TWICE VICTORIOUS (22 page)

God knows, he'd sometimes wondered what would have happened if he'd stayed
with the team. He probably could have taken the bronze, at least, and maybe even the
silver. Steve had won the gold, after all. They'd never resolved which of them was the
better fencer.

What right did she have to accuse him of being afraid of failure?

None, by damn! All she'd been doing was accusing him of what she herself was
fearing. It might be too late for her to regain the fine edge that was the difference between
a world class competitor and one who was merely good.

She knew it. She had to know she didn't have a chance at winning the Sawtooth
Classic, so she was already building her list of excuses.

If anyone was afraid of failure, it was Stell McCray.

How he'd laugh, if she didn't even qualify for the team. Too bad he wouldn't be
there to remind her that she'd only set herself up for failure.

How could he have thought he was in love with her? Stubborn damn woman.

* * * *

"We've been asked to sponsor a bicycle racing team."

Adam looked up from the papers on his desk. Roger was leaning against the wall
beside his door.

"So?"

"So I thought you'd jump at the chance."

"Not bloody likely." Adam looked back down at the November production figures,
hoping his brother-in-law would take the hint.

"I thought you said you'd finally come to your senses." Juliana strolled past Roger
and sprawled in the chair facing his desk. Behind her, their mother entered and leaned
against the wall beside the door.

"What I said was," Adam spoke slowly, so there would be no danger of being
misunderstood, "that I finally realized I can't decide what's best for anyone but myself."
And what soul searching it had taken him to accept that idea emotionally as well as
intellectually. "If you want to sponsor, go ahead. The ActiveWear Division is your baby."
Waving at the piles of papers spread across his desk, he said, in as mild a voice as he could
manage, "Look, I've got a lot to do..."

Nobody moved.

"Petr Rozinski, the fellow who called this morning, wants to put together a
sponsorship package, start a new team. He manufactures performance bicycles, and he's
not happy with the team sponsor he's been with for the past three years," Juliana said. "I'd
talked to him last spring, when we were getting ready to launch, looking for an
endorsement."

"Okay," Adam said. He looked back down at the paper, not seeing it, but hoping
they'd take the hint.

"Oh, for pity sakes, Adam, stop acting like a spoiled brat!"

He turned an outraged gaze on his mother. Before he could speak, Roger said, "I
think we're missing the point here. The question on the table is do we co-sponsor Petr's
team?"

"I say we do," Juliana said.

Joyce echoed his sister, then looked at him. "Adam?"

"Oh, hell, I don't care. Do whatever you want. You will anyhow."

"I'll call Petr back." Juliana didn't move. For a moment she eyed Adam with a
curious expression on her face. "I imagine sponsors automatically have seats at the finish
line."

"Should I care?"

"Are you afraid, Adam?"

He glared at his sister. "Afraid? Of what, for God's sake?"

"Of being remembered? Are you afraid some media person will see you,
remember who you are, what you might have been?"

"That's a rotten thing to say."

His snarl coincided with Roger's "Juli, let him be!"

Juliana was immediately contrite. "You're right. It was a rotten thing to say. I'm
sorry, Adam."

He shrugged, not trusting his voice. If the truth be told, he
was
afraid.
Afraid he'd made the worst mistake of his life. But that had nothing to do with his past, or
with whether KIWANDA sponsored a cycling team.

"You're all jumping to a lot of unwarranted conclusions. In the first place, whether
KIWANDA sponsors a team--any team--is not my decision to make. You're the marketing
whiz, Juliana. If Roger says we can afford it and you say it's a good idea, who am I to
argue?"

His sister muttered something.

Adam refused to rise to the bait. "In the second place," he went on, aiming a finger
in her direction, "my picture was in
Forbes
last winter. You can't get much more
noticeable than that."

"Oh, pooh! How many sports media people read
Forbes
?"

"More than you'd think. But that's beside the point. I am not afraid of having my
past dragged out, because it's old news. Nobody cares any more."

Juliana made a face at him, but didn't say anything.

