at Nationals. He assured me they could get another seven guys..." His gaze on her face looked so serious, so sad, goose bumps broke out on her body.

  The octuple? The eight that had been modified for sculling?

  "Only he didn't have a cox so I suggested you. Thought you might enjoy coxing a big boat again, especially at that regatta and in a race we'll have a good chance of winning. There aren't many sculling eights in the country, let alone in that race."

  Another long-held dream gone west. A dream of coxing Connor's boat; another of her on the podium receiving a coveted medal. Gold, perhaps.

  Jeez, any medal would do, since she hadn't earned one yet. Gold at Nationals would be an awesome way to start.

  Instead, here she was with three goals, two on offer in one go, yet she couldn't accept either. Inadvertently, she'd sacrificed both for the opportunity of achieving the third.

  CHAPTER 17

  Bailey stood back and surveyed the spare room now she'd rearranged the office. Looked good, with her new printer at arm's reach of the computer chair and an empty file tray just waiting to be used. Gathering the freshly-printed pages she sat and re-read her article on the limestone caves.

  Satisfied, she rolled the papers and placed them carefully in her bag, changed into good clothes and headed for the city. Connor had no idea how much effort she'd put into finding a job but it was time to step up the campaign. High time she let him know she intended to stay. Who wouldn't, in her situation? Connor was the only guy she'd ever allow close enough to obliterate her fears.

  An hour later she walked into the Hamilton office, her chin up but her confidence waning by the second. No-one here knew her or had even heard her name so what chance did she have of being offered a job with this city newspaper? It wasn't even as if she'd brought any real evidence to prove herself worthy and her last boss's reference stated nothing out of the ordinary.

  The editor-in-chief of the Hamilton paper, when she finally stood in front of him, appeared very different from his counterpart in Sherdon and Big Bad John in Mosgiel. Craig McConnell had a much slighter and taller build than either of the others and his erect frame commanded automatic respect.

  "I'm here for a couple of reasons," Bailey explained as she settled into the chair he indicated. "I've written a travel article—"

  "We have a travel editor. He's the person you should see, not me." Craig's head swivelled back to his computer.

  "I'm also looking for work as a reporter, preferably in Sherdon since that's where I live."

  Slowly the head turned back, intense hazel eyes studying her face and she rushed on before he had time to interrupt again.

  "That's what I did in Mosgiel before I moved; worked as reporter for the Mosgiel Gazette and I've got a reference here from the Chief Editor. I've also written a human interest article that sold to all the major newspapers in the country and was published just before Christmas. It was on Connor Freeman, the Olympi—"

  "I know who he is. Did you interview him?"

  "Yes. Initially at a local school for the Gazette and later at length for my freelance article."

  Something must have attracted his attention because he sat back in his chair, forearms on the desk and a pen held delicately between his two index fingers.

  A flip of her stomach made her pause before extracting the rolled-up papers from her bag. "I also visited Mt Cook recently and wrote a travel article on the place. Sold it to the Auckland newspaper."

  The pen clattered onto his desk and she flashed a smile as she retrieved her papers. "This travel article's on the Waitomo Caves. Probably too close to home to be of interest to you but I thought you might like to read it, to judge my writing for yourself."

  Thank God, Craig held out his hand and she passed the papers over. Her clammy fingers had better not have left marks. "My CV and reference are there as well."

  Not a single muscle in his face moved while he scanned the contents, his face still deadpan when he looked up.

  He'd been bored. Oh, well, at least she'd tried.

  "Have you approached the editor of the Sherdon paper for work?"

  "Yes. Nothing doing there."

  "Not here, either. Not in the reporting field. Done any selling? Of advertising? Advertising features? Anything like that?"

  "No."

  "That's all I might be able to offer. If the job's still vacant. Interested?"

  A man of few words, obviously; spoken ones, anyway. "Writing advertising features?" she ventured, as hope crept into her
voice.

  For answer he nodded, then lifted the phone on his desk, pressed a couple of buttons, and waited. "Got anyone for that job in Sherdon, yet?" Then a moment later: "Come in here, will you?"

  The moment Gareth Michaelmiss appeared, he looked her over, like a horse breeder, checking an animal he might buy.

