Off the Mark, page 2
“She’s been tired,” I finally said. “Hell, we’re all tired, right? And she’s a tough lady. I’m surprised that she never mentioned feeling overwhelmed to anyone on the team. She’s the one always telling us to take time off. To rest, to not work so much.”
Luciana’s eyes trailed over to the wall covered in pictures, posters, and degrees. “Elaine takes care of others. She doesn’t always take care of herself. Granted, I don’t know much about baseball, but I’m assuming it was easier to talk to your teammates about their injuries than divulge your own.”
I gave her a lopsided grin, remembering conversations just like that. I used to grind my molars down to dust through whatever therapy my shoulder and elbow went through after each game—all so I could stand on the pitcher’s mound again, waving to a crowd as razor-sharp pain turned my stomach.
But in the locker room? It was all casual jokes and easy laughter, trying to distract whoever was in searing agony next to me. When all I wanted to do was grab my arm and howl.
“Yeah, yeah I see your point,” I conceded, still grinning. “Maybe that’s what being a leader is all about.”
“Vulnerability is always challenging, but when you’re the one standing between people and their paychecks, or people and the programs they need, that kind of responsibility can become too heavy over time.” She tilted her head. “Leaders need to hold onto that spark, that vibrancy, to inspire others to get involved. To give money and time. It’s easy to lose it.”
Something about the way she said give money had my nerves jumping again. “And you think Elaine’s lost it, then?”
“I believe it’s much more complicated than that. Things always are. I can say that between Elaine’s burnout and general funding changes, the center has never been more at risk financially. We’ve been having to use our emergency reserves to cover payroll.”
My brow furrowed. “Elaine didn’t tell me any of this about…what did you call it?”
“Our emergency reserves. It’s like the savings account for our savings account. We were hoping to get back on track with the huge operating grant we receive from The Arnold Foundation every year in June.”
A chill raced down my spine. “But it’s early August.”
She tipped her head. “They announced their grantees two months ago, and we did not make the cut for the first time in a decade.”
I blew out a shocked breath. “You’re telling me that this money we rely on, some funder can just…what, take it without warning?”
“That is, unfortunately, standard operating procedure in the nonprofit industry.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me.”
She smiled—a genuine smile—for the first time since she arrived. “Oh, it is. And the timing is horrible. With Elaine out on medical leave, and our dire money situation, the board of directors will be scrambling to keep the center afloat. But it means making some tough cuts. Cuts we’d rather not make.”
“Hold up.” I leaned forward again. “Did you bring me in here to let me go or something?”
She shook her head. “No, not even close. We do need to start the process of cutting programs, even if it’s only temporary. And the senior food program that you started two years ago would be first on the list.”
My jaw clenched. “We can’t do that, Luciana. That program does too much good for this neighborhood, and besides—”
I paused, clueless as to how she’d respond if I said you can’t fire Dean. Dean, who was more brother to me than friend, who I’d known since we were four years old.
“Besides, what?” she prompted.
I swallowed my fear and smiled confidently instead. “Cutting that program isn’t an option, so I’m here to help with a creative solution. How does that sound?”
She laughed, her shoulders loosening finally. “Elaine was right.”
“About what?”
“I floated the idea of having a staff member step in as director in the interim, while we’re figuring out our next steps. She suggested you without hesitation.”
My eyebrows shot to my hairline. “Are you shitting me?”
“Elaine always had a strong hand in the programming here, so while we can strategize around fundraising, we need someone who knows the day-to-day business of running this place.” She pinned me with a look. “And I’ll be honest. Cutting programs here would be a massive loss to this community. But it might be our only option to save us, moving forward. I wouldn’t turn away any creative solutions to keep it though, Rowan. So if you want to be our interim director and shore up some extra funds so we can keep it? That’s the type of leadership we need.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face with a dry laugh. “I mean, you’ve done such a convincing job of selling this gig. Demanding, long hours, burnout, long-term health issues…”
She cracked a smile. “The truth’s the truth. I couldn’t offer it to you without being candid.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll be clear. The board, per Elaine’s recommendation, is asking you to step in as the director, temporarily, while we search for a funding miracle as well as Elaine’s replacement.”
“And you’re sure Elaine’s not coming back? I’m just having a difficult time not…” I swallowed. “You know. Imagining her not being around.”
“I am too,” she said softly. “She’s been not only a colleague to me but also a dear friend. But her wife, Mattie, told me that she’s been worried about Elaine’s health for months. This is not the way anyone wants to opt into retirement, but between you and me…it’s time. Elaine’s health needs come before anything else.”
I turned to face the windows, mulling over what she’d said. Knowing she was right. When I was playing ball, how many times was I sent out to replace a pitcher whose arm was spent?
How many damn times was I pulled off the mound for that exact same reason?
Our bodies had limits. I knew that better than anyone. And if the fate of the senior food program—and Dean’s job—was on the line, what choice did I have?
