Spokes (36 page)

Men in bright jerseys sailed up the light incline, through the gauntlet of screaming fans stretching out their hands to their idols. "Is it weird
to watch that from here?"

"Yes. At least here are Army men to hold back the crowds." Luca shivered. "And no naked man with inflatable whale running
next to me."

What? That visual... Oh Lord. Maybe he needed to do a piece on crazy fan behavior.

Luca yelled out for the riders as loudly as anyone around them, picking them out by name. "
Ale
, Berto!
Ale
,
Damiano!
Ale,
Vincenzo!" Vincenzo wore pink. Just like the jerseys Luca won.

"Go, Antano-Clark!" Forget journalistic impartiality, Christopher screamed for the team he'd followed across the sea, who
streamed by, turquoise mingled with the pinks and blues of the team they helped. "Go, Damiano!
Ale!
Uh
--"
He remembered what he was wearing. "
Ale,
Garmin!"

The leaders passed, chased closely by the peloton, strung out like beads on the road. Fewer than 130 riders remained. Motos buzzed through them; a team car
passed with a soigneur hanging out the window trying to place a bandage on a rider's leg. The rider dripped, but he didn't stop. Luca
looked away, as if the
gruppetto
at the very end of this parade mattered desperately. Christopher reached for Luca's shoulder to squeeze.
He got a wistful smile, and then deafened when another group of riders came by.

The last riders passed, and the last press and official cars. The road would be officially opened to traffic shortly. Luca and Christopher lingered,
listening to the finish on their fellow spectators' radios. Luca translated, finishing with "Vincenzo won. Late sprint. Damiano second,
back four seconds. Back 1:24 overall." He shrugged. "A great stage tomorrow, he could still win. So could Berto--back
1:31."

A minute and a half could be nothing or an eternity. They got on their bikes before any of their companions questioned Luca's use of first names.

They had an hour or so to wait for the next train out. They'd probably spend it in race analysis or language lessons.
Quando parte il prossimo treno per Como?
Christopher rehearsed in his head, building on the lesson from this morning when their destination was
Brescia. He kept it to himself when Luca's phone rang.

Luca's gaping mouth could be nothing except wordless "Holy shit OMGWTFBBQ." He showed Christopher the screen with its caller
ID.

"Don't just stand there: answer it!" Christopher hissed. Oh my God, about fucking time.

"
Ciao."
Of course Luca wouldn't identify himself in a public place. He hit the speaker button and stood close to hold
the phone close to both their ears.

"May I speak with Luca Biondi, please?" The accent was American. Was it...?

"
Si
?
"

"This is Nick Leyburn, from K-Aero Cycling."
Yes!
"I understand you prefer to ride on K-Aero saddles. I'm
calling to find out if you're still happy with our product."

"I won several races this season on your saddle." Luca seemed to be picking each word with the same care he needed for a badly
maintained cobblestone road.

"We're always glad to be associated with success, Mr. Biondi. We weren't sure if you were still riding K-Aero--the
pictures from your last stage of the Giro didn't include enough of your bike to tell."

Hah! Got 'em!
Christopher stifled a snort. Luca glanced sharply at Christopher. Hoo boy, he didn't need words to hear
you had something to do with this, didn
'
t you?
He worked on "bland face." Could a squashed smile be
mistaken for innocence?

"You can't rely on the journos to do advertising, no?" Luca's glower promised a frank discussion later.

"No." Nick sounded regretful. "We can't. We understand you'll be riding the finish in Milan.
We'd like to make sure you have a new saddle for the ceremonial lap."

"My ride in Milan is to honor my dead teammate." Luca's voice took on a dangerous edge. "Not to advertise your
saddle."

"Oh nononononono!" Nick sounded shocked.
By the suggestion or for getting caught at it?
"More that you'd be
comfortable, and in case your other saddle was damaged in the crash."

"I see." Luca's voice hadn't warmed one degree, Fahrenheit or Celsius. "For a moment that sounded like
world's ugliest endorsement deal."

"I am so sorry," Nick burbled. "I've stated this badly. My condolences on your teammate. We would like to equip you
with a saddle suitable to the solemn occasion in Milan. Also yes, we would love to have you endorse our product line. That is, if you haven't
already committed to the competition?"

"I haven't signed contract." If Luca needed a post-racing career, he ought to be in politics. That was
smooth,
true,
and a long way from
Jindo isn
'
t talking to me anymore.

"Hmm, they are taking their time..." Nick's words disappeared into the hubbub of the station. "In that
case, we'd really, really prefer that you signed with us. We're capable of moving very fast with our contracts, and with our payments.
Does one third at signing sound reasonable to you?"

"Maybe. One third of what?" Luca's words were confident, but his breathing was shallow.

Christopher held his breath. What would they pay, and what would they want for their money?

