Two for the road, p.1
Two for the Road, page 1
part #1 of Swim Bike Run Series
This book is a work of fiction. References to people, events, establishments, organisations and locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Two for the Road. Copyright © 2020 Catherine Rull Villalobos
www.catherinerull.com
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-0-6487628-5-0
Cover by Elise Lewerenz of Peachy Art and Design in consultation with Catherine Rull
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the author’s written permission.
First published by Wolfhaus Press in May 2020
Brisbane, Australia
Every elite athlete needs confidence, determination and resilience—and so does a writer who wants to succeed in this industry.
To my grandad, Constancio for giving me the confidence to believe in myself—you made my childhood fun. To my grandma Candida, who by example, taught me determination and resilience—you’re the original badass! ♥
Acknowledgements
Two for the Road was my tenth completed manuscript but my second published work. I started writing it in 2007, set it aside after 100+ pages when it got too complicated, and picked it up again to complete the first draft in 2014. In 2015, the manuscript was a finalist in three writing competitions, and won the Gold Ticket Round in Toronto RWA’s Catherine Contest.
I’d like to thank my awesome critique partner and Firebird sister, Heather Ashby for her encouragement and feedback during the 2014 writing and editing process of this book. She read this a chapter at a time, and helped to keep me on track and believing in the story. She even connected me to two real-life triathletes to help with my research.
Thank you so much to Shawn Burke and Blain Peerson who so generously shared their years of experience and knowledge as high-level triathletes, all the way from the US. They helped me with the finer details of competing and training at an elite level, and even beta read this book to give me more feedback about authenticity. Any mistakes in the novel are my own (and probably due to the fact I’m no athlete).
As for my research into the work-life of an intrepid network reporter, I’d like to thank Katy Smith who worked for a major TV network and was kind enough to answer the emailed questions from her friend’s writer cousin.
To my beta readers, Justine Ormsby, Michelle Owens and Thorndyke Law—thank you. I couldn’t have asked for a more thorough and insightful group.
I’d also like to thank Elise Lewerenz from Peachy Art and Design for making my cover concept a reality, and to Cakejira for being my go-to tech expert.
A shout out to my dog, Ollie, and my husband’s dog, Ninja who inspired the main characters’ dogs in this book. They were our first children together.
Last but not least, thank you to my wonderful husband, Mao Che for being so supportive and going with me on my research trips to watch live triathlon. To my human children, Alexandra and Atticus, thank you for your love and support, and coming along on road trips to watch this gruelling, amazing sport ♥
To my readers and social media supporters, thank you for reading this book. You are the next stage of this dream. I hope you enjoy, Two for the Road, and write a review to spread the word and keep this dream going.
Chapter 1
Brisbane, Australia
Who was he? He was the best. This pain was temporary. And he liked it. And if he stuck to the plan and kept his trust in his training, he’d finish this triathlon at a good pace.
Strong but relaxed, Hayden O’Loughlin cut his arms through the murky waters of the Brisbane River. No need to rush. Just stay on Randy Escott’s hip. Let the American do all the work in the swim because Hayden knew he could beat his rival in the run.
Escott’s next kick connected with his side. Hayden flinched—that would leave a bruise. Probably intentional. Bastard. But he stayed close, undeterred, concentrating on his stroke, his pace, his breathing.
Something slid against his leg. Shit. What was that? He kicked hard to get rid of it, clamping his mouth tight against a reflexive yelp.
He could barely see his own hands in the dark water. Not unusual for the swim part of a triathlon race, but he kept imagining bull sharks and crocodiles swimming up from the depths to take a bite. Talk about local knowledge going against him. Whose idea was it to put the bloody swim leg in the Brisbane River?
Something brushed against his calf again. Thumped it. Hayden released a clearing breath, sending bubbles into the brackish water. His heart rate was faster than he wanted. He needed to push thoughts of man-eaters out of his head. He’d raced hundreds of times. It had to be just another guy, swimming too close. Not a shark after some breakfast.
Next time he turned his head to breathe, he checked behind him. Yep, the lanky Brit who was just below him in the world rankings.
Hayden resisted the urge to lengthen his strokes. The season was over. There was no use pushing too hard too early. Besides, the rest of the guys were too far back. A group was better for the bike leg. Should he slow down?
No. Couldn’t let Escott get too far ahead.
Out of the water, cool, spring air hit Hayden’s arms, legs and face as he stepped onto the pontoon at South Bank. The crowd cheered as he yanked his goggles and cap off. There was the home advantage he was waiting for. For once, the cheer for the World Number Two—him—was louder.
No time to enjoy it though. Quick run to transition one. Legs feeling strong, fresh. Goggles and cap in the box next to his bike. He grabbed his helmet from the bike handles. Escott was just ahead. The Brit just behind.
Hayden made a split-second decision to ride with a group. This was a draft-legal race, after all. Let Escott kill himself, setting the pace for the forty-kilometre ride. They were likely to catch up to him before the course was done.
Mad bugger. There was no way the current World Number One would work with him to keep the lead. The bastard would probably force him onto the footpath—his rival had done it before.
