Scene 42

"So, is this what turning thirty does to a girl?"

Through the orange haze of her polarized lens, Dillon caught a glimpse of the stars and stripes plastered across the side of Alecia Finch's tri-suit. They were on the final lap of the bike leg, five of six hairpin turns executed, and less than two kilometers from the start of the run.

Dillon knew the breakaway group had been gaining on her. A cramp had threatened her calf over the past few kilometers, and when she'd risked a backward glance coming off the last 180° curve, she'd counted five cyclists pushing toward an attack. Alecia'd led the pack, but not by much, which meant the others were right behind her.

Elyna Laurent amongst them.

Dillon made the choice to let them catch her. She'd pulled off early as the solo leader, but with the headwind as brutal as it was, it was in her best interest to join the group and find some relief from the draft. She could retake the lead after the transition.

It was the strategy that had worked at the Olympic Qualifying race held the month prior. Elyna had caught her on the bike, but Dillon managed to wear her down by strategically surging during the run, breaking the Frenchwoman's rhythm and outpacing her in the final kilometer. The massive win stamped Dillon's ticket to a guaranteed spot on Team GB in Los Angeles.

The rest of the season's results varied. Early in the year, Dillon won Yokohama. Alecia ran away with Cagliari. A Spanish former middle-distance competitor pulled off a surprising gold in her hometown of Pontevedra. Elyna claimed Abu Dhabi—but only three-tenths of a second ahead of Dillon, Sam was constant to remind her.

Dillon didn't need to win today. Nor was it crucial to podium. In the worst possible outcome, even a DNF wouldn't change her qualification for the Olympic Games next summer.

It was the last race of the year. Any finish above fifth place earned her enough points to claim another world title.

But it wasn't a world title Dillon was after.

For the first time in the history of the sport, the championship final was being held in Hamburg.

Dillon couldn't stand the thought of losing to Henrik in the charming German city she'd come to loathe. A weakling , he had called her. An embarrassment .

As soon as she'd hit the once-familiar ice-cold water of the Elbe, she knew this was her chance to send Henrik a message: His turf, her turf, it didn't matter. Elyna Laurent may have been fast, but Dillon Sinclair was faster.

"Don't break a hip there, Grandma," Georgina joined in the banter, pulling alongside Dillon as Alecia moved to the lead. The teasing about her age had started a couple months ago when she'd finally crossed the threshold into her thirties.

Entering the new decade hadn't been as bad as Dillon expected, after dreading it for so many years. It helped that she was in the best shape of her life. At no point in her twenties had her form been as fit as it was this season. Apparently being set on a path for vengeance turned out to be a blessing.

Better even, however, had been the fact that she'd gotten to spend it with Kam, the two of them disappearing to the white sand beaches of Saint Barthélemy for the weekend. Since Christmas, they'd managed only stray nights in passing—Dillon always en route to race on yet another continent while Kam continued crossing the globe to finalize filming on the second installment of Sand Seekers . Which made the four uninterrupted days in Grady Dunn's private beach house in the French Caribbean all the more amazing. Not to mention, the island getaway successfully deterred Sam from throwing Dillon the surprise party she'd been threatening.

So if this was truly Henrik's so-called twilight of her career, she'd take it. Because in ten short months, she meant to come home with an Olympic gold—the only hardware she was missing.

"Thought I might share the view from the front since you haven't seen it in a while," she called to Georgina. "I don't want to be accused of being greedy."

The Englishwoman grinned beneath her mirrored sunglasses and flipped Dillon the bird as she followed behind Alecia, making a deliberate move to give Dillon relief from the westerly blowing in from the North Sea.

A few seconds later, Elyna nosed past without looking in her direction, followed by two Canadians and a Dutch rider.

Sitting on the rear of the group's left flank, Dillon slowed her pace as they came to the turnaround going into the final kilometer of the cycle. The tarmac was damp—it having rained in Hamburg that morning—and the cyclists were forced to be careful. Dillon leaned her bike into the turn, keeping her body upright, and waited to pedal again until she exited wide off the apex. Ahead of her, Elyna began to make a move for the front.

Let them , she could hear Alistair's startline reminder. The wind was strongest on this final stretch. Let Elyna burn herself out trying to break away.

The spectators were loud as they neared the transition. In Dillon's peripheral, she saw a young woman dressed in the colors of Great Britain, waving a sign that said Sinclair Squared, with two gold medals drawn beneath it.

If her calf hadn't still been cramping, the sign would have made her smile.

Sinclair Squared —she and Seren.

Seren, who punched her ticket to Los Angeles after a dream win at Badminton—a five-star horse trial considered by many to be the most prestigious equestrian event in the world.

Dillon had flown ten thousand miles to be there. She'd watched her sister's flawless dressage test, followed by an intrepid cross-country run that put her in the top-five horse and rider pairs leading into the final round of stadium jumping.

On the third day, Dillon sat with their mother and Sam, holding her breath as she watched épée fly around the arena, giving Seren everything she had. Thirteen fences in less than seventy-five seconds. On the final oxer, when it was evident Seren was going to jump clear within the allotted time—clenching the biggest five-star win of her career—Dillon launched over the arena wall, evading a pair of white-jacketed ring stewards, and ran to meet her sister.

