Off the Mark, page 7
“You’d think I haven’t been doing this since I was five years old,” I drawled.
Her lips pursed. “It doesn’t mean you don’t need help out here. Everyone else has some. A trainer or a team would carry everything for you. Including goggles.”
I ignored the question buried within her—understandable—point. “Thanks for the last-minute assist though. Do you want to give me the bad news before I go do a bunch of death-defying stunts?”
She crossed her arms, the colorful lines of her tattoos curling out from the sleeves of her silk top. “It could be worse. As of today, Bettencourt is still your sponsor. For now. I finally got a short face-to-face meeting right before this and promised them perfect behavior and wins.”
I glanced up in total surprise and grabbed her hands. “Dempsey, you queen.”
“There are stipulations. Big ones.”
“Name ’em,” I said.
“You are on shaky ground. Consider this like a probation. One more mistake and you’re out. Permanently. I’m talking an inch of bad press, an unflattering picture, a PR fuck-up.” She ducked to hold my gaze. “And continued losses.”
Jittery nerves flooded my veins, but I hoped that my goggles and helmet obscured them from her view. An announcer called out the two-minute warning, and I reached for my handles.
“Win everything and don’t fuck up,” I repeated. “I can do that. Will do that. Dempsey, I’m being serious here—you’re a lifesaver.”
She checked a message on her phone but with a pleased smile on her face. “So I’ve been told. Oh, sorry, I forgot to mention the most important part.” She looked up, beamed. “Bring that nice boyfriend of yours to the press event.”
My relief vanished so swiftly I got light-headed. “My…what?”
“I casually let it slip that you had a Philly boyfriend during the meeting and the reps were very happy to hear it, which is a hopeful sign. They want to meet him.”
The announcer’s voice boomed across the field. “Riders, are you ready?”
It was terrible timing for those of us panicking.
“Anyway, don’t forget to win. It’s super important,” she yelled over her shoulder, stepping away from the track in her stilettos.
I cursed under my breath, scrambling now. The green flag fluttered, then dropped, and the starting gates released. The crowded pocket of chaotic energy I was in exploded forward, riders peeling ahead and around the first sharp turn. But by the second lap, I was still mid-pack.
Mud flew around us, and the crowd was a technicolor blur of signs and waving hands. Every time I coasted off a jump—usually a moment of gravity-free bliss—was overshadowed by the embarrassment I’d been boiling under since huffing out of Rowan’s office.
The end of my dad’s career was less about one single injury and more the accumulation of injuries from too many bike crashes on the track. But when his last accident permanently damaged his knee joints, a professional career was impossible.
So much of the household responsibility landed on me. I had to manage a part-time job after school while balancing my own fledgling moto career. Had to stretch my dad’s final winnings and measly savings account to cover our multiplying bills.
My aunts and uncles didn’t seem to care. My mother was in the wind. Our town had a penchant for malicious gossip, so even as a teenager, I knew not to utter a word about our struggles.
Most days, I’d rather get a tooth pulled than ask another person for help.
Asking Rowan for help—especially for a favor that was so weird and intimate—had been a huge mistake.
I was the one who’d fucked everything up anyway. I could fix it by myself. Would have to, after I figured out a way to un-boyfriend myself to Dempsey.
Regret curdled in my gut. The entire experience had been made worse by the fact that Rowan was only considering going along with my scheme because he thought he owed me for being there with him the night of his shoulder injury. I hadn’t seen it happen—actually felt lucky that I didn’t have the game on, because per Rowan’s recollection, he’d collapsed onto the field after the throw that shattered his arm.
Just him telling me the story was a chilling enough image to stay with me for weeks.
But the minute he called me —voice strained and ragged, hospital sounds in the background—I’d kicked every damn patron out of the bar and booked it the five long hours to Queens. It was the one time, truly, where I’d been my most vulnerable and honest.
He thought it was some kind of…transaction.
