Hearts Racing Read Online Free PDF Page A

and then put it away as Buck continued to roll his muscles. She refilled his water bottle and then set it down next to him.
    “Thanks,” he said, his voice a bit strained with the pressure on his sore muscles.
    She probably shouldn’t say anything. Best not to say anything. She absolutely, definitely, one-hundred percent should not say one word at this point.
    “LeMond told me what happened,” she said. Shit!
    Buck looked up at her.
    “With your dad,” she finished.
    Buck switched sides so that he was facing away, rolling his right gluteus maximus over the foam cylinder. Faith had blown it. Oh man, she’d totally blown it. She knew she shouldn’t have said anything. Welp, if you’re going to be awkward, you might as well be totally awkward.
    “I just want you to know,” she said, having a hard time meeting his eyes. “I know what it’s like, to want to prove something to the French. My brother—they say he tried to steal a bottle of wine. The French sentenced him to death then put my family to work at a winery in the hills. They say they won’t kill him if I help train office workers. They’re still so embarrassed of the stereotype of the overweight Americans. They want everyone to be thin. If I agree to train them all for free, I can keep this place and they will defer my brother’s sentence.”
    Buck turned back to face her. He looked at her with his green eyes. Those eyes . . . “I’m sorry,” he said. Most people were taken aback that her brother had been given so harsh a sentence by the French, but he was accused of trying to steal a very nice bottle of wine: a Chateauneuf-du-Pape, from the home of a local, high-ranking official. He swore he was just moving the bottle out of the room he and his painting crew were working on, but the official wouldn’t have it.
    Faith knew her brother. He was no thief. But that didn’t matter to the French. Nothing mattered but wine, cheese, baguettes, and cycling. Maybe art.
    Buck stood then shook his limbs out one more time. “What’s his name?” he asked. “Your brother?”
    “Michael,” she said.
    Buck nodded. “Michael,” he repeated. “Today I’m going to win for Michael.”

Chapter 6
    Holy shitcakes! Or, to use French, sacre gateau du merde ! Today I’m going to win for Michael? Why the hell had he said that? He’d be lucky if he hung onto the peloton, let alone managed to crack the top ten. There was no way he was going to win.
    He had to admit, the massage session did some good. His legs were feeling okay. Not great. Nowhere near top shape. But okay. He rode easy, feet light on the pedals, covering the short kilometers to the crit course in twenty minutes or so.
    When he got there, the French gendarmes were standing around with assault rifles, looking bored. Some of the roads on the course were open to traffic most of the time, so the gendarmes had shut them down for the race. The locals got testy about the roads being closed with no warning, but getting upset about a road closure in a police state is just about as futile a pursuit as one can pursue.
    A car drove up to the barricades. Buck could see the diver looking at the gendarmes, waiting for them to move the barrier or explain what was going on. They just stared. Eventually, the man put his car in reverse and backed away. One gendarme shrugged at the other. Job well done.
    LeMond was at the start line. Actually, LeMond was creating the start line by putting a piece of tape down in the road. Coach Bernard, the Wolverine himself, stood nearby, looking at his clipboard. He was talking to one of the sprinters, Polini, who spotted Buck riding up and grinned like a cat hearing the nearby whine of a can opener.
    Yeah, grin all you like, pal, thought Buck. Today I’m going to win for Michael. Yeah. Because saying you’re going to win to impress a . . . wait. Hold it right there. Impress? He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Certainly not the CrossFit girl.
    Well, whatever. He wasn’t going to