Race for the Gold. Dana Mentink
“He’s my trainer, and you don’t have a right to spy on him or anyone else.”
The reporter’s hair was graying at the temples, the skin around his eyes puckered, as if he’d spent plenty of time in the sun, but she guessed he was no more than mid-sixties. He was dark complexioned, and his mustache completely obscured his upper lip. “You folks are a little too impressed by your own importance. I’m just here to talk to you. I tried calling and leaving messages. Most normal people would respond via those avenues.”
“I didn’t get any messages.”
“Then you shouldn’t leave your father in charge. I’d have called you directly, but he wouldn’t give me your number.”
“I’m glad he didn’t,” she said, though something squeezed uncomfortably inside. “What do you want, anyway?”
“I freelance for some sports mags.” He pulled out a ragged spiral notepad from the back pocket of his baggy jeans. “I want an interview.”
“Why not wait until after the trials? You might be wasting your time on me.”
He smiled, but there was no amusement in his eyes. “You suffered a tragic accident four years ago that took away your dreams of gold.”
Not just mine. She stayed silent.
“So you’re a comeback kid.”
“We’re a long way from that.”
He shrugged. “Tell me about the accident.”
Flickers of worry flamed to life. At first she’d tried so hard to remember the faces, the driver, the make of the car, but her brain stubbornly kept the details cloaked in darkness. After many years she’d come to realize it was a blessing. She would not have to replay those horrifying moments in her mind over and over. “That’s behind me, and I want to keep it that way.” She shot a glance at the ice. Max was no longer visible from her line of sight, which gave her a queasy feeling.
“Just a couple of questions, that’s all,” he said. “I know you told the cops you didn’t remember the driver, but did you get a sense, any indication at all that it was a man or woman driving?”
“No.”
“Come on.” He stepped closer. “You had to have some idea.”
“I don’t,” she said, cold prickling her spine.
“I heard someone messed up your skate and tried to hide the evidence.”
The bleachers pressed uncomfortably into her back. “What does that have to do with the accident?”
He moved closer now, until she could smell coffee on his breath. “Could be it has everything to do with it. Name Trevor Ancho mean anything to you?”
“No. Should it?”
A bead of sweat rolled down her temple. “The things you’re saying, they don’t sound like regular interview questions, Mr. Peterson.”
He shrugged. “I’m surprised at your reluctance, here. Seems like a kid would want to attract some attention, maybe garner a new sponsor to help Daddy pay all those bills.”
“What do you know about my father?”
“I know he’s in a financial hole, and he’s made some crazy choices to continue bankrolling your dreams.”
“What choices?”
“Let me interview you. We’ll talk.”
“I get the feeling you have an agenda that has nothing to do with my speed skating.”
He stepped closer. “There’s a lot more going on here than what happens on the ice.” Something glittered hard and sharp in his eyes.
She made up her mind to get away, but Max appeared, no longer in skates, his expression rigid as he pulled her behind him. With blazing eyes riveted on Peterson, Max spoke to Laney.
“Is he bothering you?” he asked with a grunt.
Was he? She wasn’t sure, but more than anything she didn’t want Max to throw an ill-advised punch. “No. I was just telling him I don’t want to be interviewed.”
“I already told him that. What’s the matter, Mr. Peterson? Didn’t you understand me before?”
Peterson did not back up in spite of Max’s tall frame and the angry set to his wide shoulders. “You should welcome the publicity, shouldn’t you?” Peterson said mildly. “Laney’s got no rich mother to bankroll her like Beth Morrison has. Mommy Morrison was in town just last week, you know.” His gaze shifted around the arena. “What does training here cost a person, I wonder?”
Max leaned in. “None of your concern.”
“No, you’re right. No fun for Dad, though, huh? Trying to pay for all this with his cabbie business?”
He knows everything about me. Laney put her hand on Max’s lower back, feeling the tense knot of muscles there. “I want to train now. Come on,” she whispered.
“I’m not moving until Mr. Peterson here does,” Max said. He took out his phone. “Did you need security to show you to the door or should I help you with that?”
Peterson took a step back. “No problem. I’ve got some more research to do anyway. I’ll let you get back to your training.” He cast a derisive look at Max. “Seems like you need it more than she does.”
Laney put her arms around Max from behind, pressing her cheek to his back as she watched Peterson leave. The feel of his strong shoulders, the curve of his spine stemmed the flow of worry for a moment. He was her trainer, not her love, but she could not stop the impulse to touch him and draw comfort from the contact. She willed her breathing and his to return to normal, blinking against a sudden onslaught of tears.
He turned around in the circle of her arms and pulled her close, looking intently into her eyes. “He’s got an agenda.”
She nodded, chewing her lip. “I didn’t want to talk about the accident.”
“You don’t have to. I wonder what he’s after.” Max smoothed her hair with his palm. “Sure you’re okay?”
“What he said...about my dad.” Laney bit her lip. “I know it’s hard to pay for all this. The money I made in the summer waitressing hardly covered the cost of a skin suit.”
He tipped her chin upward with a finger. “Your dad wants nothing else than for you to succeed, so that’s what you need to do now, that’s where your focus needs to be.”
She pressed her face into his chest, unable to find words to tease out the worry from her gut.
“Come on, Birdie,” he said. “Time to get the job done.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, heading for the track. Still, she cast one more look around for Hugh Peterson, but she could not find him there in the shadows.
* * *
Max guided Laney through an arduous morning of dry-land training. Her focus was off, probably not so much that anyone would notice except him. His focus was not sharp, either, though he fought valiantly against the cascade of thoughts that threatened to pull his mind from the job at hand. The day had started off with him once again humiliating himself on the ice, and he prayed Laney hadn’t seen him struggling to complete one turn. Why did he persist? To push hard, then harder, expecting a different result from ruined bones that refused to heal?
You’re not a competitor anymore, whiz kid. Wise up. Blaze is dead.
But something deep down, curled inside the fibers and muscles of his will, would not let it go. A futile desire existed there, hunkered down and sheltered by the anger. Why had God let everything he wanted disappear in one moment at the hands of a single careless driver? A lifetime of striving and a ridiculous level of dedication wiped out. It burned so badly