Off the Mark, page 1
OFF THE MARK
KATHRYN NOLAN
Copyright © 2022 Kathryn Nolan
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Faith N. Erline
and Jessica Snyder
Cover by Kari March
ISBN: 979-8-88643-966-3 (ebook)
ISBN: 979-8-88643-967-0 (paperback)
110722a
CONTENTS
1. Charlie
2. Rowan
3. Charlie
4. Rowan
5. Charlie
6. Rowan
7. Rowan
8. Charlie
9. Charlie
10. Rowan
11. Rowan
12. Charlie
13. Charlie
14. Charlie
15. Rowan
16. Rowan
17. Charlie
18. Rowan
19. Rowan
20. Charlie
21. Charlie
22. Rowan
23. Charlie
24. Charlie
25. Rowan
26. Rowan
27. Charlie
28. Rowan
29. Charlie
30. Charlie
31. Rowan
32. Charlie
Epilogue
What to read next?
A Note from the Author
Acknowledgments
Hang Out With Kathryn!
About Kathryn
Books By Kathryn
For those who are finally free. Long may we roam.
1
CHARLIE
Showing up to the racetrack hungover was a mistake.
I stood astride my dirt bike in the muggy morning air, trapped behind a starting gate with twenty other riders. The jagged roar of the engines had my back teeth grinding together. Beneath my boots, the earth vibrated, sending shock waves through my bones.
Dempsey appeared on the sidelines, coffee in one hand and a glare I recognized. I lifted a tentative hand in greeting. My agent cocked her head like a predator, sizing me up.
Yep.
Mistakes had been made.
A fluttering green flag rose in front of us, and adrenaline pulsed through my veins. My body shifted forward, the entire world narrowing to that blaze of emerald. Anticipating its glorious descent. The tunnel vision banished the worst of my nausea and residual regret from last night. Though Dempsey’s obvious ire flickered in my periphery.
Green flashed. The gates fell with a screech of metal. Pure instinct had me rushing headlong in a pack of bikes, aiming to be the first to the turn.
I was fifth.
My wheels careened through ruts carved into the packed dirt and mud by countless tires before mine. There was the usual jostling within the middle pack until we all hit the first jump looking like an angry cloud of dust. I soared high with a muffled whoop of satisfaction—nothing more than a hurtling projectile of leather and metal.
Then I landed, gritting my teeth through the familiar shock before finally taking the lead.
Growing up, my dad tried his best to curb my competitive streak. The only rider you ever need to focus on out there is you, Charlie. You’re competing against yourself and no one else.
Except once I was old enough to travel with him on the road, I watched that man lose his mind over every lost race. Watched him fume and fret like a reluctant toddler being put down for a nap. His irritation never lasted long. Not his style.
But I understood from a young age that his attempts to coach me out of needing to win were mostly bullshit.
I leaned low into the next turn, dragging my wheels through rough mud. A trio of riders were hot on my tail, and on the next long stretch they caught up to me. We battled it out through another single jump and then a sharp, nasty drop-off that rattled my joints.
The four of us bolted over the starting line for our second lap. Our bikes pitched to the side in unison on that first tight turn, and my blood sang with a buoyant weightlessness. Even tethered to this dirt-packed track, there was no mistaking the joy that snapped at my heels, urging me towards flight.
We roared into lap three as one single blur of movement. And, okay—I’d done too many shots last night but I could still feel this victory in my chest. Especially when a patch of mud stalled the rider next to me, her tires spinning out as she tried to push through. I avoided the same slowdown, and suddenly I was tearing up the crest of the final drop-off.
My belly flipped as I soared, and I punched a fist in the air in preparation for my win. I landed so hard, my shoulder blades shook. And then my front wheel hit a large, jagged rock on the track that must have been dislodged during the second lap.
“Shit,” I hissed, fighting to stay upright, losing my momentum. Which sent me sliding sideways into the last slope, pitching me off at an awkward angle. I bailed from my seat—the kind of rookie error I hadn’t made in years—aiming for a soft patch of grass that turned out to be dirt as unforgiving as concrete.
Every gasp of air whooshed from my lungs. Stars swirled in my vision while my limbs reverberated with the impact. I coughed out a shaky “Fuck me” and pressed my head back into the dirt with a wince. Tugged off my goggles until I was gazing up at a bright blue summer sky.
A member from the crew rushed over to wave a yellow flag over my prone body, letting the other riders know I’d taken a fall and to use caution moving past me. Someone in the front pack called out a muffled, “You okay, Maddox?”
I held up a thumb to indicate I was probably fine, though the crew member didn’t look so sure.
“The med team’s running over,” he said. “Did you break anything?”
I gingerly pushed myself to sit and did a little mental scan for injuries. But I only felt the sting of wounded pride and a back that would ache tomorrow. So, about the usual for a professional motocross racer.
