Chapter 1
Jude Mercer hadn’t planned to torch his career in front of the television cameras, a panel of veteran judges, and bleachers packed with devoted fans.
Cheating had always gotten under his skin, though.
And this time had been no different. Yeah, okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have confronted Myles Griffin at the finish line.
But what was he supposed to do? Let him leave the venue and destroy the tiny device tucked in his ear?
Jude was ninety-nine percent certain Myles had used it to communicate with his coach during the biathlon.
He hadn’t been about to overlook the blatant illegal activity.
But somehow in his quest to make things right, their interaction had gone horribly wrong. Myles had walked away unscathed. Well, mostly. And Jude had gotten suspended. Unsportsmanlike conduct, making allegations without proof, and creating a disturbance detrimental to the competitive environment.
A week had gone by, and the whole mess still made his blood boil.
And a trip to Alaska to film a commercial hadn’t eased his frustration one bit.
He stood inside the doorway of his rental cabin in Redemption, Alaska, and stared through the screen door.
A monarch butterfly dipped and bobbed over the freshly mowed lawn.
Four little kids played a game of tag under a trio of spruce trees.
May sunshine glinted off the metal roof of Redemption Resort’s main building.
Turning away, he pawed through his duffel bag until he found bug spray, sunglasses, and his trail runners.
The single-story log cabin smelled like cedar and laundry soap.
He hadn’t asked for much detail when he’d booked the reservation.
Mainly because he didn’t have the luxury of being fussy.
The huge bathtub made up for the bare-bones kitchenette, but the place was a bit rustic.
Not that he was here for the amenities. This trip was more about exile.
He grabbed his CamelBak, tugged on his trail runners, and stepped outside. The screen door creaked and slammed behind him with a hollow whack.
His phone buzzed. Of course it did. He groaned. “Not now.”
He fished the phone out of his vest pocket, half tempted to leave it on the cabin steps when he saw the name on the screen.
Braxton Dale.
Agent. Babysitter. Voice of reason.
Sighing, Jude thumbed the green icon, then pressed the phone to his ear. “Well? What’s the latest?”
“Hello to you too,” Braxton’s deep baritone rumbled. “I wish I had good news.”
Jude rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “Lay it on me. Not like things can get any worse.”
But the silence on the line said otherwise.
He sat on the green plastic Adirondack chair on the porch, then shoved his feet into his trail runners. He needed to move. He needed to run.
“The energy-drink people just bailed,” Braxton said.
“High Voltage? Why?” Jude sat up straight. “I’m exactly the kind of guy they need representing their brand. Bold. Fresh. Not afraid to say what I think.”
Braxton cleared his throat. “Right. Except a guy who knocks over a camera and nearly takes out a camera operator isn’t quite the on-brand message they’re looking for.”
“He was in my way.”
“In your way to what?”
“I had to get to Myles before he got to the locker room and tampered with the evidence.”
Braxton sighed, a long exhale that said he’d had this conversation far too many times. “Listen. At some point we’re going to have to address your unconventional conflict-resolution strategy. It’s—”
“What about it?” Jude pinched the phone between his ear and his shoulder, then tied a double knot in his shoelace. “Somebody had to call Myles out.”
“As the ruling body tried to point out, there’s a time and a place and proper channels established to voice allegations,” Braxton said.
“Whatever,” Jude scoffed. “They’re ignoring the cheating that’s going on right under their noses. I can’t pretend I didn’t see that earpiece.”
“At what cost, Jude? You’ve lost almost all your endorsement deals, and you’re suspended from competition.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Jude leaned back, stared up at the sky, and let the silence stretch. “Everybody needs to calm down. They overreacted.”
“Regardless of what you think you saw, this community doesn’t respond well to unsubstantiated allegations.” Braxton’s tone turned flat. “Myles’s coach is pushing for a stiffer punishment.”
Jude’s stomach pitched. “Such as?”
Braxton hesitated. “I’ll keep you updated if anything substantive develops.”
“Okay, fine. What’s next? Who else? Forget High Voltage. How about those meal-kit people? The ones that deliver straight to your door? I’d be perfect for that.”
“Uh-huh.” Braxton didn’t sound convinced. “How about you focus on working out, blowing off some steam, and filming that commercial.”