I tightened my grip and attempted to focus as we came around the third lap with only two to go. The trio of riders in front of me stayed there, dodging my efforts to sneak past no matter how hard I tried. The memory of asking Rowan O’Callaghan to be my fake boyfriend kept eroding the edges of my concentration.
So did his smile. That confident flick of a grin that was just sweet enough not to be smug. And just sexy enough to send me flying off a jump at an awkward angle in the final lap.
I landed wrong in a rut, way too close to another rider, and my back tire didn’t cooperate. I grimaced through the muscular work of keeping the bike upright, but my right hand slipped and smacked against the rear tire of the rider I was battling it out with.
The glove mostly protected me, but a sharp pain still exploded from the point of contact. Frustrated tears stung my eyes.
I was making rookie mistakes like it was my job now. And the finish line was closing in much too fast. A loose pack of us crossed the line in a final blur.
I finished fifth.
I gradually came to a stop in a cloud of dust and pulled off my gloves, goggles, and helmet. A quick scan of the board only confirmed that I’d lost.
Blinking away the tears from earlier, I swallowed a few times and fixed a polite smile on my face. Cameras were already swarming the winner—it wasn’t Riley, but one of her Archer’s Angels teammates this time. Her team celebrated all the same, gathering around as she beamed—triumphant, surrounded by her people, waving to their fans.
I caught the attention of Riley and her girlfriend, Quinn, who were mixed in with the crowd and taking pictures already. Their expressions were open. Friendly. I raised my hand to wave, got too nervous, pulled back, then winced when I realized how bruised and bloody my knuckles were.
They exchanged puzzled looks. My face flushed, the back of my neck growing hot.
I had the distinct feeling that I was being swallowed by a patch of quicksand that I couldn’t escape.
Until I swung off my bike and came face-to-face with Rowan. He wore a white T-shirt, a frayed Phillies hat, and a half grin that had the breath catching in my throat.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed a friend.
“What are…what are you doing here?” I stammered.
“I came to see your race. You were brilliant, by the way. Lookin’ extra strong on those triple jumps.”
I blinked, dazed for a moment. Then shifted my attention toward the track. “I wish… I should have won. But I was too late out of the gate.”
He made a sound of sympathy that had me turning back. “Losing sucks. Every fucking time. I get it.”
He always did, always had. It made talking to Rowan at Jolene’s…easy. Not having to explain the vicious ups and downs of being a pro athlete.
“If I’d known you were in the crowd, I would have shown off more. Busted out a few of my special tricks.”
His smile was indulgent. Almost lazy. “Maybe next time? I’ll come prepared with better signage too.” He held a torn-off piece of notebook paper, where in pen he’d written I’m Charlie Maddox’s #1 Fan!
The sight of it startled a laugh from me. “I’m not sure it can get better than this, O’Callaghan.”
Then his eyes fell to my right hand. A muscle ticked in his jaw. He lifted his own palm, seeking permission, and I set my hand in his. A spark of awareness burst through the pain, sending a shiver along my spine that was deeply annoying. Because if I admitted it to the cocky redhead in front of me, he’d likely claim that was the effect he had on a lot of people.
“You hurt yourself again.” It wasn’t a question. He ducked his head and his breath caressed along my skin. “What’d you do, get in a fistfight out on the track?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Slammed my hand into another rider’s tire.”
He tsked. “You’re lucky it isn’t broken. Do you have a first aid kit in your truck?”
“Sure, but there’s a medic tent over there. I can just…”
I trailed off, because he’d taken a step closer, forcing my gaze to meet his. “I’m a former pitcher, Maddox. I’ve bandaged up more split-open knuckles than anything else.” He tipped his head toward the parking lot. “Come on. Let me fix you up.”
“Fix me up?” I asked, standing still when he was clearly trying to get me to follow.
He rolled his eyes playfully, like I was being difficult in a way he found adorable. I was suddenly aware of interest in us—not much, but an added scrutiny.