"We'd like a two year contract, and we'd pay twenty-five thousand euro."

Luca met Christopher's eyes over the phone and his teeth flashed. "For that, we talk. Email list of projected appearances, ads, and
responsibilities to here--" He rattled off an address. "--I look over." A few pleasantries and he ended the
call.

"Was that as good as--the other people--offered?" A loudspeaker blared, cutting off Christopher's words,
but signaling time to load. They wheeled the bikes toward the open train car.

"Better already, maybe." Luca handed a bike up to Christopher. "Depends what they expect to get." He followed his
bike into the train car and tested the lock. "You did something to make that phone call happen."

Busted. "I may have mailed them an article I cut out of
CycloWorld.
"

Luca's head shake wasn't the same without his dance of curls, but the braid down his back waggled with his amusement.
"Let's go home."

They found an open row near the front of the car, with the plush, high-backed seats Christopher had discovered were only in first class. Luca kept his cap
and sunglasses on, his face bent to study race results on his phone while the train filled up. They spoke of the race, and Christopher was careful not to
use his name.

The train pulled away from the platform, once again purring beneath Christopher's feet, before he dared to ask, "Is the villa the kind
of home you want?"

"Damiano's been star a long time, has money for big house with high walls. I don't yet, but--" Luca
chopped off, and started more slowly. "I don't need big house to be happy. Happiest place I ever lived was small apartment in
Colorado."

"Me too." Christopher didn't reach for Luca. That would still have to wait until they were alone. He spoke quietly, not trusting to language barriers for their fellow travelers, but Luca would understand. "Lately I've been spoiled by a real mattress. Think you could stand that much change?"

"I can sleep on pave if I sleep there with you."

Epilogue

Christopher shook the just-escaped-from-the-packaging wrinkles from the blue-striped duvet. The freshly made king-sized bed replaced the were-furniture he'd slept on since his student days, and was the prize in his newly-purchased condo overlooking Boulder Creek. He added pillows and one lone plushy, which was anything but a memento of childhood.
The fuzzy dog marked Luca's first stage win and now lolled his felt tongue without drooling on the bedding. What could have been a huge pile of critters had gone to various children's hospitals, but Luca had broken with cycling tradition enough to gift Christopher with this promised keepsake.

The clock flicked away another minute--Luca would be home soon.

Christopher had closed on the condo while Luca was on the one racing tour they couldn't share. Another set of keys waited on the dresser. A few boxes cluttered the floor, but most everything was unpacked. He'd put Luca's clothes in half the dresser drawers and hung his collection of yellow, pink, and red prize
jerseys in the closet next to his one suit and button-down shirt. The cycling shoes on the closet floor outnumbered the dress shoes.

The old basement apartment on College Hill probably would have been okay for the two of them, since they only lived in Colorado a few months out of the
year, except for security issues and the annoyance of bouncing bikes up and down stairs on the way in and out. Christopher had popped for a building with a
ramp now that his permanent
CycloWorld
gig and a syndicated column paid the bills, plus some. Dave Pauwels sent a surprising amount of gossip from Provence. Retiring hadn't affected his connections.

They had more house-hunting to do in Padua. "I pick the price range here." Luca had finally laid down the law and refused to tell him
the cost of the apartments they'd toured. "You make home for me where you understand, I make home for you here."
They'd have a few days after Flanders Week to look some more.

Streaming coverage in the wee hours had to suffice for the last three weeks--
CycloWorld
'
s
circulation may have doubled in the last year, but their travel budget still
didn't extend to sending their journo to the Middle East, where Antano-Clark rode the Tour of Qatar and the Tour of Oman in what passed for a
cold month. This year's racing season was starting out as triumphantly as last year's; Luca had more prize jerseys in his suitcase. The
team would spend February in Boulder, and then head back to Belgium. Christopher would be in Europe for every race this year.

Were those footsteps? He pelted to the door to find his lover with a hand on the knob. "Come on in." Luca waited only until the latch
clicked to fling himself into Christopher's arms, and that was three milliseconds too long.

His Luca--his warm, lithe, mercurial, champion, and above all, loving Luca--was home. "
Ciao
, Luca,
mio amore
."

About the Author

About the Author

P.D. Singer lives in Colorado with her slightly bemused husband, two rowdy teenage boys, and thirty pounds of cats. She's a big believer in
research, first-hand if possible, so the reader can be quite certain Pam has skied down a mountain face-first, been stepped on by rodeo horses, acquired a
potato burn or two, and will never, ever, write a novel that includes sky-diving.

When not writing, playing her fiddle, or skiing, she can be found with a book in hand. If you can't find her, check in the rubble. Her house may
collapse from the weight of the printed page.

Follow the adventures at
PDSinger.com
, or contact Pam at [email protected].

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