Spokes (15 page)

He hadn't questioned it before in his numbness, and when he'd been able to feel again there'd been better things to think
about in Luca's arms. If he didn't ask, he'd never know, and this felt important to know. Why he and the others of the team
had come was clear enough; they'd watched Stu die, but that didn't explain Rolf's actions.

**at Stu's service (even now he couldn't bring himself to write 'funeral' and he hoped Luca would understand) rolf
held my arm. why?**

If the answer wasn't so important, Christopher might have fallen back to sleep in the time it took to get Luca's answer.

**Because I asked**

**Why?**

Would have been good to just believe that Rolf had that much humanity in him, but every other time they'd been in the same place it went badly.

**So I could**

Fuck. Luca's closet was even tighter than Christopher imagined. Guess it was good he was finding out now, before he did something that undermined
Luca. And those two were sharing a room. Good bye, hope for privacy. Except--

**He knows?**

This answer, too, was a long time in coming. **Yes**

**How much does he care?** Would it affect how Rolf rode?

**A lot**

Oh great. Christopher would have to get the streaming service for sure, to keep an eagle eye on Rolf just as much as to watch his lover. As if the scrutiny
from four thousand miles away would keep him in check, right, but still...

**Be careful around him, ok?**

The phone
queeped
again, almost faster than Luca could have thumb-typed his answer. **I trust him**

How could he answer that? Could his own sense of paranoia outwork a closeted man's? Besides, trust Rolf for what? To do his job? To not do
something that would create problems on or off the road that would land Rolf with the GC position? Rolf's position was higher now than when
he'd been on the Kastibank team, but had he gotten over not being chosen as GC? The long pause this time was Christopher's.

**Ok**

But it wasn't okay. Not even close.

**Short ride today, longer tomorrow, time trial day after to open 3 daagse van west vlaanderen** Sounded like Luca had had enough questioning if he was
back to talking racing.

**You'll do good**

**Will. Air feels thick and wet**

After Luca's months in high, dry Colorado, it was probably like breathing soup. **Air will be rocket fuel**

**:D will. Here. Ttyl**

**<3

But Christopher didn't send that. **Ttyl** went instead. At least on the screen of the phone.

Chapter 14

The fee for the streaming live race coverage, with commentary in English, Flemish, and French would come out of the gel budget this week at least.
Christopher stepped around the unused bicycles in the living room to stretch out on the futon with his laptop. The streaming service covered a lot of races
every day, but he was only interested in Driedaagse van West Vlaanderen. Three days in West Flanders. Okay, he might pick up more words than he expected
from the local commentators, but for Luca's first race of the season he wanted to hear exactly what was going on.

For Luca the race began at 1:30 in the afternoon, or whenever his start slot would come up, about three quarters of the way into a field of nearly two
hundred, based on times from the previous year. Christopher flicked open the screen at 5:15 a.m., calculated when Luca would likely start, and set his
alarm for another hour and a half. That should give him plenty of time to see what the competition was up to.

He came awake again to riders shooting down a start ramp one at a time, dressed in brightly-hued skinsuits and alien-looking helmets, on bicycles that
seemed to be part flying saucer. The solid wheels improved aerodynamics, as did the handlebars meant to let the riders hide from the wind, but they still
looked like another species, and all, Christopher hoped, evolved to move more slowly than Rider 141.

Keeping an anxious eye on the leader board, Christopher watched a couple of Antano-Clark riders leave the starting gate. Rolf already had a
time--he'd gone much earlier and was at least a minute behind the current leader, who wasn't likely to win the race. Barring a
surprise, the winner would come from one of the later cyclists to leave the gate; they'd already know what time to beat and would pace
themselves.

What had Luca said about Rolf and time trials? "All muscle, no sense of pacing"? This course was short, less than ten kilometers; even
the slowest rider out the gate today needed less than fifteen minutes to make the circuit. Luca would need less, perhaps twelve. A great first race, not
too long or grueling, and an event he loved. Another rider left the gate, 136, and please, let Luca get some face time--first race for the new
general classification star of a new team should be worth getting chased by a cameraman on a motorcycle.