"My only objection is one I've voiced all along," Adam said. "Amateur sports are
a snare for starry-eyed youngsters, who see them as a quick trip to fame and, if they're
lucky and very, very good, to fortune. I hate encouraging that sort of thing, hate seeing
them break their hearts"

"Are you sure, Adam?" His mother slipped past Roger and perched on the arm of
Juliana's chair. "Do you really feel that way, or are you just finding reasons to condemn
Stell McCray's dream?"

Stunned, he could only stare at her. "Good God, how could you think that?"

Joyce shrugged. "Easy enough. You've avoided anything connected with amateur
athletes for all these years. You argued against us using them in our ActiveWear campaign.
Then you got involved with Stell, and you seemed to forget your bitterness."

"I am not bitter."

"Could've fooled me," Juliana said.

"Hush, Juli." Roger pulled his wife out of her deep chair. "Let's go. Adam's busy,
and we've got work to do, too."

Joyce lingered after her daughter and son-in-law departed. For several moments
she sat on the chair arm, watching Adam.

He did his best to ignore her. It was a losing battle.

At last she said, "Do you love her, Adam?"

What kind of a question was that for his mother to be asking? She'd never even
met Stell.

He shook his head, not trusting his voice for the second time this morning.

"I don't need an answer. I can see it in your eyes. You love her and you're fighting
it, tooth and nail." She rose to her feet, turned away toward the door. Then she looked over
her shoulder. "If I were you, son, I'd ask myself just how much pride has to do with your
feelings about amateur sports. And about Stell McCray."

Silently she walked out of his office, leaving Adam alone with a question he
honestly couldn't answer.

* * * *

Warren kept his arm around the young woman at his side. "This is Whitney." The
pride and love in his voice almost made Stell cry.

Stiffening her upper lip, she smiled and said, "I'm so glad you could join us for
Christmas dinner." She relieved the young woman of the casserole she held. "Warren, you
can put the salad directly on the sideboard, then show Whitney where to put her coat."
Escaping to the kitchen, she took several deep breaths.

What was wrong with her, anyway? She was ready to weep at the slightest
provocation. What a sight she'd been, standing in front of Macy's animated window last
week, tears streaming down her face.

The doorbell pealed again. "Get that, will you Warren?" she called. Reducing the
heat under the gravy, she gave it a stir. The turkey was done, the gravy made. All she had
to do was keep an eye on things until everyone got here. That and paste a smile on her face
and pretend to be enjoying the season.

Warren's idea of inviting members of the team who had no families in the area had
been a good one. Last year she and her cousin had been alone, and it had been pretty grim.
Christmas was for families, and lacking that, for crowds of good friends. If she were alone,
she'd have too much time to think. Until a month ago she'd been looking forward to
sharing this Christmas with Adam. Now she was doing her best to purge him from her
memory. And her heart.

The cheer, the laughter, and the crazy gifts they exchanged kept her occupied until
close to midnight.

"Merry Christmas," Stell called to Warren and Whitney, who were the last to
leave. "Merry Christmas," she repeated to herself as she closed the door. A tape of
Christmas music still played softly on the stereo, and three fat candles remained lit among
the greens on the mantel. Stell picked up a discarded napkin, an empty glass. The house
creaked and a branch scraped against the porch.

"Bah, humbug," was more like it. Now that everyone had gone home, she could let
her face rest from the artificial smile it had worn all evening.

She was so tired of being alone. Last year it hadn't bothered her, because she'd not
known how different life could be.

Now she did.

If only she could stop loving him. He wasn't worth the pain she was experiencing,
the emotional deprivation she'd felt since she'd learned what he really was, under all that
charm and good looks.

There still wasn't a place in her life for someone who would give up his
dreams.

"Adam!" She heard the word echo from the hardwood floor. "Oh, Adam, why
couldn't you have been different?" But would she want him any different? Hadn't she fallen
in love with the whole package? What should have been different were the circumstances.
She and Adam should have met at a different time, in different lives, uncomplicated by
conflicting goals, irreconcilable dreams.

