Spokes (17 page)

**OK and you wear yellow jersey then I take it off**

Oh damn--he couldn't have this conversation, even in the relative invisibility of text, in the middle of the cycle shop. He fumbled the
last socks onto their hooks and held the empty carton in front of his groin on the dash to the stock room. He'd hold it in front of his blazing
face, too, if he could. **Not here L I'm at work**

**Sorry, you text me when home, I chase everyone away and tell you more about jersey**

**Will be way after midnight for you** Surely Luca wouldn't wake his roommate expressly to throw him out. And surely Luca wouldn't try
to speak so softly Rolf would sleep through their interlude. What if Rolf woke but didn't say so? What if he woke and made a stink? Luca said
Rolf "cared a lot". Cared how? **You need to sleep so you can win again**

**When is next day off?**

**Tomorrow** Christopher glanced at the clock. Luca had called about this time yesterday. **Will be home tomorrow this time so can play with you**

**Will ride fast to have third jersey to tell you about** Oh, Christopher wanted to hear that story. **Tell in the best way :p**

This man was going to be the death of him. In the best way. Christopher shifted his erection inside his jeans and picked up the phone again. ** :D ok **

He'd get a ton of writing done tonight so he'd only have to add in the third stage and final results to the article he'd send
off to
CycloWorld.
Easy.

***

Another morning to rise at oh-dark-thirty. Maybe he could get used to this. Christopher hit the button on the coffee pot and settled in for another four
hour stage. One hundred eighty-four kilometers between Luca and victory, between now and jubilation. Or consolation.

No, they'd have plenty to celebrate, two stage wins already in the bag, and if his margin from the nearest competitors was slender, it was much
wider for the rest of the field. Who would rise to challenge Luca? And when?

The early breakaway by a regional Belgian team didn't last: they had their moment in the sun in front of the screeching fans in Eernegem and were
reeled in by the peloton about half a kilometer outside the town. The motos had some dodging to do, and one ended up in a ditch, its tumbling camera
providing a too-vivid memory of Christopher's crash. Although the announcers had a few minutes of chatter about cyclists crashing, they
couldn't come close to describing the bowel-clenching reality. A passing moto let them see both driver and cameraman rescuing their equipment.
Christopher sighed his relief.

Perhaps to get even, another moto gave a drive-by look at a row of cyclists who had dropped out of the peloton to take a group whiz at the side of the
road. The colorful lineup didn't include Luca; good. If he had to take a leak, and he probably would somewhere during this race, the cameras
should let him have privacy for it, even if he had a dozen companions all straddling their bikes with their dicks out of their tight shorts. At least it
was considered bad form for the other riders to attack while the leaders couldn't respond.

Most of the teams' tactics kept the peloton well grouped aside from the Belgian teams' showboating--one group broke into the
lead and a different team formed a chase group through the town of Heuvelland, only to be overtaken again before they hit the feed zone. Luca
didn't scurry after them; not his job, although a few Antano-Clark riders led the pursuit of the upstarts.

No, Luca didn't look too concerned, pulling along about a third of the way back in the peloton, though somehow he managed to be in the top
fifteen of every intermediate sprint, hoovering up the points. Someone else wanted to be the King of the Mountain worse than Luca did--one of his
old Duclos-Wurth teammates was first to crest what passed for a peak on this stage, all 20 meters of elevation. Christopher had wrinkles in his carpet
higher than that. if Luca wanted the honor he probably could have taken it, but not when he had his eyes on the larger prize.

Christopher could look over his article so far, with both ears and one eye on the race. The motos whizzed back and forth across the riders, focusing on
this Big Name and that one, the announcers pattering their opinions of strengths and weaknesses. Christopher considered putting his head down for another
half hour's sleep, but Luca had to pedal every mile and a nap seemed vaguely disloyal. Even a piece of toast with jelly felt like betrayal when
Luca would get some kind of high carb bars and energy drinks.