I rubbed a hand across my jaw before revealing a lazy grin. “It just so happens you picked the right day to come in here and ask. Because I woke up hungry for a challenge. Long-term, you’ll want to hire someone much more qualified than I am for the permanent role. But you can trust an ex-pitcher to step in and get the job done for the time being. And program cuts won’t be necessary. I’ll handle it, I promise.”
“It can be an immense amount of pressure, Rowan,” she said carefully. “Are you sure?”
I stretched my arms out wide behind me, hooking my ankle over my knee. “Pressure’s standing under the lights at Citi Field, dodging a ball rocketing at your head going ninety miles an hour. I watched Elaine do this job for the past three years. How hard can the learning curve be?”
3
CHARLIE
Dempsey handed me a bottle of water and a handful of ibuprofen with only a hint of disapproval on her face.
I was perched on the back of my truck, with my jacket, chest protector, goggles, and helmet in a pile by my side. Around us, the parking lot was crowded with a contingent of dedicated fans, fellow riders, race staff, and mechanics. The summer sun warmed my bare shoulders as I stretched my stiff neck.
Wincing, I chugged the bottle of water with the pain medicine. And when Dempsey crooked her finger, I bent my head and let her place an ice pack along my hairline.
My agent hadn’t competitively raced in more than a decade, but she still showed up to a track with the basics. She was almost as tall as I was—taller in those heels—and her suit was a deep, royal purple. Dempsey was in her late forties, white with a buzzed head, cat’s-eye glasses, and more ink on her body than I had.
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” I removed the ice pack to peer up at her.
“It’s not even been twenty minutes. Of course I’m still mad.”
“I know I’m a total pain in the ass.” I gave her my cheekiest grin. “Lovable though, right?”
Her fingers gently lifted my chin so she could examine my face for cuts and scrapes, an old habit of hers born more from affection than legitimate medical knowledge. “You’re lucky my specialty is working with stubborn, hard-headed…lovable…pains in the ass.”
Then her good humor vanished. “Charlie. You’re here in Philly for three weeks of elite-level racing and you bailed on a baby jump right before the finish line. This bad press situation would have been a lot better if you’d won.”
I trained my eyes on the city skyline, barely visible through the cloud of dust. “I had a bad race, Dempsey. This shit happens sometimes. You know that.”
“Yes, and numerous shots of tequila the night before make it more likely to happen.” My stomach lurched at the reminder. “You definitely know that.”
She stepped to the side, placing herself into my line of vision and studying me for so long I started to fidget. “Is everything okay with you?”
I flexed my hand, testing the tender knuckles. They’d been hit by a spray of rocks thrown back by the rider in front of me on the first lap. “I’m fine. Apart from, you know, embarrassing myself in front of my fans and colleagues just now.”
“You’re fine,” she repeated flatly.
“Yep. Though I would literally kill for a greasy breakfast sandwich.”
“Because all of this”—she waved her hand up and down my body—“has avoiding my feelings written all over it. Is Malcolm okay?”
I hid a grimace. “Dad’s groovy. Currently going through an obsession with British baking shows and feeding a lot of burned croissants to his dogs.”
Dempsey looked ready to call me on my bullshit—and she’d be well within her right—when a happy-sounding commotion drew our attention back to the racetrack. The final scores had been posted. Next to Charlie Maddox, it read DNF.
Did Not Finish.
My cheeks went hot. Been awhile since that happened.
Cheering fans circled around the winner, a rider my age named Riley Miller. Unlike me, Riley rode with a team called Archer’s Angels, and those same teammates hoisted her in the air while she held her medal high, sun glinting off her pale, freckled skin and hot-pink hair.
When they finally placed her on the ground, they gathered around for a group photo, their body language with each other easy and familiar. Their joy obvious.
Until Bettencourt had signed me, I’d been a privateer, so I only got paid when I won. Good race or bad, the responsibility was solely on me.
Teams were more collaborative. Even a single member placing in the top three meant they all got paid—the overall winnings might be slightly less, but at least you weren’t alone. I watched them now with a flicker of something like jealousy in the center of my chest. A yearning with a sharp edge that made me afraid to examine it too closely.
I shrugged it off. Being on a team seemed cute and all but relying on others had always been a surefire way to get disappointed.
My eyes slid to Dempsey’s. “Tequila was a mistake.”
“It’s always a mistake.”
“But I’m honestly confused as to why Bettencourt cares,” I continued. “Yeah, I fucked up today. And last night. But I’ve got three more races before the championship race, plus the press conference and the dinner. How am I violating my contract?”
She held up my jacket and tapped the logo emblazoned on the back. “The extremely lucrative contract I scored for you comes with rules and expectations, babe. Those include attending investor dinners, so they can see that their generous investment in your career is working. And you’ve blown off the last three.”
I scowled. “I hate all that fake fancy shit. And I was busy practicing.”
“They’re mandatory.”
I shifted, that burn in my cheeks growing hotter. Interacting with my fans was always fun. We shared a common, adrenaline-fueled language, a love of muddy tracks and rattling engines.
Interacting with a bunch of men in suits who gawked at women pro racers like we were animals in a zoo always put me on edge.