  What a creep. Another Sleazeball Renton? God forbid.

  After reading the CV and article, Gareth threw them back onto the boss's desk and studied her again. "Live in Sherdon, do you?" and when she nodded he looked back at Craig.

  "No experience in selling," the boss explained, but Gareth only shrugged his broad shoulders.

  "You'll overcome that if you charm the clients," he told her, his tone implying she'd be best to sleep with any who didn't conform. "See me on your way out and we'll fix up the details," and finally, thank God, he walked out.

  "This travel article on Waitomo Caves," Craig said, passing the pages back. "Not quite as good as your first. You could improve it, I think."

  "You read the other?"

  "On-line, while you waited to see me," and he inclined his head towards his computer. "It's still there." Amazingly, he smiled. Not a full stretch of his lips, but a softening of them.

  A tall guy like him might have been a rower himself, when he was younger. Might be more sympathetic regarding her next request. "Would you be interested in articles on the local rowing regattas?"

  He'd picked up the pen as if to write on the paper in front of him but at her query he paused. "Have you written sports stories before?"

  "Just the news from my local rowing club in Mosgiel."

  This time, he raised his head and his voice, when he answered, sounded surprised. "You row, too?"

  "Cox."

  "Ah. That explains how your writing flowed so well in the article on Connor; you know the jargon. The writing wasn't forced. Or patronizing."

  Good God, he'd read that story too.

  But when his hands steepled over the desk, Bailey's stomach flipped. Had she gone too far? Sounded too needy? Overstayed her welcome?

  "There's a regatta this weekend, I believe. Sherdon District?"

  "Yes."

  "You can write an article if you like. No guarantee we'll publish it and we'll only pay if we do. Call it a trial run. Include the results plus a written account of anything special that happens. You know; photo finishes, a cox who's thrown in the lake after the race, significant injuries; all that. Think you can do it?"

  "I'd sure like to try."

  "Good, then email it in by 4 p.m. Sunday."

  "That's tight."

  "Then start writing at the regatta, as things happen." Again, he retrieved the pen. "If you want to improve as a reporter you'll have to get used to doing that." With a wave of his hand, he dismissed her.

  What a pain she still had to see Gareth again, and risk having her current excitement squashed.

  ***

  What was this? Bailey, singing? Not half bad, either. Connor peeked around the corner into the kitchen and grinned. Completely oblivious to her audience, she continued to grate cheese and keep up with the singer on the radio, right to the end of the song.

  Thank God, his happy genie was back!

  Her good mood crept under his skin and spread through every organ of his body. What a difference! Memories faded of the afternoon's crappy row. "Something happen?" He pulled the fridge door open for his usual bottle of water.

  "Good news and bad." The grating resumed.

  "Okay." Leaning a hip against the bench he downed his drink. "The bad first."

  "The city paper didn't want my article on the caves. Too close to home."

  "That's understandable. Thought you'd just send it straight to Dunedin after that compliment the editor made about your writing."

  "Oh, that didn't mean anything. No, I sent it to Auckland instead. Like the one on Mt Cook. Figured they liked that one, why not try another? Anyway," she added with a grin. "I have a new motto. Aim for the top, every time."

  "Good for you. Pick the idea up from anyone in particular?" A bunch of carrots lay on the chopping board and he grabbed one, and munched.

  "Hey, that was for dinner," but she laughed as she poured pasta into a bowl and added the cheese, her feet still bouncing in time to the radio's new song.

  Man, what a high! "And the good news?"

  "Got a job."

  At last. "Bailey!" Grabbing her from behind, he wrapped his arms around her and squeezed as he kissed her cheek. "That's fantastic!" Proof she intended to stay. Turning her to face him, he grabbed her around the waist, lifted her off the floor, kissed her again, and swung her around while she laughed. Couldn't be too worried about his stink from the sweat almost pouring off him but God, it was the best sound he'd heard in a long time and even better than her singing. Maybe she'd settle now, and they could get back to where they'd been.

  "Not much of a job," she explained when he put her down. "Better than this waiting around for something to happen though, searching on-line and finding nothing. Far, far better than cold calling so at last I can put a stop to that nightmare."

