by Hodgson, Jim
Table of Contents
HEARTS RACING
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
HEARTS RACING
JIM HODGSON
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
HEARTS RACING
Copyright©2015
JIM HODGSON
Cover Design by Melody A. Pond
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN: 978-1-61935-858-4
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is dedicated to
the sport and pastime of cycling
except for mixtes.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to Editor Garrett Marco and the rest of the Soul Mate Publishing crew, especially Cheryl who was so patient in helping me with the cover. Thanks to Jinx Strange of Dirge Magazine for getting the joke. Thanks to my family for supporting me, and Meghann Cantey for always laughing.
Chapter 1
Faith Racing forced herself to smile in her customary “Just got to the gym!” selfie, but it was happiness she didn’t feel. It was still cold for April, the sun bright on the gym’s front windows as she turned her key in the lock. The windows read “SQUAT TO BE HOT” in block letters.
Whoever ran the night classes hadn’t put the bosu balls back in their corner, so they dotted the front room of CrossFit Nouveau Lyon like a model of an alien solar system. She herded them with light kicks. The government officials didn’t like it when the gym was untidy, and she was on difficult ground already. Her eyes would threaten to sting if she thought about her brother, her family. So she didn’t.
Maybe she was tired. Overtrained? She couldn’t afford an injury. Must get more sleep. She checked herself out in a full-length mirror on the wall. Her flag pin winked from the headband of her black beret as she took it off. Her chestnut hair was shiny, and her body’s shape reflected the hours she spent working on it. But the skin under her eyes sagged, crossed with dark lines. That wouldn’t do. She had to be as cheerful as possible, the better to motivate her charges.
Outside, a flash of white: the New Lyon municipal cycling team. Fifty riders zipped down the street shoulder-to-shoulder, their uniforms and bikes gleaming. A coach rode alongside, shouting directions in French. They’d be going up against the New Orleans team soon, if Faith was remembering the news correctly. Lucky bastards. Their families probably ate all the time and didn’t have to steal food. None of them had to train their fascist French overlords how to do CrossFit.
She was really letting herself be negative this morning. Shake that off, girl. You’ve got responsibilities. Get busy. Write today’s workout. She looked up last night’s schedule. Jason. Jason was the bosu ball culprit. After writing up the workout she’d send him an email.
She hated being a boss. True, she and Jason were friends, but she was also technically his boss, which meant that sending him a reminder of procedure he should already know would make her feel, and probably sound, like a first-class bitch. But she couldn’t not send it. If she didn’t, Representative Barker would ask why she was letting him slide, and she wouldn’t have a good answer when it was time for her review. That would make him think they were sleeping together.
Ugh, the French. They thought everyone was sleeping together. Sometimes they encouraged it. Years ago, it was something you joked about. Now it wasn’t so funny. Nothing about the occupation was.
She wrote the WOD, or workout of the day, on the gigantic dry erase board that made up most of one of the gym’s walls. She started writing at her eye level, so she had to crouch a bit to complete the list: weighted pullups, sixty kettle bell swings, fifty situps, forty pushups, and a one-mile run. That ought to get their hearts racing.
She heard the front door open as it permitted the sounds of the city: cars rushing past, a distant siren. “Bonjour!” she called without going to see who it was.
Two voices called back, “Bonjour.” There was an odd note in the voices. Faith rose from her crouch then walked across the gym floor. “Is this some kind of joke?” one of them said, using the vaguely French pronunciation some people affected in order to seem more palatable to their new masters. That would have to be Barker.
When she walked into the front room, she found her local French business representative, Peter Barker standing with his superior Serge Fignon. Fignon was higher up the chain than Barker, having been born in France. They were both looking at the wall behind her, Barker’s face a mask of irritation. Fignon looked a bit more philosophical, like he’d seen a peculiar insect. Faith turned to look. There was the French flag, in all its . . . Oh god, no, she thought. Jason I am going to murder you!
“It’s not a problem!” she said, and then added in what she hoped was a decent accent, “Pas de problème!” She dragged a chair from her front desk to the wall. Someone had tacked her state-mandated French flag upside down, so that the colors were the red, white, and blue of the former United States of America, rather than the French bleu, blanc, and rouge. Jesus. Didn’t people know her family was on the line? She untacked the flag so it hung properly.