Aim that camera Luca's way! So what if a dozen other riders already cluttered the course, and no, damn it, don't stop to
blather about last year's winner or the prospects of the Olympic champion at position 199! Shaking his laptop wouldn't redirect the
commentators. Christopher paced from the kitchen to the futon, sloshing the cup of coffee he'd poured half on the counter.

"Luca Biondi, the last rider out for this new team..." brought Christopher nose to screen, the closest he could get to Luca,
whose turquoise and black skinsuit covered him like paint. The pointed, aerodynamic helmet with the tinted visor hid his face. Only the mass of curls
peeking out from under the tail of the helmet and his bib number differentiated him from the rest of his team, until he rolled down the ramp and began to
pedal.

"Biondi spent the winter chasing the Garmin-Sharp team around the mountains--" The commentator supplied a world audience with
half-accurate details, which didn't matter nearly as much as "--Biondi's twenty-three seconds ahead of the current
leader at the quarter mark."

Twenty-three seconds, that was huge! Plenty of margin to stay ahead of riders faster than the current leader. Luca filled the screen for a few more seconds
before the cameras cut to a couple of well-established stars pedaling warm-ups on the rollers. Who cared? They were missing the story of this race, out
there setting a mark for the rest to fall short. One of the stars, in lime green and white with blue flashes, did a double take and nudged the man next to
him. Who needed sound to know that the rider told his companion, "Biondi"? The hardness crossing their faces meant their own tactics
for the course had just been adjusted. Christopher urged Luca on, to sail uncatchably far ahead of the competition before they ever started.

"Luca Biondi's now forty-two seconds ahead of the current leader," the announcer babbled, "with another two
kilometers to the finish." The camera came back to pace Luca from the back of a motorcycle, and panned to the rear view of another rider, now
only a few yards ahead of Luca. That rider would get some serious guff from his team for getting overtaken; sucked to be him, but he was caught by the
best. Christopher urged Luca to the side, lest he draft off the other rider now where it wasn't permitted. The moto dropped back, following the
two, giving an unappreciative world a wonderful look at Luca's hind end. "McCormick's struggling, and Biondi's in
superior form. Colorado clearly was good to him over the winter."

The Coloradan who'd been as good to Luca as he could possibly be now hunched over the screen, his legs tense with pedaling every rotation with
the current leader. Luca pulled ahead of the other rider, followed by the camera, which didn't spare another frame on the man being left behind.

Had he even broken a sweat? He'd looked like he was working harder on the way out to Lyons, though the only fossil he'd stop for now
might be a
T. rex
blocking the road, and Christopher would give even odds Luca would just rattle right over ribs and vertebrae, barely slowing down.

The camera followed Luca to the finish line, where he sat upright for the first time since he'd started, releasing his center grip on the handle
bars. Grinning at the camera, which followed him to a stop at the team staging area, Luca dropped one eyelid in a wink.

"That's a fabulous lead. Think it will survive the other sixty riders?" The cameraman pushed directly in for an interview before Luca quite had his helmet off.

"Maybe. What was my final time?" Luca finger-fluffed his hair out to its wild, post-ride bounciness. Those curls needed
Christopher's hands fisted in them, to bring Luca close for congratulations of the wet, sloppy kind.

"Eleven point one oh seven minutes." Paolo, in his own turquoise and black team clothing, slathered with sponsors' logos
though without a racing number, hurried in with information and a water bottle. "Average speed of 51.32 kilometers per hour."

"Thank you." Luca accepted the water and the numbers. "We have to see. Many good time trialists still to ride."

Christopher boggled, trying to do the math. Damn, that was, was... better than thirty miles an hour over the lightly hilly course. He tuned back
into Luca's words.

If champions needed humility, Luca was the best of the best, telling the cameraman how he'd trained hard all winter but couldn't assume
he'd keep up with his world class competition.

"The world champion time trialist averaged 51.16 kilometers per hour over this same course last year," his interrogator pointed out.
"And you're not sure you can keep up?"