The photo headlining the sports page of The Times the following day—above Liverpool's win over Manchester United —was of the two Sinclairs embracing, with épée's long, lean neck wrapped around them, searching Dillon's back pocket for carrots.

South Wales Sisters Olympic Bound read the title. The article had gone on to compare three-day eventing as the horse equivalent to triathlon. Only cooler , Seren teased Dillon.

Coming onto the straightaway, Dillon unclipped her left foot, stretching her heel down to try and ease the muscle tension. They were on a mild downhill slope, allowing a fast pace without increased exertion.

Using the momentum of the decline, Elyna and Alecia were a dozen yards ahead, battling for the lead, with Georgina right behind them. A few yards back, directly in front of Dillon, the Dutch rider was attempting to overtake the two Canadians.

Dillon ignored the jockeying. Her focus was on the dismount line several hundred yards ahead. She flexed her calf, mentally rehearsing the transition.

Flying dismount. Rack bike. Helmet off. Running shoes on .

Her mind was on the number of gels she should down when she heard the unmistakable sound of rubber hitting rubber. Ahead of her, she saw the Dutch rider waver. Her front tire had come in contact with the rear tire of one of the Canadians. For a split second, Dillon thought the woman might recover, but in her effort to stabilize, the athlete overcorrected, again colliding with the Canadian, taking the pair of them to the tarmac.

Dillon knew she was going down. With the riders tangled just feet in front of her, there was no space to avoid the collision, and she was moving too fast to stop. Her only options revolved around what she would hit—cyclists or barricade—and how she would fall.

It was preferable to slide. Despite road rash and embedded gravel, a slide offered fewer risks of more serious injuries. If a rider had time and space, it was best to go down on a side, keeping feet clipped in, and hands on the handlebars. Let the bike take the impact.

But Dillon didn't have the time or space to make those kinds of decisions. Instead, her only option was to run over the Dutch rider, or turn and hit the barricade at over twenty miles an hour.

Second nature forced her to choose the latter.

She closed her eyes.

The sound of the impact was smothered by screams from the crowd. She could feel the grind of metal as her wheel buckled, the carbon frame of her bike crumpling beneath her. A moment of weightlessness followed as she was launched over the handlebars.

It occurred to her in that fleeting interval of suspension that only her right foot was clipped to the pedal. Had both feet been secured, she would have likely stayed in the saddle, flipping forward over the barricade, taking the bike with her. Instead, the loose leg allowed the force of the collision to cast her off like a rag doll, leaving the mangled frame on one side of the barrier and catapulting her body onto the other.

She slid—five feet? Ten feet?—she couldn't tell. She only knew that the scent of burning flesh was coming from her shoulder, as her right leg dragged her bike along on the other side of the barrier. Then all at once, the inertia of her slide stopped. The fork of her bike had caught on a stanchion, ceasing her forward momentum and torquing her body backward.

For a heartbeat… two… three… four… she lay, half on her back, dangling by her leg, staring up at the Landungsbrücken clock tower. Inanely, she wondered if Alecia had beaten Elyna to the transition? If she had, with enough of a headstart, could she hold the Frenchwoman's pace on the fast course?

And then there were no more thoughts of the race. Of the strangers staring down at her. Of her detached awareness of Hamburg's landmark buildings casting the pavement into shadow. It was as if a switch had flipped, igniting every pain receptor in her body. A white, searing excruciation, followed by a vignette of black, as the mercy of unconsciousness took over.

The physician was young. Too young. His English heavily accented.

He cleared his throat too much. Said her name too often.

Unlucky fall, Miss Sinclair.

Be grateful things were not worse, Miss Sinclair.

As if she had something for which to be grateful.

He stood at the end of the hospital bed, gesturing at a computer screen, explaining that she'd shattered her clavicle. Hit the ground so hard she'd cracked her helmet. Dislocated the bones of her elbow. Broken four ribs. Fractured her tibia. Damaged a part of her knee he didn't know the word for in English.

It didn't occur to Dillon to tell him she spoke German. To try to clarify what he was saying.

She just lay immobilized on her back, washed in a haze of pain which made it difficult to focus.

"How long will her recovery be?"

It was Seren's voice, out of her field of vision.

The physician cleared his throat, thumbing the stethoscope dangling over his shoulders. "Miss Sinclair is fortunate to be alive."

"That was not my question."

"Seren!" Her mam was there, scolding.

When had they arrived in Hamburg?

Seren ignored their mother. "Will she race by summer?"

Again, another clearing of the throat.

Dillon felt consciousness drifting from her, slipping through her fingers like the white sands of St. Barthélemy, her limbs warm—was it the Caribbean sun or the morphine?

She didn't hear the doctor's answer.

When she woke again, she was in a different room.

The writing on the whiteboard— patient name, nurse, care plan —had changed to English. There was a pastel mural painted on the wall by the door, colorful silhouettes of children playing netball.