The French didn’t appreciate humor at their expense. They never had. They’d heard every joke about their performance in World War II and quietly buried those slings and arrows deep down, stoking the fires of their hate for all things non-French. Now that North America was under their boot, they weren't inclined to be taunted in any fashion.
“Mademoiselle Racing,” Barker said, taking a step forward as though to shield Fignon from her filthy American-ness. “Is this business a joke to you? Is your situation a joke?”
“No, Mr. Barker. I mean, Monsieur Barke
r. It’s not. Not at all. One of my employees—”
“But aren’t your employees your responsibility?” Barker said, cutting her off.
“Je suis désolé, they are, sir,”
“Well!” Barker seemed to lose disciplinary steam when she agreed with him and reverted to his usual jab in the end. “See that you control them better in the future, if you ever want to see those thieves you call a family again! This is New France, Madame!”
She registered that Barker had switched from his usual “Mademoiselle” to address her to the more formal “Madame.” He was trying to show Fignon he meant business. Her eyes threatened to sting again at the mention of her family. Sometimes she doubted she really would see them again. But no. She mustn’t think about it.
Fignon saved her. “Monsieur Barker, please, I am sure Mademoiselle Racing meant no offense. It is a small joke, nothing more.”
Barker snorted but took a half step back and straightened his workout clothes.
“Alors,” Fignon continued. “Shall we see today’s WOD?”
“Mais oui,” Faith said, gesturing toward the workout room. She’d have to be extra cheerful today. Extra charming. Barker would probably want to flirt with her, which was . . . gross. He’d be back to Mademoiselle soon enough. She’d rebuffed his advances a year ago. But if a few giggles here or there could save her family, who cared? As long as she could maintain her position here at the gym, everything would be okay.
Chapter 2
Buck Heart unclipped his feet from the pedals of his state-issued bicycle and braked to a stop near his soigneur, Georges LeMond, who stood in the doorway of the cycling facility. Any of the lesser riders, or domestiques, would have been yelled at for riding right through the open double doors, but as a star rider for the city of New Lyon, Buck could get away with it.
A former professional cyclist himself, LeMond was a lanky man with white hair and a towel over his shoulder. He served a perfect counterpoint for Coach Bernard, also known as The Wolverine. Where the Wolverine’s job was to goad and shout and tear riders down, LeMond’s job was to build them back up.
“How are you feeling?” LeMond asked.
“Not too bad. My kick feels okay, but I’ll definitely need a recovery ride tomorrow,” Buck said. He unzipped his jersey and removed his heart rate sensing strap from his torso.
LeMond motioned for one of the white-clad young women at the cycling stables to tend to Buck’s bike. She took it, handling it carefully lest she touch any of the controls that operated the gears. As she went, she threw a look over her shoulder at Buck. His jersey open, his chest and rippling abdominal muscles were in view, and his tight shorts showed he wasn’t lacking any development downstairs. She probably hoped to meet his eye before she rounded the corner, but Buck wasn’t paying much attention. He was looking intently at LeMond’s face.
Buck knew LeMond was going to ask him again how he felt, but in a different way.
“So, in your opinion,” LeMond said, “are you fully recovered from the crash?”
Buck had been caught in a huge crash three weeks previous at the New Lyon Criterium. One of the junior riders had gotten spooked in a high speed turn and grabbed a handful of his brakes, sending him skidding and crashing to the pavement. Buck did his best to avoid hitting the man, but his wheel clipped the downed bike’s handlebars and sent Buck flying. They both got up and limped to the finish, but afterward it was discovered that Buck had broken his collarbone and would need surgery. As New Lyon’s best hope against New Orleans, they bumped him to the front of the line for state-sponsored surgery and a whole team of surgeons pieced him back together. Even with the best facilities and doctors, three weeks was hardly enough time for a full recovery. Buck looked LeMond in the eye. “I’ll be ready for the race.” he said. He knew LeMond would smell bullshit in that answer. The man was too perceptive. Ask a direct question, get a sideways answer? Nope. But he had to try. For Buck, everything depended on his cycling. He didn't have any family to rely on. No business prospects. No higher education. He had to ride as hard as he could while he could, get some good results, and secure himself a job like LeMond's. Or else he’d be sent to toil in the vineyards or dairies. Shoveling soil all day, or making cheese? Ugh. Might as well be a prison. No. He had to do this. He had the mind for it—the body for it. He had what it took to win.