Rowan hovered his mouth close to my cheek. “As it turns out, I don’t know shit about being a boyfriend. Never been one before. But I think a good boyfriend would patch you up.” He paused. “Right?”
Electric heat flooded my veins. I swallowed hard but forced my own confident grin. “Possibly. Though you’re not a medical doctor last time I checked, O’Callaghan.” I held up my hand. “This baby could be fully broken. And now, just because you’re my boyfriend, I follow along without using my deductive reasoning?”
He seemed to consider this for a moment. Then shrugged his massive shoulders. “Yeah, but you didn’t request a smart boyfriend. And we both know it’s not broken.”
“How the hell do we know that?”
He nodded down at the hand in question, where I’d been gesturing a moment ago. “You wouldn’t be able to flutter it around. And you’d be screaming. Or at least wailing. I’ve never broken a hand myself, but I’ve seen plenty of them happen in my storied career.” He tossed me a wink. “Trust your boyfriend.”
Rowan turned towards my truck, and a full ten seconds later I realized that I was following him. Obediently. I planted my feet, stunned, but that only placed me directly in front of the crowd of fans. I brightened, starting to move towards them. But a heavy arm landed on my shoulders, spinning me back to the truck.
“She’ll be right there,” he called, voice smooth as silk. “I need to check that hand of hers first.”
I resisted the urge to scowl at him—just barely. “What the actual fuck are you doing?”
“Pretending to date you,” he murmured. “Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”
It was. And I had. And I needed this. I’d noticed the swooned look of a few fans when he’d gently redirected me. That reaction was the exact reason why I suggested this absurd idea in the first place.
Still pissed me off though, how much the weight of his arm wrapped around my shoulders felt like a comfort. The way the intensity of his focus was like being burned up by the sun.
And not a bad burn either. Which was irritating.
But instead, I attempted another smile. It was hot out, the air dusty, the lot busy and loud. I pulled open the side door of my sea-green truck and fished out my first aid kit. While Rowan picked through the splints and gauze, I lowered the bed and tried to haul myself in.
Tried being the operative word.
My busted hand wasn’t broken—Rowan was aggravatingly correct—but putting weight on it wasn’t ideal. A second later, he stood next to me, mirth in his gaze.
“Have something you want to add?” I asked, trying again.
“Not specifically. But I can lift you. If you’d like.” His eyes flicked behind us then back to me. I could read what he was trying to communicate.
People watching. People interested. Fans with cameras.
“Thank you for asking,” I said, “and uh…go for it.”
He reached over the side of the truck and set the first aid kit into the bed. Those large, strong hands landed on my waist, and I was briefly airborne then softly seated. He stepped back quickly, putting space between us. His throat worked on a swallow.
“I guess that’s the…boyfriendly…thing to do,” I managed.
He waved it off, taking my hand and placing it on my knee. “I’m asking this as a friend but…do you ever have anyone help you on race day? A mechanic? A trainer?”
“Not really, no.” I lifted my chin. “I’ve never needed it.”
He didn’t respond, merely tore open the antibiotic wipes and took my hand in his. “Look up at me?”
I did, prepared for the sting and—
“Fuck, why does it feel like that every time?”
One side of his mouth hitched up. “The second time I broke one of my fingers, I was running from a girl’s jealous boyfriend.” At the sign of my brow raising, he continued. “It’s not what you think. Well, technically, it is. She’d taken me home for the night but neglected to mention said boyfriend. A serious one, who worked the night shift.”
“He caught you?” The fizzing pain in my knuckles was briefly ignored.
“Almost.” Another wink. “I ran out of there, carrying my clothes, but snagged my finger in their sliding glass door on the way out. Didn’t notice until I was a block away and had to call Dean to take me to the ER.” He held up his right pinky, which did have a slight bend to it. “Luckily it wasn’t my throwing hand. It hurts when it rains though.”
His head dipped as he applied the butterfly bandages, and I realized much too late how utterly surrounded I was—my knees brushed the soft material of his shorts. His upper body blocked the sun and parts of the crowd. The side of his neck was exposed to me, all strong corded muscle.