Her voice softened. “Part of this contract is that they expect you to win races, Charlie.”
“Today was a legit fluke.”
Her eyebrow raised. “You haven’t even placed in the top three in any race since The X Games six months ago. An issue we’re going to have to address at some point.”
I gently flexed my sore hand again. “I’m winning the next three and claiming that championship, Dempsey. It’s been my destiny since the X Games win.”
For any professional motocross rider, there were a handful of significant races that could make your career. I’d already won The X Games—twice—but had only ever placed at the annual Women’s Motocross Championship. These three weeks were the biggest, most well-attended moto events of the season. Multiple races with hefty purses led up to the championship, on top of trick demonstrations, vendors and exhibits, fan meet-and-greets, and a gala dinner, where riders schmoozed potential sponsors.
And this year it was being held in Philadelphia. I’d been here less than 72 hours and my senses were already heightened, anticipating a glimpse of dark red hair, that cocky grin, those broad shoulders.
Dempsey handed me her tablet. “I believe it’s your destiny too, babe. Because I believe in you or I wouldn’t have flown all the way out here.” She tapped her manicured nail on the screen. “Bettencourt’s reputation is family-friendly. No controversy, squeaky clean. You know I get it, all the public image bullshit you’re up against all the time. The way you have to be a million different things to a million different people. The endless hypocrisy.”
I snagged her hand and squeezed in sympathy. Before she was my agent, Dempsey McKenna had been one of the racers I’d followed obsessively. She was fast and flashy on the track. Charming with her fans. But she’d also been an out, gay woman in the early 2000s, completely at the mercy of homophobic reporters.
She was an expert in how hypocritical this industry could be.
“But,” she continued, “regardless of all of that, it’s still completely reasonable for a sponsor to expect the rider wearing their name on their back to not be on sports gossip sites looking trashed.”
I finally glanced down at the article on the screen. The Bad Girl of Moto’s Night on the Town Turns Drunk and Disorderly was the cheap, and inaccurate, title. My dad had been surprised at this nickname the first time he’d heard it, a moniker that earned me adoration or scorn depending on the day and who you asked.
Though he shouldn’t have been. He was the original bad boy of the sport, after all: heavily tattooed, surly with the media, a racer with an aggressive, fearless style.
And he always had me—the wild, scrawny daughter he dragged along to every race.
But moto had changed from the early rough-and-tumble days of my father’s reign. It was more popular than ever, with a growing global following hungry for content from their favorite riders.
We all needed to have personal brands. A robust social media presence. An ability to captivate fans. The first time I was teased with that nickname, it stuck.
Wasn’t that hard to keep it sticking either. Really wasn’t that hard to lean into the extra edge the reputation gave me. These days, athletes did anything to stand out, and there were worse things than fans thinking I was some party girl with too many tattoos.
Except the party girl pictures currently displayed on this screen were not fucking great. There’d been six of us last night, a loose group of other riders I knew casually that had invited me to tag along. Unbeknownst to us, these bars had been packed with fans, in town for the championship, and we’d gotten recognized fast.
Between the angle of the pictures, the dim bar lighting, and the blur of movement, I somehow managed to look bleary-eyed, stumbling, and wasted.
“I look like a goddamn sorority girl on her first spring break,” I muttered.
“Don’t read the comments,” Dempsey cautioned.
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing a sigh. “I’d rather not hear any internet strangers’ hot takes on this one.”
I pressed the tablet back into her hand, too embarrassed to look further. “Listen. I, uh…I see your point. And I’m truly sorry that I pissed them off. If it’s any consolation, you can tell them I’m hungover and just ate shit on a baby jump. But what else can I say? Bettencourt knew I didn’t have some girl-next-door image when they signed me. The Maddox family isn’t exactly known for our squeaky-clean reputations.”
She studied me with a look of fond exasperation. “Bettencourt wanted you because you’re one of the best and only getting better.” She hesitated but didn’t say the words hanging between us—until recently, that is. “So yes, your bad girl image and sleeves of tattoos aren’t usually their thing, but they were willing to make an exception for you. To take a risk on you—a risk they expect to pay off for them financially. But I also promised that whatever issues you’d had with your reputation wouldn’t be a problem moving forward.”
She leaned in to pluck a twig from my snarled hair. “When pro racers sign with a sponsor like Bettencourt, they’re on their best behavior. I assumed you’d do the same, Charlie.”
Dempsey was right. In the world of motocross, I’d hit the lottery and here I was not taking it seriously.
The feelings of unease in the pit of my stomach ratcheted up a notch. This conversation held too many echoes of ones between me and my dad when I was younger, when we had nothing to eat in the house and not a lot of money to buy more. Before the accident that had changed everything, my father’s stubborn pride led to him losing out on a lot of opportunities too.
“You’re right,” I admitted. “I’m not sure how to fix this clause-violating thing, but whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it.”
She dropped her gaze, the gesture sending a spike of panic through me. “I’ve done my best, smoothing their ruffled feathers, but I came here because I have a feeling they’re going to cut you. Terminate the contract due to the violations.”