But LeMond smelled the bullshit. “I hear you,” he said. “But I think you could do with a little something extra. I’ve already spoken to Bernard and—”
“You went to the Wolverine about this?” Buck asked, his tone sharper than he meant it to be.
“Now, settle down. He’s your coach. Of course I looped him in.” LeMond patted the air with both hands in a calming gesture. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but, I think it just might work.”
Buck sighed, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “All right, what is it?”
“I’m going to send you to CrossFit.”
Buck’s eyes snapped to LeMond’s. This had to be a joke, but he saw only calm in the other man’s face. “CrossFit? You’re joking!”
“I know, I know, keep your voice down.” LeMond put an arm around Buck and led him into his office, away from the busy cycling facility girls and Buck’s teammates, who were laughing and joking in the locker room. No one seemed to have heard. LeMond started again. “I get it. It sounds crazy, but I know a woman who runs a gym close by. And you won’t have to tell anyone you’re going. Just go, tell her I sent you, get your training in, work on your mobility, and no one will be the wiser.”
“But the whole point of CrossFit is telling people you went to CrossFit!” Buck said, his voice a hoarse whisper. Two facility girls walked by LeMond’s door, brilliant white sun dresses swishing. Both looked in at Buck, who gave them a hasty smile and quick nod. The girls turned quickly away and giggled. Buck shut the office door.
“Look,” said LeMond. “Fact is, you need the training. Riding all the time is great, normally, but your situation isn’t normal anymore. You need all the help you can get. It’ll be our secret.”
Buck sighed, rotating his left shoulder. A dull pain surged in his arm, threatening to become a sharper spoke if he pushed it. “All right, if you think it’s best,” he said, finally.
“I do. Now go hit the showers. Maybe let the girls relax you a bit.”
“Hah, yeah right.” Some of the riders took advantage of the admirations of the women working at the facility. It was against regulations, of course, but still happened from time to time. Something about that always put Buck off. He liked dating as much as anyone, but the idea of letting the women he worked with go any farther with his post-ride massages just wasn’t up his alley. LeMond knew this and was poking fun at him for being a bit of a prude.
There was a knock at the door, and then Bernard’s face appeared in the glass window. He opened the door without waiting for anyone to wave or call him in.
“Ah, Monsieur Heart,” he said, his accent not allowing him to pronounce the “H.” He looked Buck up and down. “You have spoken to Monsieur LeMond, yes?”
“He has,” LeMond said.
“And you have agreed to receive, ah, special training?” Bernard asked, turning to Buck and clearly not wanting to actually pronounce the word “CrossFit.” The French were so particular about language.
“I have,” Buck said.
“Ah, c’est bon!” Bernard said, clapping his hands once. “It is for the good of the team, yes? Good.”
Buck nodded, waved, and left the coach and soigneur to discuss whatever they discussed. He showered then got his post ride massage. When the girl working on him touched one corner of the towel he was using to cover himself and gave him her customary raised eyebrow, he shook his head with a smirk.
“Doesn’t hurt to try,” she said, smiling.
He laughed, w
hich sent a twinge of pain to his shoulder. CrossFit. Ugh.
Chapter 3
The next morning, when Faith arrived at the gym, a man was standing outside. He wore the warmup outfit she’d seen the city cycling team wearing, hands jammed in pockets. The words “New Lyon” were scrawled across the chest above bleu, blanc, and rouge stripes. He must be the cyclist trainee guy LeMond had emailed about. This was all she needed. First it was training lazy bureaucrats, now she had to train distance athletes who wouldn’t know a WOD from a quiche recipe. She put on her cheerful face and crossed the street.
“You must be Buh,” she said when she got close, but didn’t finish saying it because her brain stopped working correctly. She hadn’t expected his eyes—anyone’s eyes—to be so green.
“No, it’s ‘Buck,’” he said, a smirk easing onto his face. “Like ‘Chuck’ but with a ‘B’”
She had to regain some ground. Stop staring at him. You’re a grown woman, for God’s sake. “Wouldn’t that be ‘Chub?’”
He laughed, flashing straight white teeth and a pair of dimples right out of a sculptor’s How To Make A Hot Male Face textbook. “Sure, if you like.” He’d stopped laughing but was looking at her expectantly now. The moment extended, and his eyes were still that deep green, with an even deeper green at the edges. What was that called? A limbal ring, she remembered. That was it. Weird that she’d remember eye trivia. Wait, why was he looking expectant like that?
“What?” she asked.
“Are you going to finish crossing the street?”