“Trust me, I’ve had way worse,” I said, squinting one eye shut against the sun. “But can you carry my bike off? And tell the team not to bother. I’ll have them check me over before I leave, promise.”
He nodded eagerly and went to work. Behind him, Dempsey picked her way along the track in stiletto heels with the confidence of a former rider and the expensive pantsuit of an in-demand sports agent.
“Are you dead?” she called out.
I dropped my head back down to the dirt. “Don’t think so.”
I heard the crunch-crunch-crunch of her heels. Then her pinched face appeared over my body, less concerned. More annoyed.
“I haven’t seen you bail on a jump in a long time,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I was a little distracted. This is my first time on this track.”
A single eyebrow raised. “Does your distraction have anything to do with you going on a bender in Philly with a few other racers I assume are also getting lectured by their agents right now?”
I scowled, pushing up to sit again. “A bender? I went out to the bars with some friends and had one too many shots. I’m not some teenager on her first spring break.”
Though one too many was a slight under-exaggeration. But I wasn’t too hungover to admit that the crisis call I’d received right before deciding to go party—and the very real panic in my dad’s voice on the other end—had contributed to my “teenager on spring break” choice of tequila.
Dempsey helped me stand, brushing dirt from the side of my pants like an aggravated older sister. She had faded tattoos on her fingers and a manicure that would cost me a week’s worth of groceries. “But Bettencourt is your sponsor now, and a company like that isn’t too happy about the many, many pictures of you on every sports website, looking wasted.”
I tore off my helmet and shoved my bangs to the side. “Are you being serious right now?”
She nodded grimly.
“So…what? Am I in some kind of trouble?”
Dempsey shot me a look of pure exasperation. “Does violating multiple clauses in your brand-new, lucrative contract sound like trouble?”
2
ROWAN
I leaned against the doorway and raised a Styrofoam cup of coffee at the beauty with sleep-tousled hair.
“Thanks for this. And for last night,” I said.
Carla bit her lip with a grin. “I had a nice time with you. A really nice time.” She gave my body an exaggerated perusal that had me matching her smile. “But I shouldn’t be surprised by that.”
I tossed her a wink before starting down her steps and onto the sidewalk. “Always happy to be of service, ma’am.”
“Yeah, that angelic act doesn’t fool me one bit,” she called out with a laugh.
I spun back to her and pressed a hand to the center of my chest. “As if I’d ever sin.”
“Tell that to my broken headboard.”
Chuckling, I sent her one last look before hooking a left turn onto Eighth Street, whistling under my breath as I walked to work. Carla didn’t ask to call me again, and I didn’t offer.
She knew what I was about.
It was a hot and humid morning in South Philly with not a single tree in sight to offer any shade. I crossed the narrow street, dodging the 47 bus and setting off a chorus of beeping horns from the cars behind it. Neighbors perched on stoops, smoking cigarettes while sweeping their tiny patches of sidewalk. Shopkeepers rolled open corner sto res, family-run delis, and panaderías.
Still whistling, I strolled past the Cambodian Buddhist temple that sat across the street—neighbors stood outside, lighting sticks of incense beneath an ornate red-and-gold awning. I called out a greeting, then jogged up the short path to the front door of the South Philadelphia Recreational Center. Then I twisted to the side to let a group of kids run past me to the basketball courts. There was a chorus of “Hey, Mr. Rowan” as they turned the corner, disappearing to go do the same thing Dean and I had done every day here when we were growing up.
“Mornin’,” I yelled back, “and careful on that asphalt. It’s hot out there today.”
I popped my head into the first large room on the left. Dean Knox-Morelli sat at a table with Edna Kozlowski, surrounded by piles and piles of eggplants. “Not even nine a.m. and you two troublemakers are up to no good?”
Edna stood, adding a few extra bags of carrots to her weekly food box. “Let’s not pretend that the biggest troublemaker at this place isn’t you, Rowan Shane O’Callaghan.”
I winced. “Little early for the middle name, don’t you think?” I indicated the excess produce. “Do we have a plan for this eggplant surprise?”
Dean nodded and handed me a clipboard with a long list of names. “Eddie’s already taking it out to these folks. Some extra is going across the street to the Temple. The rest will get used in the cooking classes this week.”
I scanned the list, happy to see it get dispersed through Eddie, who always knew which of our elderly neighbors needed food this week. That was thanks to his many contacts at church, the Acme, and his favorite bingo hall off Oregon Avenue.
I passed the list back and tipped my head toward Edna. “Glad to hear it. You see Harper catch that fly ball in the bottom of the sixth last night?”
Her cheeks went pink. “Bryce Harper is too handsome for this world.”
“If that’s the case, I must be some advanced-level threat to the whole universe, huh?”
Dean made an aggravated sound of protest, and Edna swatted my shoulder. “Trouble.”
