Spokes (18 page)

"Had to do better than last year," he said, and spoke instead of his team's overall fourth place finish. "Three
minutes and thirty-eight seconds back of leaders. Good sprinters make up for weak mountain stages on the flats, strong climbers get left behind in sprint.
Strong rider with poor body position loses minutes in time trials. We have good average."

Rolf's time trial averaged with Luca's wouldn't have made the top third. Christopher's idea of Rolf's
correct body position was "Far away from Luca," but Luca's discussion of elbow position, knee angles, and ability to power
through the wind with effective pedaling in a tuck position sounded like Rolf would be getting some hands-on practices instead. Bastard.

A one day race a week after the big stage race put Luca on the podium again. It would be a brutal seven days to come: this was Flanders Week.

"Had to slow down a little, Christopher," Luca chided him for growling about the two riders who'd stood above him for the
Prijs Van Vlaanderen
finals results. "Still very good placement. Sponsors happy."

"But you could have won it." Luca's explanations of tactics hadn't convinced Christopher, not one bit.

"What's more important, showing I could win on a hill with cobbles or surprising all other riders on Alps stages of Giro?"
The time Luca gave on the climb he'd taken back with a vengeance on the descent, coupled with a crash that put the leaders on the ground, and one
in the hospital. Luca had favored his right leg getting back on the bike but had pedaled away, and insisted later that it was only bruises. "I
want them to underestimate me."

Oh hell yes. If he had to save it for a race equal in every way to the Tour de France and coming six weeks earlier, then third was marvelous.
"That's important," Christopher conceded, and finally asked, "Are you ever going to tell me what you're
endorsing?" That detail kept getting lost in more important matters, like whether Rolf was elsewhere and how long that might last.

Luca laughed. "Did photo shoot. Show you." An email chimed for attention, revealing a picture of Luca fastening a Vuelta Asturias
helmet under his chin, his curls escaping every which way against the green background that would be replaced by some cycling scene. "Well vented
but still aerodynamic. Be good for hot weather. If it works the way they say."

"You don't know?" Christopher could do an article on helmets, no problem.

"Never used it. Wrong colors for team. Can send you one."

The team raced in turquoise and black, which had to be custom made. Why hadn't he figured that out by himself? Luca's picture had him
in a white perforated shell and was destined to be printed out as an 8x11 for Christopher's living room wall.
"I'll do a test run for you. Maybe write it up."

"Did you ride today?" Luca's voice went soft enough that Christopher heard
Were you feeling okay about riding today?

Luca's concern for him choked Christopher into admitting, "No. It's not as much fun as it used to be with you or
Stu." He had ridden other days, reporting how muddy Niwot was and that the quarry had some new fossils on display.

"Be hard to keep up with me if you don't practice good pedaling, Christopher. When you ship your bike, pack a set of tools with it. Did
you get your passport yet?" Luca stuck every reason for Christopher to push himself into three sentences.

"It takes at least six weeks, Luca." No matter how much he longed to be on the other side of the ocean, the government
wouldn't hurry for him without some cash.

"You should have let me pay for expedited process." His reproach was mild, but real, and it stung.

"I can't let you pay for everything, Luca. That's not right." His principles would cost them three weeks. Three
long weeks, and even while he wished he'd said yes, he'd say no again. "I'll get there."

"Maybe have new endorsement deal coming. Money to spend on you. Buy you ticket for rest days before Giro. Damiano has villa above Lake Como, we
could stay there. He's riding Tour de Romandie, won't need it." The lascivious burr in Luca's voice suggested
they'd get less rest than the directeur sportif might like.

"You know I want to be with you." Christopher wanted that more than anything right now, and drew fingertips across his neck, echoing
the way Luca liked to start. "But..."

"No buts," Luca interrupted him. "I miss you. Tour de Romandie is a month from now, passport should be here for two weeks by
then. I want your hands, not only mine. Kiss you, not only talk."

"So do I." Suddenly aching with the need to pin his lover beneath him, Christopher gripped his own shoulder, face down into
Luca's pillow. The scent had faded and laundry soap had taken the rest, but memory of Luca's head denting the foam lingered.
"I'd love to get my hands in your hair; I'd turn your head to suck on your ear."

