Racing to You: Racing Love, Book 1 by Robin Lovett Read Free Book Online Page B

hour.”
    I have to see it. I have to see Braker win.
    I slap my palms on the bar. “Let’s go watch the finish!”
    Paul laughs. “That’s what we were saying.”
    “Oh.”
    “Do you think it’s too late to get down there?”
    Paul’s friend says in halting English, “Is worth try.”
    Outside the bar, the rotor of the TV helicopter echoes in the air. As I ride the tram with Paul and his friends downtown, he reads us the live race feed from his phone. “The peloton caught the breakaway.”
    “Peloton?”
    “The main group of riders caught the Americans at the front.” I hardly notice that he’s switched from English and is speaking French to me for the first time.
    I try not to react. I don’t want to explain to Paul my interest in Braker.
    His legs moving on that bike, his body like a machine. A very hard, very chiseled machine. He moves with such power, I—I—
    He’s doing it to me again, and I’m not even looking at him this time.
    The tram arrives on the Promenade, the sea reflecting the sun in blinding azure, and I’m frantic for a very different reason than last time at Carnival. I can’t get into the thick of the party fast enough. I don’t care that I swore I would never hang out with Paul and his friends again. By my watch, we only have fifteen minutes until the finish.
    “We have to hurry or we’ll miss it.” I skip onto the sidewalk.
    “You are excited,” Paul says.
    I am, probably more so than he’s ever seen me.
    “ Allez !” Paul points down the street and flashes me a luminous smile.
    I’m startled a moment but follow after him. He’s not being condescending now; he’s excited that I’m excited. But all I can feel is my lungs fluttering with anticipation that has nothing to do with the French guy I’m following and everything to do with the American bike rider I can’t wait to see. I have a crush on a guy. More than a crush. The fastest cyclist on the pro racing circuit is into me!
    The words of the French announcers clarify over the tapping of my sneakers on the sidewalk. “…only five kilometers from the finish. They’re just coming into view, folks!”
    When the crowd thickens, Paul stops alongside aluminum barriers. “We may not be able to see if we go farther,” he says. “Too many people.”
    I lean over the barrier and see the broad finishing arch across the avenue. We won’t see “The Terror” roaring across the line, but it’s better than not at all. The rest of our group crushes behind us against the barrier. The approaching riders in the distance are a group of shifting gray dots.
    The announcing speakers blare from the finish line. “Can ‘The Terror’ and his BG team still pull off the win? He and Ransome wasted a lot of energy on that breakaway only to have the other riders catch them.”
    “Other powerful sprinters are biting his heels: Klaus Grabe from Germany and France’s own Maxime Besnier.”
    Cool and cocky, easy and indefatigable Terrence Braker losing a race—doesn’t seem possible.
    But it must be.
    The announcers increase in volume and fervor. The riders no longer gray, I can see blue jerseys at the front, and I bounce on my heels. “They’re in the lead. He’s going to win!”
    “Who?” Paul asks.
    Oh, shit. “Uh—the American, of course.”
    “Yes,” Paul says in my ear. “I want the French to win.”
    They’re coming fast, the riders growing larger at an alarming rate.
    The announcer shouts, “BG begins the lead-out train for their sprinter. The brown jerseys of the French team come up the outside. The lone red jersey of Klaus Grabe drafts off Braker’s wheel, waiting to slingshot around him and steal the win.”
    They approach like a swarm of bees, the whirring buzz of spinning wheels and clicking gears filling the air. In two blinks, they ride past: riders in blue, riders in brown, a rainbow of jerseys. Then they’re gone.
    I crane my neck to look up the road.
    The announcers shout so fast I strain to translate.