Chapter 10
Chapter ten
September, Moto Club in North Carolina
Tate laced up his Puma trainers and jogged in place, warming up.
Determined to not think about Bryce or Warren or any other fucking man, sex, or hedonist distractions; he headed for the gym.
Cramming his feelings down and ignoring them seemed like the best idea when he couldn’t do shit about it anyway.
Keeping busy and working out was the best way to go.
If he ignored it long enough, maybe it would go away.
Besides, the camp had a decent facility, but unless a rider got in early, it would be packed.
Unlike the tracks, no one set down a schedule; it worked first come first served.
He sprinted over, between dorm buildings and past the cafeteria building, before dawn even thought about rising, just to get on a rower.
Thankfully, one was open when he got there, but other riders had already snagged two of the three top of the line machines.
They all dressed similarly to Tate with Under Armour t-shirts and sweatpants or joggers low on their hips, and all manner of sneakers.
He only admired them for a second or two and with a quick nod, Tate sat on the pad of the machine and set the resistance to low for his warm up.
He concentrated on his abs and core with each stroke, feeling the pull and willing his body into submission.
After a few minutes, he cranked the resistance higher and set the timer on his phone.
He didn't want to think about counting his reps, just feeling his muscles work.
He set a decent pace and it wasn't long before sweat broke out on his forehead and dripped down his back.
“Jordan!” a husky voice called out, interrupting his blissful moment of not thinking.
He looked up and saw the camp manager, Mr. Wylie.
The man was old enough to be his grandfather, but still ran the camp with dedication, endurance, and respect.
His jeans were baggy and his camp t-shirt faded, but he owned the place and walked with his back straight and tall, carrying the confidence of a man in a three-piece suit.
“Hey! Mr. Wylie, what's up?” Tate stopped rowing and grabbed his towel, wiping his forehead and hands.
“Your coach is here.” He thumbed behind him, just as a tall, thin Latin man entered the room.
His black hair shined under the fluorescent lights of the gym.
A friendly smile stretched his mouth that was surrounded by a black mustache and goatee.
Tate liked the crinkles that appeared around his eyes.
His shoulders were relaxed, but didn't hide his self-assurance.
The man held out his hand. “Joseph Cruz. Call me Joey.”
“Hi,” Tate squeaked, grasping the man's rough hand.
They were about the same height, but Tate could see Joey was older than him, not nearly as old as Mr. Wylie, but definitely in his thirties.
Still, he was hot, and Tate had to fight himself not to look for a ring and wonder what he'd look like out of that Henley shirt and gray slacks that hugged his hips and thighs just right.
His new coach could prove to be an even better distraction than just working out.
Joey pointed at the rower. “I don't want to interrupt your work out, but when you're finished, we should talk.”
“Sure.” Tate couldn't think of anything else to say. He felt like he'd swallowed his tongue, but that was better than letting it hang out to drool all over his new trainer. “MSR sent you?” What was Oz thinking, sending him such a sexy coach?
That smile again, glowing brighter than the lights. “Yeah. They did. I'm qualified.”
“I don't doubt it.” There was no way the man could be gay. Tate couldn't be so lucky.
One dark eyebrow lifted as the man stared Tate down. “I trained Chris Bowie, 250 East Champion, last year,” he said, as if proving his quality.
“Oh?”
“He's staying in the 250's another year. I wanted a, uh, a bigger challenge.”
Tate finally returned the smile. Obviously Oz and the executives at MSR considered Tate challenging, but he wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Yet, they both knew that everyone wanted to be in the 450SX division, so what did it matter?
Before Tate could respond, Joey cleared his throat and spoke in a growly, commanding voice. “MSR expects you to finish third in points this year.”
Tate's face fell. He didn't understand their lack of confidence in him. Just because his love life resembled the third level of hell, didn’t mean he couldn’t race his ass off. He was better on a bike than anywhere else.
“I'm here to make sure you don't. I expect you to win.”
Tate stared at the floor. He didn't know what to say. He mumbled, “Thank you,” but wasn't sure Joey even heard him.
“I know you're friends with McAllister. But that doesn't mean you can't beat him on the track.”
Davey was the man to beat, at least Joey had done his homework. Tate looked at him again, from a professional point of view, putting aside his hormonal attraction. “You think you can help me do it?”
“Yes.” He had no smile this time. Joey's face was a mask of strength and determination with pinched brow and lips and a slight wrinkle around his pert nose.