“Braxton, wait—”
“I gotta be honest, my guy. If you don’t pull it together—”
“Whoa.” Jude pushed to his feet, adrenaline spiking in his veins. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours, of course. But I’m also not kidding. You’re not getting any younger. You need to behave. Get your head right.”
Jude kicked a pine cone across the grass. “What’s that supposed to mean? There’s nothing wrong with my head.”
“Really? Then how about running a race without accusing people of cheating? And what if you competed and you didn’t care what other people did? You just focused on winning?”
“It’s tough to ignore the competition when they’re cheating.”
But Braxton was already gone. The line went dead.
“And I’m always focused on winning.” Jude stared at the screen, then squeezed the phone until his knuckles turned white. His hand ached, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the pressure mounting in his chest.
He wanted to hurl the phone into the woods. Instead, he popped back inside the cabin and tossed the thing onto the blue upholstered love seat. Then he unzipped his fleece vest, shrugged it off, and left it beside his phone.
Get your head right.
Braxton’s horrible advice echoed in his head.
Jude might be frustrated. Misunderstood. Ridiculed.
But calling out that cheater Myles wasn’t wrong.
So for now he’d focus on filming the commercial and getting back in the good graces of the public.
He double-knotted the laces in his other shoe, adjusted the mouthpiece on his CamelBak, and took off down the trail the front-desk clerk had said made a five-mile loop.
Perfect. He’d redirect all of his aggravation toward Myles into gutting out the next five miles.
As he jogged into the woods, a raven cawed from a tree branch overhead.
The breeze picked up. Moss squished beneath his feet.
Pine needles whispered with every step. The rhythm of running was familiar—like the start gate at a biathlon course, the moment before the gun went off and everything faded except his breathing and getting to the targets.
A memory stabbed through him. His dad giving him a lecture after a bad race. The same lines. The same tone. Always circling back to You let us down, Jude.
But what about when people let him down?
How could he win and perform at the highest level if the other competitors cheated? Between doping, cheating via earpieces, smart contact lenses, and hidden devices or using drone surveillance to spy, some days he wondered if any biathletes weren’t sidestepping the rules to gain an advantage.
Some days he wondered if he should join them.
No.
He banished the thought. Biathletes were wired different. Built different. He didn’t need to cheat to win.
He’d prove to Braxton, to Myles—to the entire competitive community if he had to—that following rules mattered. This most definitely was not the beginning of the end.
The trail forked. He stopped, took a sip from the tubing, then stretched his quads again. The left fork led deeper into the trees. That’s what the woman at the desk said—hill at the far end.
Excellent.
He turned left, picked up speed. Every pump of his arms, every crunch of gravel underfoot was a push against the voice in his head: You’re not getting any younger.
His knee twinged. Back muscles ached. More of Braxton’s words looped like a bad playlist.
Behave.
He hit the base of the hill and charged ahead. Legs burning. Lungs tight. Sweat trickled down his spine. The trail narrowed. He reached the top but barely noticed the view. Someone had built a crude bench overlooking a small pond. Wildflowers bloomed in the tall grass.
He didn’t stop.
Instead, he took another quick sip, wiped the sweat from his brow, then headed down the hill.
Pebbles skidded under his shoes. He stumbled, and his stomach lurched.
Arms flailing, he lost his balance. Then his body pitched forward, and he hit the ground on his left side.
His hip and shoulder protested. Grunting, he clawed at the hard ground.
But there wasn’t a single blessed thing in sight to grab onto.
So he rolled like a log down the embankment.
A guttural sound ripped from his throat as white-hot pain exploded in his left quad. The world tilted, blurred, and then he stopped with a sickening thud.
He lay there gasping, limbs sprawled in the dirt, pulse thundering in his ears.
No. No. No.
He didn’t move.
His leg—
Lord, please. I know we’re not speaking right now, but a little help here?
Spots danced across his vision. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. The pain felt sharp and unrelenting. Different from anything he’d fought through before.
He’d faced down world champions. Outskied a herd of caribou. Come back from a compound fracture that nearly ended his career the first time.
But this?
This felt like something else.
This felt like his leg had ripped open.
There wasn’t one single mention of moving back home anywhere on her vision board. Because accepting a job in Redemption wasn’t even plan B.