“Watch it.”
Liam laughed. “Still, very impressive, and I noticed a few people had their phones out. I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw a video of Jack Swisher, Good Samaritan, come out later. Maybe that newspaper reporter will even call you for an interview.”
“He’s friends with her, you know.”
“Who is?”
“Joe Monroe. He’s the reporter you meant, right?”
“Yeah, but friends with who?”
“Steph Pierce.”
“Steph—that was Steph Pierce? I had no idea. Man, if I’d known, I would’ve been taking my own video. Rival running club—”
“We’re not rivals.”
“Tell her that.”
“I’ve been trying to. You know that.” Jack turned away from the street and rolled his shoulder, testing it. He’d tweaked it when grabbing Steph. No doubt he’d feel it later. “Car didn’t even slow down.”
“People these days.” Liam shook his head.
They fell into step toward the bank, boots finding the cleared center of the sidewalk. Jack had been in Basin County for eight months, which was long enough to learn the pace in Irma was different from anything he’d experienced before. He was still adjusting to that.
He’d been doing a lot of adjusting lately. That was what happened when the life you thought you had suddenly turned upside down. When it required being rebuilt from the ground up.
Moving to the tiny town of Elkridge, Wyoming, half an hour south of Irma, had been a gamble. It was still a gamble.
The Olympic trials felt like someone else’s life. The United States had never medaled in the biathlon, a sport combining cross-country skiing with target shooting, and Jack was supposed to change that.
So much for that.
He had everything going for him—the ideal coach and solid skills. The media campaign was a big deal. ManyAmericans had never even heard of the biathlon or Jack Swisher, and the goal was to turn both into household names.
If the guy on the street was any indication, the media campaign may have been successful. Jack wasn’t exactly a household name, but he was known in many circles. That made the reality of what actually happened even more real.
Not only did he not make the Olympic team, but he also destroyed his chances of ever competing again.
Liam Dixon, a man he barely knew from a promotion he’d done a few years ago for an energy drink, had been the one who showed up to help put the pieces back together. He had a crazy proposition. Move to the middle of nowhere, start a running club, and turn it into a world-class trail run.
Crazy or not, Jack took the chance. A new start in a new town—a new state, even. Maybe it wasn’t cross-country skiing or shooting, but he could make it work. Everything for the newly formed Elkridge Running Club and Endurance Races was coming along.
The running club had real momentum. And Elkridge—population 3,007—had been more welcoming than he had any right to expect for a newcomer who’d shown up with big ideas and someone else’s money.
He held the bank door, and Liam went through first.
Inside, it was warm and smelled of coffee and popcorn. A woman behind the counter greeted Liam by name and smiled broadly at Jack. He watched her face as the recognition hit.
“Mr. Swisher. Good to see you again.”
It still surprised him, the way of a small town. He wasn’t sure if it was a Basin County thing or a small-Wyomingthing, or simply the effect of a man showing up in a town and trying to do something.
Or maybe it was left over from the biathlon hype. He’d met her before, when they first came in to talk about setting up the accounts, but she didn’t seem to know him then. Maybe, in the weeks since, she’d searched his name and watched the videos, same as the man on the street.
Chances were good she knew the whole story now. Knew how he’d never compete again, not by his own choice. The Elkridge Running Club was a new opportunity, a way to stay engaged in something outdoors—he’d never survive forty hours a week in a cubicle—and a way to build a new name for himself.
He rubbed his shoulder. Besides, he liked running. Running during the off-season was how he’d stayed fit since high school. Turning his love of running into a business was smart and had real potential. At least that’s what he told himself.