  "That's what you've been doing? Ha. At least it explains the frequent bad moods," and he dodged out of the way when she tried to trip him up. "So, the job's not reporting?"

  "Selling advertising and writing advertising features."

  "Selling?" He stepped away so he could study her face. Looked pretty normal. "You were never going to look for anything besides journalism."

  "No, but this is different. With the chance to write articles, even though they wouldn't be long, I decided the job would be worth accepting. Specially when it's in Sherdon, selling for the city paper."

  "Ah. A foot in the door?"

  And wasn't she pleased he'd guessed? Her gentle chuckle told him far more easily than words.

  "That's not the only news."

  At the doorway he stopped, turned back. Didn't she realize he needed a shower? Still, if she didn't care, he'd happily stay, watching her and listening to that soft voice. Lucky for cox'ns that microphones had been invented. "Go on."

  With hands on her hips emphasizing her gorgeous shape and a wide smile that would light a city during a power cut, she looked smart and sassy.

  "I have something to do this weekend, in between watching your races; reporting on the regatta for the city paper. Not necessarily sold, but a trial run, to see if I can write that sort of article. Good, huh?"

  Good? His euphoria vanished like a sinking anchor. What the hell was she thinking? "You won't have time to watch me row?"

  "Please." A pleading message in her tone, she touched his arm. "Don't always think the worst of me. Of course I'll watch your races, and the ones your mates are in, only I'll have a job to do as well. For that, I'll need to spend time wandering around and be on hand for anything newsworthy that crops up. You needn't worry the article will take precedence. It's only a trial run, after all."

  And another chance to prove herself as a good reporter. Of course she'd grabbed the opportunity.

  "There's something else."

  Something even worse; he'd bet a hundred bucks on it.

  "I've already checked with Jeff but are you okay with my going out with him tomorrow morning to take some action pictures? A trial, to see if my camera can capture the movements of a rowing crew as well as the vibrations of the boat. Rough water too, if it's windy. Provided the photos pass my criteria, I'd like to offer that service to the editor if he accepts me as a rowing reporter."

  "If you must," he growled, turning his back on her and stomping down the hall to the bathroom. Now she'd have it on visual record that Jeff didn't think he was up to being stroke. Behind him, the door banged shut. Sure, a job was important to her but these photos weren't essential. Why did her job always clash with his?

  He stepped into the shower and yanked the tap handle right out. But when the spray of water hit his chest, it felt soft, like a warm caress.

  Laughing bullfrogs, he still had his clot
hes on.

  ***

  Next morning Bailey slapped thick slices of roast beef on top of the cheese and lettuce she'd already put on the bread for Connor's sandwiches. In a minute he'd be out of the shower and while he ate she could check her photos. Of course there was no guarantee they'd be any good, especially considering the constant vibrations from the boat. Although minimal, they could make all the difference between a clear shot and a blurred one.

  It had been fun though, taking the photos, experimenting with different angles, zooming in for close-ups, then out again for more distant views.

  The crew rowed so well it had been an exciting challenge to capture the symmetry, their perfect posture and individual effort, so clear on each face.

  As soon as Connor started his snack she carried her laptop into the living room and downloaded the photos, then scrolled through them. On the whole, they were good. Some, very good, probably due to the almost calm water.

  Watching the slide show again she cast a brief critical gaze over each photo. Sure were plenty of them. Far more than she'd realized, but at least she had a wide selection to choose from for showing to Craig McConnell. He'd soon learn she could handle far more than writing simple advertising features and brief accounts of regattas.

  Just a damn shame Connor hadn’t been in stroke seat today. If he had, she'd have been happy to offer the photos to the newspaper for publication. Perhaps the regatta would offer some opportunities.

  Connor snagged her wrist when she walked past on her way to the kitchen to make coffee. "Photos any good?"

  "Only some. Like the ones of individuals." She pushed her lips together. "And some of blades." She nodded. "Some of knees. Oh, and hands, too."

  "Hands, huh." His own slipped down to grab hers. Squeezing, he held them up. "Photo?"

  She chuckled. "You want it, you take it."