Stacking the glasses and cups she'd found into a precarious tower with no regard
for their fragility, she headed for the kitchen. She'd always hated the aftermath of a party.
What had been bright and welcoming only a few hours ago was now shabby and ravaged.
There were rings on the mahogany coffee table, left by uncoastered glasses, greasy crumbs
on the brocade wing chairs. Candle wax had dripped on her best damask tablecloth, leaving
a red puddle that probably would never come out. And most of these darned wineglasses
wouldn't fit into the dishwasher.

What had ever possessed her anyway, to volunteer to give a party for a bunch of
uncouth cyclists?

Stell looked around the kitchen, seeing only devastation. "You're not going
anywhere, are you?" she said to the spills, the leftovers, and the mountains of dirty
dishes.

"But I am. I'm going to bed."

Tomorrow she'd clean up the party mess. Tomorrow, when the rest of the world
was opening gifts and finding fat tangerines and shiny dimes in Christmas stockings, she'd
put her house in order, then go out for a ride.

Forty or fifty miles should be about right to bring her temporary peace of
mind.

* * * *

What Stell really wanted to do was join the rest of the Portland Wheelmen on their
weekly ride, never mind that it was unusually cold for late April. She wasn't sure why she'd
agreed to be the cycling community's representative tonight, instead. Lately she'd been out
of town so much, competing all over North America in order to ensure she'd have enough
points to qualify for the U.S. Nationals that she'd hardly seen her friends in months. In a
couple of weeks she'd be leaving again, for a month of high altitude training and
conditioning in Denver.

She looked around the enormous room, surprised at the number of tables set up for
dinner. She hadn't supposed there would be so many people interested in seeing Oregon the
site of the 2018 Winter Olympics. Weaving her way toward the front, she looked around
for familiar faces. Surely she'd see someone she knew. It had been only four years since
she'd left Wilkins, Wasatch and McGonigle, after all.

"Stell. Stell McCray."

She turned her head. "Alice French! How good to see you."

The tall, gray-haired woman met her, hands outstretched in greeting. "I was
hoping you'd be here tonight. I wanted someone to sit with who wouldn't talk basketball all
night." She gestured behind her, where her husband, Bill, stood with three of the
Trailblazers. "Will you join us, dear?"

"Of course. It'll give us a chance to catch up." She followed Alice to a round table
at the very front. Leaving her gloves to mark the place next to Alice's, she said, "Who else
is sitting with us?"

"The Newells, Ted and Francie Loomis, Krys and Ky Hong," Alice said, counting
on her fingers. "I guess we'll have an empty seat, unless you're expecting a date."

Stell laughed. "When do I have time for dating?"

"I guess you don't, dear, not that you shouldn't make time." Linking arms with
Stell, she led her across the room, to join a mixed crowd near the bar. "What are you
drinking?"

A head of golden hair caught Stell's attention. Oh, God! She slipped free of Alice's
gentle grasp, started to turn away.

"Don't run off. I see someone I want you to meet." With irresistible determination,
Alice again clung to Stell. "Jack, dear, would you get me two white wines, please," she
called to someone in the line before the bar.

Shortly Stell found herself visiting with the mayor and finding her delightful, as
well as extraordinarily astute. Before she knew it, she was agreeing to serve on the local
Bicycle/Pedestrian Advisory Committee the next time there was an opening.

"She just won't take no for an answer, will she?" Stell said as she and Alice wound
their way back to their table.

Alice just smiled, and Stell began to suspect she'd been set up. She sighed. It
wasn't that she minded doing her civic duty. She just didn't like being tricked into it.

The other couples were seated when they got to the table. Stell slipped into her
seat, fortunately with its back to the head table. It should have occurred to her that
everyone remotely connected with the sports community would be here tonight.

Table talk was light and interesting all through dinner. Stell found herself having a
good time, even though her back itched from the force of a savage glare. As soon as dinner
was over, she'd disappear. A confrontation was not what she needed tonight.

One of her clients from Wilkins, Wasatch and McGonigle came over to say hello
as dessert was being served. She chatted with him for a few minutes, hoping her smile
would keep him from noticing that she couldn't, for the life of her, remember his name.
When he left she couldn't help turning to look at the head table, stretched along a low stage
just behind her. The governor and her husband, several of Portland's leading business
people and their spouses, one of the Trailblazers and his wife, an unfamiliar woman,
and...and Adam.