Page 14 of Racing Hearts

She laughs, hip checks me, and darts off.

When she’s gone, I scythe across the dance floor, dodging gyrating bodies and athletes yelling over the music in a dozen different languages. As I move, I keep my eyes fixed on my target—the bar, glowing purple with up-lights—so I can avoid any glances toward Maxwell’s booth. If he gives me another one of those pitying looks, I’ll probably scream.

My elbows land against the sticky surface at the far end. It’s somewhat quieter here—probably because we’re not facing any of the giant speakers—and I’m out of the way. Just me and a guy hunkered in a high-top chair, nursing a drink in silence. He looks about as dejected as I feel. I guess this is the loser section of the club.

A bartender with cropped blue hair and chipped black nail polish lands in front of me.

“What do you want?” she shouts in only slightly accented English.

I should probably chill with the Long Island Iced Teas, but I don’t know many other drink names. I glance down at the guy’s glass next to me, which has a promising slice of lemon among the ice cubes. “I’ll have that.”

The bartender rolls her eyes. “I don’t remember every drink I’ve made in the last hour.”

“Whiskey sour,” the guy with the tight shoulders supplies.

As the bartender wheels away, the man lifts his drink. His eyes catch mine over the rim and his eyebrows shoot up. My insides flare as I register a familiar green hue.

“It’s you,” I say.

“It’s you,” he responds.

“What are you doing here?”

He takes a long sip, considering me with those intense eyes. Maybe it’s because I’m tipsy, but I feel like I’m being sucked into his pupils, light and sound collapsing in their depths.

“The pastry didn’t hit hard enough.” He sets down his glass. He’s wearing a light blue button-down, but he has the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and the top button is undone, like his chest is trying to escape the restrictive fabric. “I’m here for something stronger.”

He’s still facing the bar, wide shoulders shadowing his drink. I’m not sure why I’m so struck by them. He’s not built like a swimmer, with a frame so broad it’s practically offensive. But maybe that’s just it—this guy is attractive in a well-rounded way. He’s tall, but unlike a volleyball player, it’s not his only striking feature. He’s got a broad chest, but I can also see the thick rise of quads underneath his dress pants. And then there are those eyes.

“So, your thing didn’t go well?” I ask.

He lifts a shoulder, but not his gaze. “Not exactly.”

“And you came to a nightclub for a drink?”

“It was in walking distance.”

Does he mean from the course? He must. I guess that’s the reason we picked this place. He said he’s not an athlete, though. A spectator? But he’s dressed so sexy finance man.

I’m about to ask when he says, “What happened with your race?”

“I bombed,” I say. “And then I lost my training center residency.”

“Damn,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

The lasso that’s been wrapped around my chest since my conversation with Carla tightens.

“You know what the most bullshit part is?” I ask.

“Tell me.”

“A year ago, I won this race.”

I close my eyes, swaying slightly despite my elbow anchoring me to a steady surface. That day ruled. It was the first time Carla told me she thought I had what it took to go all the way. The day Maxwell asked me out. Even though I’d never said yes to a real date before, I knew him well enough to know that he was the right match for me. Everything was clicking into place. My life was on schedule.

I blink open my eyes. “And now here I am.” I flap my hand around to our sad little corner and repeat what Maxwell told me two weeks ago. “I’ve peaked. The end is in sight. On the hor-i-zon.”

Music thuds, pulsating the bar under my elbows. Despite it, the silence between us stretches, tightens. I keep my eyes down to avoid whatever look of pity the man must be casting my way.