No, best to stay away for now. Hayden was relying on having fresher legs for the 10k run. He was the fastest finisher on the tour.
Thunder rumbled in the distance as he pushed his bike over the mount line and hopped on. Feet in his shoes. Good transition. The Brit close behind him, then about five other guys coming quickly. No great runner in the bunch. No worries. This was his hometown. He knew every hill and bend of the inner-city course.
A drop of rain landed on his cheek. He looked up. Dark clouds had rolled in. More fat rain fell. A wet course. That would slow the bike down—Escott’s strongest discipline.
If this chase group could reel Randy Escott in, Hayden had a good chance of beating his rival today.
***
Cleo Jones was doing her own make-up. Talk about going down in the world. What a difference a few weeks made. All because she’d done something incredibly stupid at work.
Four weeks ago, she’d had a blossoming career in L.A. and had only been in Brisbane on vacation. Now, she’d been banished to this small Australian city by the network till the end of December. She cursed ever getting involved with Jason Price—the Australian network executive at the L.A. studios. He’d been the one who’d given her the ultimatum—transfer to Australia for a short stint, or never work in television again.
She glanced up at the heavy, grey clouds, wondering when the weather would let up. Nature answered her with a fat raindrop landing on her nose.
Wiping the moisture away, she took a deep breath and made peace with her new typical Saturday morning—creating packages and “sim sats”—simulated, pre-recorded crosses to the studio—for Styler Media’s Australian network. Usually, she was assigned to cover sports in and around Brisbane with no one to hold a screen to control the lighting.
Today, all she’d been provided was a cameraman, a mic and an umbrella. She would’ve thought that with an American World Champion, and a local currently holding the number two ranking, there would be better coverage of this triathlon race. At least a camera operator riding backwards on a motorbike to film the competitors while they cycled and ran. But no. The race was off-season. Plus, the viewership was just too small. The whole state of Queensland had fewer people than Los Angeles. Heck, Australia had a smaller population than Texas.
With a final touch up of lip gloss, she returned the make-up to her purse. This was the most camera-ready she could get. Time to wait amongst the crush of spectators who vied for a better view of the triathlon’s cycling circuit.
She checked her notes on the course and the top athletes in the field again. A raindrop splatted in the middle of her stapled pages. Putting the paper away, she patted down her frizzing hair. What a horrible day—cold and wet. These triathletes, and their fans who’d come to cheer them on at an ungodly hour, were crazy.
“Get ready,” Nicky, Cleo’s “camo”—cameraman in Aussie slang—warned as a murmur arose from somewhere up the street. There must be a competitor approaching.
The sound of excitement gradually filled the air, travelling like a slow wave towards them. She turned around, mic poised as Nicky shouldered his camera and pointed it at her. She stared down the lens, imagining she was looking into the eyes of a friend.
A second later, Cleo dodged said lens as someone in the back pushed her camo. Barely missing her face, his camera snagged her hair, pulling a section out of place.
“Sorr
The cheering grew louder, but she still couldn’t see a thing.
“No problem. Just tell me when someone comes around that corner.” She put her mic between her knees, took the clip out of her hair and fixed it into some kind of up ’do—a feat considering she was holding a big umbrella in one hand.
When the first of the triathletes entered Adelaide Street, Nicky didn’t have to tell her. The spectators’ cheer was a dead giveaway. They surged forward, the atmosphere turning electric. Cleo swayed on her sky-high heels, but regained her balance. She grabbed the mic and smiled at the camera.
“Today’s competitors are just about to complete number five out of eight circuits of the bike leg. And here’s the leader now. It’s World Number One, American triathlete, Randall ‘Ice Man’ Escott still in front, and looking unstoppable. But judging by the cheers from just around the corner, the chase group can’t be too far behind ‘The Bad Boy of Triathlon’.”
Nicky lowered his camera once Escott was out of frame. Down the street, the fans screamed out encouragement as the World Champion pumped his legs to cycle uphill towards George Street.
Cleo craned her neck to watch, but distant cheering signalled the arrival of the chase group. The crowd surged again, pushing Nicky so close that he was probably taking an extreme close up of her nose.
“Stay here,” she instructed her camo. Umbrella in hand, she hiked up her skirt, climbed onto the wet, waist-high metal barrier and sat down. “How’s that?”
Nicky gave her a thumbs-up. She pasted on another professional smile, mic ready, as rainwater soaked clear through to her underwear. The camera’s recording light came on. Glancing over her shoulder, she spotted four riders turn the corner in fast succession. Their wheels glistened with moisture.
Then crash!
A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the triathlete in the middle of the pack clipped the wheel of the rider in front of him.
Both cyclists went down, then the guy at the back failed to avoid the two in front of him. Only the one in the lead of the chase-group had escaped. After a quick check over his shoulder, the lone rider sped up the wide city street, eyes trained on Randall Escott’s back just fifty yards away.
Cleo kept up the commentary of the unfolding events. This footage was sure to go national. Maybe even international. She wished she had an earpiece that fed info to her, so she could report who had been involved in the accident. They were too far away for her to see more than the national colours on their uniforms. A Brit and two Spaniards were out of the race.