"Ye--oh." Fuck, if Luca had gone from zero to sixty in nanoseconds, he came to a halt even faster. "
Ciao,
Rolf. Paolo," came through faintly, as if he'd turned his head and his whole attention. "Talk to you tomorrow,
okay?"

"Okay."

No, it wasn't, but he couldn't say anything else. If they were at Damiano's villa, they couldn't be interrupted
like this. Christopher opened another document, intending to inform
CycloWorld
'
s
readers which tools they needed to pack
with any bike they shipped.

***

His passport still wasn't here, but another payment from
CycloWorld
was. Enough to get him about a third of the way across the Atlantic.
The email with the payment notification contained a note from his contact at the magazine praising Christopher's race analyses. "Dave
said good catch on that dustup in the
Prijs,"
Ron wrote. "He also said don't get any illusions: he likes his
job."

Not that Christopher had any hope of taking Dave's place, since he didn't speak several languages or know the intricacies of the
European rail system, but it was nice to be noticed. He'd watched the video on the crash about a dozen times: until the horror of seeing Luca go
down had faded into something manageable, he couldn't see the details of who clipped whom and how the cascade spread. He still couldn't
find what had caused the Kastibank rider to slide, although the presence of a turtle was highly unlikely.

Days went by without a long, intimate phone call, though they could share news, racing, and some laughs. Christopher tried not to think about
Paolo's hands rubbing Luca's tired body, tried not to think about Rolf being there to hear Luca's random thoughts, and tried
not to cling too tightly to a man half a world away because he mourned for his best friend. Luca was Luca, he was wonderful, he was quicksilver, and he
wasn't there if they had too big an audience or if Christopher was caught somewhere in public.

Luca completed Gent-Wevelgem, unlike two thirds of the field, who crashed, froze, or otherwise couldn't make it to the finish line, let alone in
second place. "Colder than Snow Mountain Ranch, with icy winds. Good we skipped first fifty kilometers and a climb. Brr."

"Brr," Christopher agreed. "I'd warm you up. Take you into a warm shower, hold you tight, add some friction..."

"Can't," Luca warned. "Would have liked another pair of socks." Damn, if Christopher had to hear about a
frigid spring classic where riders could see their breaths and rode in echelons of slow mummies for wearing every piece of clothing they had in their
suitcases instead of how nice it would be to cuddle under a down comforter, he'd take it.

"I have two articles in this week's
CycloWorld
." Christopher could add his own bit of good news. "An article
about saddles and a two hundred word sidebar on the Paris-Nice race. It's like I'm Dave Pauwels' lieutenant."

"Lieutenants can triumph in their specialty. Good!" His grumbled aside made Christopher wonder who had invaded Luca's
sanctum--it sounded like a dozen men clamoring for his attention in the background. "Time to go for press conference. I tell Paolo to
get copy of
CycloWorld
, I read your words, okay?"

Fresh ice grew in Christopher's stomach--would Luca think he'd been mentioned too often, or too warmly? Not often enough
wouldn't be an issue for the champion--he'd be offering most of the credit for today's success to his team mates.

"Okay. Talk to you later."
I love you.

***

Later sucked. Later sucked moose balls the size of dinner plates. It should have been great.

Christopher'd spent the evening writing up "What it's like to ride in a cold wind off the North Sea and how to dress for
it" based on Luca's descriptions, some interviews on the streaming channel, and his knowledge of what hung on the racks at the store,
and popped that off to
CycloWorld.
Then he'd let himself dream of warming Luca under the comforter and had fallen asleep with his nose
buried in the memory of brown curls. He'd even taken his own road bike for a quick climb up Flagstaff Mountain and been home in time for
Luca's usual rest day call. They should have had plenty of time to discuss all the sexy things they'd had to leave out yesterday.

And then Luca called.

"
Che cazzo e
, Christopher!" he all but screamed. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What
what
am I doing?" Christopher fell more than sat on the edge of the futon.

"My name is all over
CycloWorld
--why?" The way he sounded, he wasn't just pacing, he was swinging a fist.