Soigneurs in their team colors dotted the feed zone, holding out musettes. They'd packed their riders' long-handled bags with
bottles and bars, perhaps some fruit, and for the lucky ones, a muffin or a piece of apple cake. Paolo handed off a bag to some rider Christopher
didn't know, and the moto buzzed away before Christopher could be sure Luca got fed.

How much did he have to bribe the motorcycle cameraman to keep his lens on just one rider? Five minutes later he got a glimpse of Luca stuffing something
red and white into his mouth and tossing a bit of foil aside. His jersey's rear pockets bulged with bottles and what looked like a tiny Coke can.
The musette bag was long gone. Someone on the race route had themselves a souvenir.

A thousand people might have fought over it--they lurked at the sides of the road, encroaching into the road to all but touch the riders.
Hadn't they seen the kook with the orange Borat suit waving his plastic flamingo on both the other stages?

Time stretched--so did the peloton. Christopher snapped to full attention at the sound of the Olympian's name "--and
Luca Biondi are hard on the heels of the leaders, who look to be tiring." The leading squad shuffled, but all that Christopher cared was that a
turquoise rider would be in a good spot to start--or end--a sprint finish.

The route led into the town of Ichtegem, whose bright buildings and cobbled roads might be very pretty without a thundering herd of cyclists on top. With
them, the pave was so many saw-teeth waiting to taste skin. The faster Luca went, the sooner he'd be out of danger. At least here
metal barricades kept the crowd at bay.

Luca, the Olympian, and another four riders broke from the leading edge of the peloton. They swung around corners with their bicycles too close to
horizontal, their speed all that kept them on their tires. Luca stayed on the wheel of a blue-and-white rider, his legs pumping furiously now, his face
taut with his effort. The Olympian swung wide around him, cutting Luca's advantage by inch after inch, with less than a kilometer to go.

"Go, Luca,
go
!" All of Christopher's urgings didn't move him past blue and white, nor keep him ahead of the
Olympian. The two riders fought it out on either side of Luca, who stayed with them, his wheels dangerously close to theirs. They shot under the finish
arch in a clump, veering apart and slowing enough to reach out and clasp each other's hands, holding them high.
No hands on pave? Luca, please--!
All smiles, they went from competitors to friends, and their clocks registered the same time.
Yeah, their wheels overlapped.

"All right!" Christopher hooted, once Luca put his hands back on the grips. His leading time combined with his last two stages still
put him comfortably far ahead of the others. If he didn't have credit for all three stages, he'd still won overall. There had to be
something left for the others, right? The leader board flashed results as the trail of riders passed the finish line: plus two seconds for the other three
breakaway riders, plus more for the others. Rolf sped beneath the arch, his time reading plus thirteen seconds, and another hundred eighty-some cyclists
had yet to finish.

"A very strong finish for Antano-Clark, two riders in the top twenty for the stage, five in the top fifty," surprised the announcer but
not Christopher--hadn't these guys all pedaled around mile-high and higher roads for the last several months? In fact, what were the
rest of those slackers doing?

Christopher made frantic notes--if his article focused too thoroughly on Luca,
CycloWorld
wouldn't accept it--a writer
whose biggest credentials so far were equipment comparisons couldn't suddenly produce a rider profile and expect to have it printed before all
the current events were out of date. At least, not if he produced it out of the blue. If they asked for it, yeah, maybe. But a balanced race report was
news they needed before the next issue. Dave Pauwels usually had the byline, but if he was off covering some other event.... Christopher scribbled
faster.

By the time the broom wagon turned up with two riders who hadn't finished the race, Christopher had an article. He'd mentioned all the
teams at least once and trimmed Luca's name four times for balance. He'd edit once more for any lingering TMI, but this should give a
good overview. All that remained was the podium ceremony.

Christopher settled into the pillows to watch the King of the Mountain accept his red prize jersey: one of the Belgians on a regional team had made his
reputation today. The white for the Best Young Rider might have gone to Luca a few years ago, when he rode to support the Duclos-Wurth stars, but today it
matched the white of the Argos-Shimano cyclist who'd worked his butt off. Sprinter's green went to another name from the record
books--Luca hadn't challenged for the intermediate points sprints, but still managed to show up in the top fifteen.