She sniffed daintily, so I bent to plant a kiss on her cheek. Edna and her twin sister were in their eighties and lived together in the same row home they’d grown up in. They were second-generation Polish-Americans who had kept a watchful eye on me and Dean when we were kids.
“Edna, if you see my grandmother when you’re out today, tell her I’m bringing over pork chops and cabbage for dinner tonight?”
“As long as you bring us leftovers,” she replied.
“There’s already a Tupperware container with your name on it,” I promised. I clapped Dean on the shoulder as I walked past him towards the door. “I probably have a meeting I’m forgetting, but if you end up having eggplant problems, let me know.”
“Benny’s later?” he asked.
“Always, big guy.”
In the crowded hallway, I stepped around two harried-looking program interns and then almost spilled an entire cup of coffee all over Luciana Pérez.
“Luciana,” I said, startled. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to bump into the board president. Are you here to see Elaine?”
She pressed her lips together, shaking her head. “Do you have a few minutes to speak with me in her office? I’m sure you’ve got a busy morning, but this is serious. And urgent.”
I hesitated at the strain in her voice. “Of course. I’m all yours.”
Luciana followed me down our main hallway, past the computer lab, kitchen, and the large windows that faced the playground. To the left was our library and the door leading to the basketball court.
This center was one of the beating hearts of this neighborhood—a place for kids who lived in a city without backyards. A place for folks like Edna to pick up extra food when they needed it. We offered reliable internet, hot coffee, and an extra-wide front stoop for company and gossip.
And after my first year pitching in the majors ended with a career-destroying shoulder injury, this place had welcomed me home with open arms.
I pushed open Elaine’s door, pausing mid-step when I realized it was empty. Pausing, again, when I realized what a mess it was inside. I tried to remember the last time I’d been in here. Six months ago, maybe? Elaine liked moving around the office, hosting meetings in different locations to feel less trapped behind her desk.
I flipped on the light switch and blinked. Winced.
Now it looked even worse.
“I, uh…I guess Elaine’s not here yet,” I mumbled as I took in the chaos. “She should be in any second now. It’s not like her to be late.”
Luciana shut the door and clasped her hands in front of her. “Rowan, have a seat. Please.”
I slowly rubbed the back of my neck. “You’re makin’ me a little nervous over here. Is everything cool?”
Her eyes darted over to a chair. So I did as instructed, setting my coffee on the dust-covered glass table. I’d only known Luciana for a few years, but she was one hell of a board president. Like me, she was born and raised here, growing up a mile from the center after her parents moved from Quito, in Ecuador. She was in her late forties, with short, dark hair, light tan skin, and tortoiseshell glasses.
Her expression softened. “Rowan, I’m sorry to have to tell you this…Elaine had a heart attack late last night.”
My stomach dropped. “Jesus. Is she all right?”
“She’s improving but not out of the woods. I got a call from her wife, early this morning, letting me know that Elaine was still hospitalized and was an excellent candidate for surgery. It’s hopeful news, and her prognosis is excellent, but Elaine won’t be coming back to work for a while.” She paused, indicated the space around her. “Or potentially…ever.”
I reared back. “That’s not possible. Elaine is the rec center. She was working here when Dean and I were kids. She hired me after I got injured when I was a real bastard to be around. She has to come back.”
Luciana dragged over a chair to sit facing me. There were dark circles under her eyes. A weariness to the set of her mouth. “We’re all devastated by this. It’s unexpected. And scary. And, yes, Elaine has worked very hard to make this place feel like a home. Her impact is undeniable.” She studied me for a moment. “How much did Elaine share with you about the inner workings here?”
I dropped my elbows to my knees. “Not much. I coordinate the programs, so we do meet often, going over logistics, issues, staffing needs. Elaine was always worried about money, but I still got paid the same time every month.” I shrugged. “Why?”
She glanced at her hands before looking back up at me. “This city owes more than I can say to Elaine and her leadership over the past thirty years. She’s a true visionary, and the neighborhood has come to rely on her tremendously.”
I nodded, remembering the earliest, worst months after my parents died. The sheer volume of food that arrived on our doorstep. I learned later that at least half of it had come from the rec center. From Elaine.
“Sometimes when a nonprofit has had the same leader for decades, things can start to go a little…sideways. People get seriously burned out. They get forgetful. It’s a normal part of the process, and we’ve been more aware of it over the past year or so.”
Luciana pinned me with a steady gaze. “Elaine’s exhausted. I’m sure you’ve seen the effects.” She indicated the mess surrounding us. “Long hours, late nights, the stress of keeping everyone paid. It’s a tough job, and she’s been doing it longer than most.”
I clasped my hands together, struggling to admit that possibly—okay definitely—we’d been picking up the slack on stuff Elaine hadn’t been doing. It hadn’t stood out as being a problem though. Helping each other had always been part of the job.