"He might go faster this year." Luca took another pull at the water bottle.

The camera cut back to a cyclist in unfortunate orange, whose time at the split was thirty-eight seconds behind the leader. Nope, so far no one was keeping
up with Luca, but there were still fifty-odd competitors to come. With every launch down the start ramp, Christopher's stomach clenched more
tightly. Would this be the man who'd bump Luca from the top of the leader board?

Time trials took on an excitement they'd never had for Christopher as a spectator. Watching each racer compete against the clock made it hard to
see how they paced themselves--it couldn't be an all out assault on time, or they'd exhaust themselves long before the finish.
Even in a prologue race such as this, where the distance was miniscule compared to the thirty and forty kilometer time trial stages of the Tour de France,
the overeager could hit the wall.

The camera cut back to Luca between other cyclists. He looked ready to do it all over again, only faster this time. The gap between Luca and his closest
follower narrowed by a second or two at a time until only three racers remained.

The cyclist in lime green who'd done a double take on camera shot out of the starting gate, followed by so much commentary on his previous
seasons' successes. Yeah, yeah, he'd taken the lead on a forty-two kilometer loop that started and ended in Grenoble two years ago, but
that was so much
wah-wah-wah
in Christopher's ears. Old Tour de France
stages mattered nothing today.

A minute later, the only cyclist in white with rainbow flashes left the gate to the thudding in Christopher's chest. Would the reigning world
champion time trialist permit Luca to best him in his specialty? Would the effort cost him too dearly for tomorrow and the next day?

A dizzying sequence of camera shots knotted Christopher's mind--other riders hitting the finish line, plus twenty-eight seconds, plus
thirty-two seconds. Lime-green was nineteen seconds back at the split, and the Olympic champ, the last threat, emerged from the start house.

Pumping legs, whirling numbers on half a dozen riders' clock, motos with cameras so thick they got in each other's
viewfinders--Christopher's stomach churned acid. Did Luca's? Would his huge lead survive the next seven minutes? Screaming
fans pushing out into the road, barely parting for the cyclists--would someone's clothing catch a handlebar? Would a dog get loose?
Waving inflaties obscured the finish line: a thousand cowbells clattered. Rider 195 crossed the line, plus twenty-two seconds.

Lime-green shifted gears and hunkered down for his run into the finish. Woe betide the fan who didn't get out of the way now. The numbers chased
themselves across the bottom of the screen, labeled with names to conjure with, names that filled the pages of
CycloWorld
and Luca's
stories, and stopped--plus eighteen seconds.
Yes!
Rainbow jersey crossed the line--plus nineteen seconds--was that speed
or strategy? Who cared? It was plus something to Luca's time. Christopher pressed his knuckles against his teeth, seeing the champ from every
angle the motos could find for his last two kilometers, and his time clock still whirring away.
Keep going! Keep going!

"YES!
" Christopher sprang to his knees on the bed, his laptop rocking to the pumping of his fist. "Plus fourteen! YES!" He
collapsed to exult more quietly before the upstairs neighbors started pounding the floor. With Luca's pillow between his teeth to muffle his
yells, he cried his exultation to the world. "Luca, you did it!"

Other riders were as stunned as he, telling the cameras anything from "Biondi rode very well today," to "Not sure why he
needed to exhaust himself on a short prologue: riding in the top ten today was all I needed to do. I'll save the effort for the longer
stages," to "Damn! Where did he come from?"

The camera turned to a bouncing, frantic mass of turquoise and black--the team thronged Luca, ruffling his hair, slapping his back. Rolf hung with
his arm around Luca's neck, waving and shouting with the others, and Luca himself? His smile was wide as the sky, his arm upraised. For a moment.
He touched his knuckles to his lips and threw a kiss to the heavens. Or maybe just high enough to cross the Atlantic and another thousand miles, to land in
Christopher's heart.

"You did it," he mumbled into Luca's pillow. "You really did it." He fumbled that message into a text,
not sure when Luca would see or how he could respond. **New entry in palmares, proud of you** Maybe one day he could end his congratulations
with **<3**