As the surviving cyclist neared, Cleo was able to make out the number “2” painted on his muscled upper arms and thighs. She’d memorized the names of the top competitors. Plus, the tight onesie he was wearing was green with yellow lettering—a dead giveaway he was an Aussie.
“Here comes local hero, Hayden O’Loughlin.”
The crowd surged again, pushing Nicky towards her once more.
“He’s the—”
Bam! Nicky’s camera slammed into her at the same time a gust of wind pushed her umbrella backwards. It slid out of her hands but not before it pulled her off the barrier. Her arms wind-milled in a desperate attempt to regain her balance. But she kept falling.
She heard the screech of wheels, just before she hit the slick asphalt, right in O’Loughlin’s path.
Chapter 2
“She’s here again,” Uncle Bob announced, voice gruff as he walked into Hayden’s hospital room. He had the day’s newspaper under his arm, his mouth framed by deep lines. “You gonna see her this time, mate?”
Hayden gave his uncle-slash-manager a you’ve-gotta-be-kidding look from his hospital bed. The large patches of road rash on his arms and legs hurt too much to move. His tri-suit had provided zero protection—ripped up and torn like his skin. Then when he’d arrived at the hospital, two nurses had cleaned his wounds—which was a nice way to say, they’d scrubbed out the road grit till he’d almost bit his tongue trying not to scream.
Careful not to move his bandaged body, he turned his gaze to the window. The skyscrapers across the river glinted in the October sun. Just his luck. Nice weather when he was no longer speeding down slick streets at a break-neck pace.
“Well, champ?” Uncle Bob asked. The old man’s scowl was more intense than usual. All day, he’d fielded calls from Hayden’s coaches, nutritionist, physiotherapist and sponsors, and the Australian Olympic Committee. They must be wondering if he’d be in top form in time for next year’s Games. “I can tell her to piss off, if you want.”
Hayden made a rude sound, rubbing his palm over his closely cropped hair in a crisp one-two. “What does she want? To break my other leg?”
“Actually, I’m here to apologise,” an American woman said from the door.
He jolted at the sound, so surprised that his leg almost fell out of its traction. He bit back a curse as sharp pain shot up his broken limb. Taking a calming breath, he faced her.
Dark-haired, curvy where he liked it, and not the evil witch he vaguely remembered while lying in pain and abject disappointment in the middle of the road. But then, at the time, he’d been largely focused on the fact that Escott was riding further and further away.
“Hi.” The woman stood by the open door with a paper gift bag in her hand.
Uncle Bob had told him she was a sports reporter. Face for TV for sure—big eyes, long lashes, smooth skin, very white teeth. Body was rocking, too.
“Hey,” Hayden found himself saying in return. Shit. Why did she have to be stunning? He tamped down the urge to stare at her. Gorgeous or not, he was busy brooding and would rather do it in private. An uncertain future yawned before him. And being nice should be the last thing he cared about at the moment.
Bob scoffed, shook his head at him, and left the room with a disgusted look on his face. The woman moved out of his uncle’s way, eyes on her pointy shoes like she was too embarrassed to meet his manager’s gaze.
She stepped into his room and met his gaze with a tentative smile. “Mr O’Loughlin, I’m Cleo Jones.”
Her awkwardness was endearing. Her fitted skirt and top made her look like a sexy exec, despite the messy, rained-on hair; muddied, rumpled clothes; smudged TV make-up; and a bruise on her forehead.
He nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. It disturbed him that he noticed these things about her. He should dislike her more. Instead, if he wasn’t careful, he’d be grinning at her like an idiot just because she was a looker.
“I’m sorry about your leg,” Cleo Jones continued. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Sure.” He cut her off, glancing at the door, then at her. But instead of leaving, she took another step closer to his bed. Up close, he realised her eyes had a tinge of purple.
“I feel terrible,” she said.
So did he. When was she going to leave? He leaned back against his pillows and his body coiled tight in response. Even that slight movement had made his road rash burn.
“I got you something.” She jiggled the gift bag. “I thought you could use a book more than flowers. It’s an autobiography by these triath—”
“Thanks.” He interrupted her again. Whatever she’d brought, he didn’t care unless it was a magic wand that would heal his leg instantly.
She placed the gift bag on the table beside his bed, knocking a pen to the floor.
“Sorry!” She dropped to her knees to retrieve the pen from under the hospital cot. For a few seconds, all he could see was the nice curve of her backside, then a thump against the base of his bed, and she emerged with one hand around the pen and the other rubbing a spot on her head.
She flashed him an embarrassed smile, and all of a sudden he knew exactly how the accident could’ve happened. She was a walking disaster zone. A total klutz, but damn she was sexy. And despite her rumpled appearance, she smelled like she’d just soaked in a scented bath for an hour, making him think of something else he could use more than flowers.
But she probably had a boyfriend, and he definitely had been training too much and not going out enough. Shit. His leg was broken, and he was checking out the culprit who’d put him in hospital?