"Well, hell, you were in the top three in four stages of a big race, you're going to get mentioned a lot, what did you
think?" Humility was one thing, shunning the limelight completely was another.

"Not that,
idiota,
the saddles. Why?" Somehow a lower tone and Italian epithets sounded worse than his initial anger.

"Why what? I quoted you, yeah, but you said it was okay." Trying to squeeze the exact memory out of his suddenly throbbing head,
Christopher reached for his copy of the magazine. "You explained about saddles, I fucking well
asked
if I could quote you, and you said,
'Yes, go sell lots of saddles.' So I did and this is going to sell lots of saddles. Why are you cussing at me because of
that?"

"I had interesting phone call this morning, Christopher. Phone call from Jindo rep. Not first phone call from Jindo rep, last time he talked
endorsement deal. What do you think he talked this time?" came through as a hiss.

"He wanted to know where to send the contract?" Christopher thumbed through to the article with the byline he'd been so proud
of earlier. "I don't know. What?"

"He asks why we talk about endorsement when I tell public I ride his biggest competition. What do I tell him, Christopher?"

"A journalist who knows saddles saw your bike?" Christopher offered. "That even has the advantage of being true. And you were
riding a K-Aero saddle. Any photographer with a long lens could have taken a picture of it, figured out what it was. You only told me
why
you like
K-Aeros."

"No problem for liking, only problem for telling world I like that when I'm paid big money to tell world I like something
else." Nope, not a call about where to send paperwork.

"Isn't that going to be a problem anyway, since you like K-Aeros for a feature Jindo doesn't have?" What can of
worms had he opened? The logic-fail bait?

"Jindo planned to make new line of saddles with perforations to get around problem. Now saddles are perfect, and they pay me to ride, they give
me special saddles and twenty thousand euro to tell everyone about excellent saddles. They give me money so every time moto shows me on TV, Jindo logo is
right there. Now, nothing."

"Nothing?" Oh, shit.

"Nothing, Christopher. Nothing at all from Jindo. Not this year, maybe not next year. Or any year. Strange thing too, about racing
camp."

"What about racing camp?" And wasn't that years ago? They'd talked about it on their first real date, but surely
Luca was well beyond anything but team practices.

"On rest days when near Friuli, I teach young riders. Two hours before lunch, few days, much money. Now offer is half. 'Magazine is
eight euro, why pay extra?' they ask."

"Magazine? Like that would substitute for real time with you?" Nothing Christopher had read in three years came close to an hour spent
with Luca circling a parking lot. He better not be licking any students at a camp.

"Magazine, with excellent directions for changing pedaling. Has my name all over it. Your name too. How did that happen, Christopher?"
Oh the spittle had to be flying all over his hotel room. "I thought that was accident until saddles magazine, but no. Not accident at all, is
it?"

"No, it's not an accident, I wrote that, and yeah, I used your name, Luca." Christopher's hand shook so badly he
wasn't sure he was speaking into the phone's pickup. "I asked, every time. I always asked if it was okay to quote you. And
the times you said no, I didn't mention anything at all, like tactics. If you said yes, I thought you meant yes, it was okay. But I asked, every
single time."

"Maybe you asked, but I thought, okay, tell Stu. Or tell--" Luca sputtered over a name he didn't know, because
Christopher hadn't developed any close training partners after Stu. "But tell a friend, two friends. Not tell whole world in a
magazine!"

Oh, fuck, had he ever really explained? "I asked to quote because I knew I had to have permission. I wasn't hiding anything."

"When did you ever say, 'I quote you in
CycloWorld,
is that okay?' Never, the way I remember!" His voice
shook.

"Maybe not in those exact words, but..." He needed those exact words. "I told you I wrote, and for who, and I asked
every single time, Luca. I did."

"You asked, but not for whole thing, Christopher. Never. You wrote about gloves, I had nothing to tell about gloves. I talked about riding,
helped you be better rider, I thought, share with friend. Never this. Never thinking telling you anything would mean I lose thousands, tens of thousands of
euro, this year, maybe every year. Now I'm rider who gives everything away, why should they pay me?"