Wildest Dreams (Thunder Point #9)(42)

“I’m checking out a new bag, supposed to be better. It packed up about the same and it has as much quilting and padding yet is lighter.”

“New bike?” he asked.

“I’m trying one out. And I’ve decided to race. We have several clients in the race. Nigel is coming out to Tahoe next week with the support crew. You’ll be his priority, don’t worry.”

“And what about you?” he asked. Elite racers should have support in the crowd, just in case they ran into serious trouble—damaged equipment, injury, a hold on the race due to freak weather. Not to mention crew support such as fluids, towels, help with transitions in the race, readings for the record to enable training for the next race. The race personnel would provide stations along the course and the support crew would look after individual racers. Rules were strict on just how much personalized support a competitor could receive; the playing field was kept strictly level.

“We’ll have enough crew to manage,” she said. “If you have any critical needs, of course I would drop out to make sure you’re taken care of.”

But Blake knew that was unlikely. In all his years of racing he’d had only two serious problems on the circuit. Once he had a muscle injury and could barely finish and another time he’d had an epic equipment failure—the bike had practically collapsed after a minor collision. It led to the development of the custom Smiley bike, on which he held a patent.

“You won’t have to drop out,” he said.

On the drive to Thunder Point they talked about the upcoming race. “What makes this race so important? Besides a chance to set records or win a purse?” Gretchen asked.

“I’m not going to be setting any records in Tahoe,” he said. “Running is my best event and there’s so much uphill track that would be tough for anyone, but the runners who live at that altitude have a definite edge. I could do well in the water, but... But what’s important is that I have an excellent performance because of McGill. He’s not racing—he announced his retirement and I want anyone who cares to know I’m in it to win it. I’m the guy to beat—and I’m not going anywhere.”

“And if you get beat?”

“That’s always a distinct possibility, but I’ll kick ass in Kona.”

“You ready for Kona?” she asked.

“I was ready for Kona last year,” he said.

And she laughed loudly. “I brought a new supplement for you to try—a B12 with a better delivery system and extra B6 and E packed into a kale and grain formula that one of the interns worked up a year ago. We’ve had excellent and fast results so let’s see if it’s right for you. It’s just a tweak of the protocol. I’ve been looking at the red blood cells of some of our runners and not only is there a noticeable difference, the times have come in stronger.”

“Let’s see what happens,” he said. “I’m in for a trial.”

“You’re the best,” Gretchen said.

“Only because you are,” he returned.

And all this was true. She was an excellent physiological scientist and had founded the Tyrene Institute in Boulder. Many athletes thought Gretchen and her staff were the team to align with, had the most up-to-date equipment, made the most significant strides in athletic training and were showing arguably the best results.

She had also been his lover for a while.

They’d met five years ago. Blake had bet the farm on her, she was that expensive. He researched her science, her training program and her institute and paid her a ton of money to give his training program a workup. His improvement was marked. Though he visited her institute several times, their contact was mostly long distance and virtual—he’d send her his times and readings, she’d meet him with a support crew at significant races. He won a couple and set some race records. That took two years.

Then they slept together. And it was powerful. Good.

During that year they were together he realized they had very different views on love, sex and commitment. Gretchen was married to her work and wasn’t interested in a permanent, long-term relationship that might include family. He went along with that. Not everyone felt like getting on the baby train. He wasn’t even sure he was interested in that. After all, his career was pretty all-consuming. And since he was about twenty-three he’d felt there were a lot of kids out there who could use someone like him in their corner. He had put considerable focus on them.

But Gretchen, who worked with some of the finest athletes in the world, was also not into exclusivity. She wasn’t loose by any means, but if the spirit moved her and the man was someone she knew and could trust, she’d sleep with him. And why should it matter? she argued. After all, wasn’t he doing the same thing? Women came on to him in droves—he was handsome, mildly famous, fit and nice.

But no, he didn’t. A couple of times since first meeting Gretchen, before they were intimate, he’d had relationships of very short duration, women he met, saw briefly, kept in touch with for a matter of weeks before determining there was no foundation to support a long-distance relationship. But the racing circuit was tight; all the same people ran into one another all the damn time in all the same places.

Since he started having sex with Gretchen, talking to her almost daily, there had been no one else. They had something of a standoff as he insisted they decide what kind of relationship they were going to have moving forward. Friends? Lovers? A couple? A long-distance couple? A serious and committed couple? A family of two?