“Well, let's get some breakfast and talk about it. I'm starving.”
Black brows lifted above his dark eyes, “Aren't you training?”
“I'm not on a specific schedule. Yet.” Tate winked at him. He couldn't help himself. The guy was gorgeous, especially with his serious face.
“All right. I'll get your diet sorted out with the cafeteria and we'll get you on a schedule. Ready?”
“Hell, yeah.” Tate was more than ready. With Joey here, manipulating his time, he wouldn't have a moment to spare thinking about Bryce or that fucker Warren or his break up with Donny or sex or any number of other things that had him constantly stirred up.
He'd be able to do what he'd come to the camp to do in the first place. He’d train and ride.
Joey put Tate through the paces over the next few days, not only on the track, but in the gym and on a bike—the pedal kind.
Tate loved that. He'd left his own bike in storage in New York, but the camp bikes were in good shape, so they rode through the North Carolina country side. They spent a lot of time riding through the trails around the camp and enjoying the scenery with lots of pines and evergreens that gave a lush backdrop to the changing colors of the oaks and maples and other upland hardwoods. The weather most days provided clear warm temperatures that hovered around seventy. The fresh air blowing across his face while they cruised down a hill or pedaled hard to crest one went a long way to healing his heart. Fuck-all if he was lonely; Tate didn’t really need anything else but training and riding.
As sweet as the bicycling was for his soul, it was nothing compared to motoring his KTM on the dirt.
Even though Tate enjoyed all the extra activity, his head still wasn't in it enough. He knew he wasn't giving enough, but no matter how he tried, his string of failures kept haunting him. No matter how busy his day was, his empty bed reminded him of what he couldn’t have. He wasn’t even good enough for that bastard, Warren Tanner.
It wasn't just the camp guys, Bryce and Tanner, it was also Donny and half a dozen others before him that hadn't even given him their time or respect and half the time, not even their names.
He could remember a few names, Clay and Jerome, and even more faces.
They skated through his brain as he rode his bike through the dirt, and ironically what the dirt was supposed to be distracting him from only distracted him from focusing on his ride.
He missed a triple jump, landing on the front side of the third mound.
The shocks in his machine absorbed the contact, but the hard hit still reverberated through Tate's fingers and thighs.
He gunned the bike and pushed it hard through the next turn, but by the time he came up to the whoops, he was tired and he loped through them at a moderate pace, essentially obliterating what could have been his best advantage on the track.
As he came around to the front of the course, Joey waved his arms over his head. When Tate drove up the hill to him, he stopped, killing the bike engine.
“Tate, man? What the hell? I'm not fucking here to babysit you.
I'm not gonna coddle you. What?” He held his hands up at his sides, begging Tate to answer him, but Tate didn't have an answer.
Joey balled his hands into fists and planted them on his hips.
His face scowled and he shifted his weight to one foot.
“This isn't going to beat McAllister. This performance? What the hell have you been doing here? Lolly-gagging? Hiding?”
Tate huffed, but still didn't answer.
Joey glared at him. “This isn't going to cut it. You're better than this. Your time today makes it seem like you haven't been on this track before. Hell, it looks like you've never made it to the 250s. I thought you won a championship, Tate?”
“Yeah.” He had a trophy and a tattoo to prove it. Joey was right, though; his current performance on the track didn't prove anything. “Sorry.”
“I don't care how sorry you are. I care that you're doing everything you need to do to win, to be a champion. You should be getting faster, stronger. You should be able to push that bike all over the track, not the other way around.” He made some kind of swishing motion with his hand in front of him.
Tate pulled off his helmet, ready to confess his distractions, but Joey wasn't listening.
“Look, Tate,” he scowled. “Oz said you like to ride to get over your shit. But that shit should have been over last week. Your head needs to get in the game now. I want you at the Rhythm event next month. I want you to win it.”
Tate wanted to win too, but he couldn't help wonder what Oz had shared with his new trainer. “What do you mean, Oz said?”
“That's all you got out of that?”
“Uh, no.”
“Damn, Tate. I'm tired of this shit. Too old for this shit. I want to train with winners, not love sick puppies.” Joey turned and stormed away, his hands animated and flashing around like lightning emphasizing his rage.
Love sick puppy? Tate ground his teeth together. Heat raced over his face. He flung his helmet down the hill, only slightly wishing that it had been thrown at the back of Joey's head.