Beside the bed a body was slumped in an armchair and despite the hospital blanket drawn to her ears, and the ball cap tipped down to block out the light, Dillon knew it was Kam.

She tried to sit up but found the action impossible as a torrent of pain flashed from the numbness of her toes to the scalding ache of her shoulders. Her involuntary gasp woke Kam, who sat up, blinking the room into focus.

"Hey." She swept the hat off her head, unfurling her legs that had been tucked up beneath her. "You're awake."

"I think I'd rather not be." Dillon closed her eyes. Something was pinning her left arm to her side. Her right leg felt immobilized. When she tried to draw a deeper breath, she found a new sensation of pain stabbing beneath her ribcage. "What time is it?" The last thing she remembered was staring up at the clock in Landungsbrücken. It had been seven-thirty.

"About ten."

Dillon opened her eyes, verifying she'd seen light glowing around the edges of the drawn curtain. It couldn't possibly have only been a few hours.

"How'd you get to Hamburg so fast?" Kam should have been in Beijing. She'd been at a promotional event in correlation with the trailer release for her second film.

"You're back in England." Kam stood, allowing the coarse hospital blanket to slip to the ground, and settled on the edge of Dillon's bed. "Last night they transferred you to the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital in London."

Dillon wanted to close her eyes and reopen them. To find herself waking in the hours before the race. Anything to shake her free of this nightmare.

"What day is it?"

"Monday."

Two days . The race had been Saturday morning.

"Who won?"

Kam didn't answer.

"Elyna, then." Dillon tried to suck in a deep breath but radiating pain immediately cut the action short. "And Alecia?"

"I don't know." Kam reached for her hand. "I'm sorry."

The halogen lamps flickered on the ceiling. Above the headboard, a monitor ticked out the slow beat of her heart. On the whiteboard, in bubbly print, a nurse had written her name— Candice —with a smiley face.

"You didn't have to come."

"Of course I did!" Kam's tone was sharp, her fingers tensing around Dillon's. "I was on a plane before the ambulance had gotten you off the race course."

"You're so dramatic," Dillon tried to smile, only to find her face hurt with the effort. She ran her tongue along her upper teeth, relieved to find she still had all of them. "I think I dreamt Seren was there?"

"She was. And your mom."

For the first time since Dillon woke, a tendril of fear pierced through the numbness, settling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. "Looked that bad, did it?" Her voice wasn't as light as she would have liked it, the question no longer feeling rhetorical.

"It was bad, Dillon."

There was something about the way Kam said it.

Behind them, the persistent beep of the heart rate monitor ticked upward as Dillon formed her next question.

"What exactly is the damage?"

Kam glanced toward the door. "I should get the doctor. She can explain it—"

Dillon dug her fingernails into Kam's palm, preventing her from pulling away. "Kam!" The coil of fear was unraveling. "What is it you don't want to tell me?" She could account for the obvious. Her elbow. Her shoulder. Something in her shinbone. The pounding in her head indicative of a concussion. She forced herself to wiggle her toes, her fingers. All of that was working. "Is it my ACL?" she asked, suddenly nauseous. "Please say it's not my ACL."

She tallied the timeline. It was late September. The Olympics were in August. Was a little more than ten months enough? It had taken her the better part of a year to return to competition when she'd ruptured the ligament as a teenager.

She ran through the early season lineup. She would have to race before summer. Something to prove to British Triathlon that she was still a contender.

Bermuda was in March. Andalucia in April. Weihai in May. Worst case, there was always Leeds in July.

If she finished any of those races in the top twenty, they couldn't deny her after her auto-qualifier.

"It's not your ACL."

The statement derailed her premature problem-solving, temporarily swinging the pendulum of her anxiety in an arc toward relief until she glanced over and caught Kam's expression. The monotone chirp of the monitor continued to accelerate.

"Okay." Dillon found it difficult to produce enough air to make the word audible. She couldn't bear the look on Kam's face. The way she could only meet her eyes in glancing intervals. "What then?"

Again, Kam looked toward the door. Whether she was seeking an escape, or hoping for reinforcements, Dillon couldn't decide. In either case, Kam finally took a deep breath, evidently surrendering to the awareness that she could not free herself from the situation.

"You damaged something in the cartilage, Dillon. The surgeon called it a—an osteochondral defect." She hesitated. "She said it was like a pothole in your knee."

"How long, then?" It was the only thing Dillon could think to say. There were just over three hundred days until the gun went off in Los Angeles. "How long, Kam?" she persisted.

"The doctor said she wouldn't know anything for certain until she got a scope in there. You'll be going in for surgery this evening." Kam attempted to shift her tone, to paint the future with a coat of possibility.

But Dillon already knew. She'd known it since Kam's first staggered breath. Perhaps she'd known it already while lying on the pavement in Hamburg.

And late that night, when the head of orthopedics came to see her after she'd woken from the attempted reconstruction surgery, she'd known before the woman ever opened her mouth what she would say:

She was very sorry.

She'd taken a career-ending fall.

She'd never race again.