I inhaled Rowan’s scent, familiar even after our time apart: clean soap, warm sun and green grass.
“There…we…go.” He raised my hand for my perusal. “How’s that feel?”
I blinked, refocused.
“Uh…better. Feels better. Thanks,” I muttered. “Will your ego only increase if I say that you’re good at this?”
“Good at what?” He slid the brim of his hat up an inch. “Bandaging your knuckles or being a boyfriend?”
I rolled my eyes. “The knuckles, O’Callaghan.”
He grinned. “That’s the sound of my ego doubling in size.”
I turned to the racing track, hiding a smile, and saw Dempsey making her way toward us with a quizzical, but intrigued, expression. Looking back at him, I said, “I thought this was the very worst time for you to do this…pretend dating thing with me. I told you not to feel obligated. I can figure something out on my own, I always do.”
An unreadable emotion rippled across his face. “I don’t feel obligated at all. But you said you needed a miracle, right?”
“Yeah. A big one.”
He grimaced. “So do I. A big one. I was hoping we could find a way for this arrangement to benefit us both.”
Something about the raspy edge of benefit us both had a hot flush working up my throat.
“What do you want from me then?” I asked. Casually. Carefully. And for only a second, as the two of us huddled together, his gaze flared seductively. It wasn’t the easy charm so prevalent in his bar flirting. It held a darker texture that had my stomach hollowing like I was performing a trick on my bike.
“Hi there,” Dempsey called out.
The sound of her voice pushed us apart, had me pinning her with an apologetic smile. I held up my bandaged hand. “Don’t worry, it’s a non-critical wound. But I am sorry I came in fifth. I couldn’t get past that pack of three.”
Her cool blue eyes were sliding back and forth between Rowan and me. “It was a tough one, babe. They clearly boxed you out. But are you going to introduce me or what?”
I shot a quick glance at Rowan, but he was already extending his hand. “Rowan O’Callaghan. I’m just here to perform minor surgery, ma’am.”
Recognition dawned on her face. “Hey, I know you. You were a rookie pitcher for the Mets what…three, four years ago?”
His eyebrows flew up. “Four years ago, yeah. I’m guessing you’re a big Mets fan then?”
“Huge. Lifelong. Die-hard,” she replied, crossing her arms. She sized him up. Sized me up. “Charlie, is this who I think it is?”
I gulped. It was now or never. Rowan slid a loose arm around my waist, and I knew he was saying yes.
“It sure is,” I said brightly. “Dempsey, please meet my new boyfriend.”
9
CHARLIE
Rowan knew a bar nearby where we could talk—small, dark, and private—so I hopped in my truck and followed him there. It was just past four in the afternoon, but my nerves were shot and a cold beer would probably do me some good.
Thank god Dempsey had begged off to meet with another client, so she wasn’t able to grill us on relationship details we hadn’t figured out yet. I didn’t miss the tiny smile of approval she’d worn while chatting with us though. The warmth of that gesture was indication enough that I’d been floundering without it.
Leave it to Rowan O’Callaghan, of course, to swoop in, bandage my knuckles, and charm my agent all at once.
We parked side-by-side in front of a bar that looked like it hadn’t updated its decor since the seventies. Maximillian’s was scrawled on the sign out front. We were somewhere in the suburbs, near the track, but far from the prying eyes of racing fans.
Rowan held open my door while I climbed down. “This place could give Jolene’s a run for its money in the shabby looks department.”
“Thought you’d appreciate that,” he replied. “I figured it was smarter to hash out the details of a fake relationship without the public sniffing around. Or the nosy busybodies of South Philly.”
I cleared my throat. “If I didn’t, uh, make this clear, I’m in a one more strike and you’re out situation with Bettencourt, per Dempsey’s meeting with them this morning. Finding out I invented a relationship to win them over while lying to the media would be that strike.”