The three riders who had joined hands after the finish now mounted the podium, and Luca stood to the left of the man who'd beaten him by half a
bicycle length, accepting a bundle of flowers and double cheek kisses from podium girls and FIC officials. All three raised their bouquets to the yells and
whistles from the crowd. Christopher didn't need the announcers to tell him Luca belonged in this august company--all three would file
off stage in a moment, but only Luca would return.

And now he was back, on the high section of the podium, flanked by a couple of attractive young women whose embraces were a formality. He let them dress
him in the yellow jersey, marking him the race's winner now. His first race as GC, and he'd brought home all three prizes. He beamed
across the miles, waving yet another bundle of flowers over his head. Holding the laptop with both hands was a poor substitute for gripping
Luca's arms to bring him in for lip-to-lip congratulations, but, oh, had he earned them. Christopher's heart swelled too big for his
chest--his Luca had done it! Come out of the gate with strength, seized his opportunities and now his palmares. What a rider. What a
man. His man.

Christopher had to write faster, he had to get enough words to
CycloWorld
to get him into Luca's arms again.
With a huge grin, a kiss thrown to the world, and perhaps a sniffle, a rising star accepts his accolades...
Luca disappeared from the
screen, bumped by prerecorded interviews. He'd be back, with microphones wielded by a half dozen national reporters shoved in his face.

And now to wait.

***

The clock ticked off the time too slowly and too quickly--every minute that separated him from Luca still managed to disappear as he polished his
prose.
CycloWorld
just had to want this piece. Stu would have found any weaknesses--he never joked about writing. Why couldn't he
have shown a little more restraint on Christopher's love-life? Then they would have been somewhere else when that stupid car--

At last his phone rang. "
Ciao,
Christopher." Golden words. Words to dream about.

They ran through race assessments--"I could have taken the stage as well, but better not to brag"--and post race
inventory. "I feel good. Paolo just finished massage and thinks I'm taking nap."

"And Rolf?" Please let him be miles away. Christopher plumped up the pillows and leaned back against them.

"Discussing race plans with the directeur sportif. He may be GC for another tour instead of me, not sure. I like riding
Tour de Romandie
,
but like idea of Rolf working hard while I have rest days with you before the
Giro
even better."

"Even if I give you rubber legs?" Days of riding, playing, and making love wouldn't really sap Luca's
strength--Christopher would insist on plenty of sack time, awake and asleep. Luca had to be strong for the three week stage race in his home
country.

"You can try." Luca's voice went deep and husky. "I like when you try."

Christopher went from half-mast to stiffer than carbon-fiber in two heartbeats. "You were going to tell me about your tongue and a yellow
jersey."

A deep chuckle drifted across the Atlantic into his ear. "You look good in yellow, sized for me, not for you, so fits you very tight. Shows all
your muscles. I start by pulling zipper down few centimeters, show your throat. Use my teeth to pull zipper, easy to kiss you...."

Christopher slid a hand into his shorts. He'd wear yellow for Luca any time.

Chapter 16

Christopher's phone would chime in the early morning. **Back from training ride, all fine** made him breathe more easily, and the phone calls
later that sometimes ended in gasping each other's names, and other times had too much of an audience. Christopher listened to racing talk where
Luca referred to friends whose palmares far outstripped his, and all Christopher could do was gawk at Fabian's tactics or how Jens was
favoring one hip.

"Can I quote you?" he asked now and then.

"Yes," Luca would say, or rarely, "No."

The 2.1 stage race the following week brought Luca success, if not quite as stunning as his first race. Again glued to his laptop for the early morning
broadcasts, Christopher took notes, bit his nails, and learned to pick Luca out of the bunched team just by the set of his shoulders and curve of his back.
His wild, curly ponytail disappeared beneath his helmet for time trials for not being aerodynamic, which must have given him a second or two
advantage--Luca won the time trial in the Paris-Nice race and made the podium for three of the other seven stages, third overall.