really stumped me. When I’d traveled to Beijing to the Olympics I’d had a tranquilizer prescribed and cleared by the official Olympic body. If I could have cruised there I would have. As it happened, I didn’t remember a thing. Dad propped me up in my sleepy, dazed state as I climbed aboard and then helped me off when we eventually arrived in China.
But I didn’t really mind the train. Sheila and my agent had gotten used to my phobia when planning travel to competitions and events. Often Sheila would fly with my bike and I would take the train with either Mom or Dad.
But today I was alone. I ate fruit then went for chocolate. Picked at a dry, flavorless hot dog and drank Mountain Dew. I finished the Booker Prize novel I was reading and reached for a discarded New York Standard on the opposite seat. I flicked through, read an article about a new exhibit at The Metropolitan and a piece on Madonna who was reading her latest kids’ book at Barnes and Noble. I was just about to toss the paper aside when I spotted a small picture of Brick on the third to last page. Next to him was a photo of me. It was the one from the Olympics and I stood holding flowers with my gold medal around my neck, beaming from ear to ear.
“ Athletic Romance ,” the headline read. My skin prickled as a wave of heat rose from my chest, up my neck and onto my cheeks.
Oh my god!
Suddenly I couldn’t focus. I rubbed my knuckles into my sockets then tossed back a mouthful of Mountain Dew.
With apprehension ballooning, I skimmed through the two-paragraph article beneath. It seemed someone at the Ray Lenon studio had squealed to the press about Brick’s microphone slip-up. Although his shocking words obviously weren’t repeated in the paper, they implied that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other and left abruptly, together, for a night of steamy “athletic” sex back at The Waldorf.
I folded the paper into my bag and glanced nervously at the other passengers on the train. Everyone was absorbed in books or iPods or fast asleep. My heart rate settled slightly. At least my parents wouldn’t see it, since it was a New York paper. But so many other people would, and that was how gossip started. I didn’t want gossip about “us” until we were established. Until I’d made Brick mine. Because if I failed to do that and everyone found out, I didn’t know how I would step out of the house again.
Sighing I stared at the passing landscape. There was nothing I could do about it now but hope the hotel bellboy didn’t add his gossip to the mix. Because that would be mortifying, Brick sucking on my breasts in an elevator was not appropriate behavior even if it had been enormous fun.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, I arrived in Orlando. Stepped out with my bags and let the humidity wrap around me like an old friend.
Home.
My cab to Richmond Hill took twenty minutes and before I knew it I was showered and wearing my ratty old t-shirt. With fresh pasta in one hand, wine in the other, I sat and waited for the hockey game to start—Vipers versus Gold Diggers. I’d managed to push the newspaper article from my mind and was looking forward to an exciting playoff game.
I’d just finished my pasta when the Vipers shot from the tunnel onto the ice. I took a gulp of wine as number eight flew out with his stick held high. Brick. The crowd erupted. His helmet was off and the commentator jabbered excitedly about the points he’d scored over the season so far.
As I watched him move over the ice with speed and grace, my heart fluttered. A curl of delicious sensation shimmied up my spine and settled in my scalp. He skated up to the coach, spoke briefly then slammed on his helmet, sliced back to the center circle and banged his stick down, hard.
My eyes roamed his body as the camera panned over him in a close-up. Thick pads protected his legs and shoulders, making him look even more colossal than I knew he was. His hands were hidden
But I didn’t really mind the train. Sheila and my agent had gotten used to my phobia when planning travel to competitions and events. Often Sheila would fly with my bike and I would take the train with either Mom or Dad.
But today I was alone. I ate fruit then went for chocolate. Picked at a dry, flavorless hot dog and drank Mountain Dew. I finished the Booker Prize novel I was reading and reached for a discarded New York Standard on the opposite seat. I flicked through, read an article about a new exhibit at The Metropolitan and a piece on Madonna who was reading her latest kids’ book at Barnes and Noble. I was just about to toss the paper aside when I spotted a small picture of Brick on the third to last page. Next to him was a photo of me. It was the one from the Olympics and I stood holding flowers with my gold medal around my neck, beaming from ear to ear.
“ Athletic Romance ,” the headline read. My skin prickled as a wave of heat rose from my chest, up my neck and onto my cheeks.
Oh my god!
Suddenly I couldn’t focus. I rubbed my knuckles into my sockets then tossed back a mouthful of Mountain Dew.
With apprehension ballooning, I skimmed through the two-paragraph article beneath. It seemed someone at the Ray Lenon studio had squealed to the press about Brick’s microphone slip-up. Although his shocking words obviously weren’t repeated in the paper, they implied that we couldn’t keep our hands off each other and left abruptly, together, for a night of steamy “athletic” sex back at The Waldorf.
I folded the paper into my bag and glanced nervously at the other passengers on the train. Everyone was absorbed in books or iPods or fast asleep. My heart rate settled slightly. At least my parents wouldn’t see it, since it was a New York paper. But so many other people would, and that was how gossip started. I didn’t want gossip about “us” until we were established. Until I’d made Brick mine. Because if I failed to do that and everyone found out, I didn’t know how I would step out of the house again.
Sighing I stared at the passing landscape. There was nothing I could do about it now but hope the hotel bellboy didn’t add his gossip to the mix. Because that would be mortifying, Brick sucking on my breasts in an elevator was not appropriate behavior even if it had been enormous fun.
Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, I arrived in Orlando. Stepped out with my bags and let the humidity wrap around me like an old friend.
Home.
My cab to Richmond Hill took twenty minutes and before I knew it I was showered and wearing my ratty old t-shirt. With fresh pasta in one hand, wine in the other, I sat and waited for the hockey game to start—Vipers versus Gold Diggers. I’d managed to push the newspaper article from my mind and was looking forward to an exciting playoff game.
I’d just finished my pasta when the Vipers shot from the tunnel onto the ice. I took a gulp of wine as number eight flew out with his stick held high. Brick. The crowd erupted. His helmet was off and the commentator jabbered excitedly about the points he’d scored over the season so far.
As I watched him move over the ice with speed and grace, my heart fluttered. A curl of delicious sensation shimmied up my spine and settled in my scalp. He skated up to the coach, spoke briefly then slammed on his helmet, sliced back to the center circle and banged his stick down, hard.
My eyes roamed his body as the camera panned over him in a close-up. Thick pads protected his legs and shoulders, making him look even more colossal than I knew he was. His hands were hidden
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