that pushed and pulled her around. He’d never been able to help her conquer it, not even at the dark end.
That was why he’d avoided being helpless once he’d had his own life. He conquered the damn ocean, and he’d been so close to a world championship so many times, he could have kissed the damn silver trophy. Yet he’d missed it.
He was close again this year, but between injury and these new rumors, he could feel things slipping out of his grasp. All his plans, all his work. Fucked again.
He ground his teeth together, and his spine felt like it was made of metal. “Frank, there’s nothing in my past worth making a documentary about.” That was a lie, but he wasn’t going to tell that to the head of a rival company.
“I know, Sean,” Frank agreed, giving a conciliatory nod. “But . . . well, things have gotten tough lately. Everyone’s scrutinizing athletes for doping history. Hell, look how long Lance Armstrong got away with it until they really started clamping down. . . . If there are any sorts of drugs in your past, things might get a little tough.”
Sean muttered curses under his breath. This was not good. “Why me? Why are the rumors centering on me? I’m a midranker at best.”
“I think it has to do with this recent injury, and particularly the circumstances of it. It’s drawing you extra attention. Combined with how closemouthed you’ve always been about your past . . .”
“Man, this is bullshit. These are just rumors.” And they were way off the mark. So far.
Frank’s expression turned mournful. His mouth turned down at the corners, and his eyes deepened with sadness. “Sean . . . I know they’re rumors, butyou really should cover yourself. Maybe you should talk to your attorney.”
Chapter 8
A nnie had never played with fireworks before, but sitting next to Sean in his car felt like being strapped in next to a rocket launcher. He was dangerous and explosive. Part of her was tempted to reach out and touch him. His grip on the stick shift left his knuckles white with strain. The tendons along his neck stood in stark relief.
Sean Westin didn’t take things as lightly as she’d thought. Even his vehicle was something of a surprise. She’d have guessed Porsche or Lexus, but instead he drove a late-1970s Bronco. True, it had been fully restored and improved so there were butter-soft leather seats and a dashboard that rivaled any new car. The in-dash GPS was so fancy, she was surprised it didn’t do the actual steering. But the body was all business, and Sean even had two boards in the back, both of them midsized shortboards good for a wide range of surf conditions.
“Should I ask where we’re going?”
Sean had insisted on driving to the event tonight. It had seemed the most sensible option at the time, but now she regretted that she’d be an extra problem when Sean didn’t need any more shit. She couldn’t even imagine what he’d be worrying about. The calls he’d likely have to make.
“No. Yes. Fuck. Sorry, Annie.” He smacked the steering wheel. “I should take you home, but I just hit autopilot to my place.”
“It’s all right.” She twisted the hem of her dress around her pinkie. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the shot of nervousness overtaking her. “Head home. I can always call a cab.”
“No, you don’t have to do that.” He sighed. “I’ll take you home after I make one phone call, yeah? That work?”
She nodded, leaning into the corner between the seat and the door, watching him. Part of her knew if she said a single word in protest, he’d change course and take her to her place. But he’d just been given a hell of a wallop, so she was sure he needed to bring in his cavalry. As quickly as possible.
He drove with one hand atop the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift. His motions were small and efficient. On the way to the party, he’d been a good driver, but the way he kept his calm now, when he was this upset, was
That was why he’d avoided being helpless once he’d had his own life. He conquered the damn ocean, and he’d been so close to a world championship so many times, he could have kissed the damn silver trophy. Yet he’d missed it.
He was close again this year, but between injury and these new rumors, he could feel things slipping out of his grasp. All his plans, all his work. Fucked again.
He ground his teeth together, and his spine felt like it was made of metal. “Frank, there’s nothing in my past worth making a documentary about.” That was a lie, but he wasn’t going to tell that to the head of a rival company.
“I know, Sean,” Frank agreed, giving a conciliatory nod. “But . . . well, things have gotten tough lately. Everyone’s scrutinizing athletes for doping history. Hell, look how long Lance Armstrong got away with it until they really started clamping down. . . . If there are any sorts of drugs in your past, things might get a little tough.”
Sean muttered curses under his breath. This was not good. “Why me? Why are the rumors centering on me? I’m a midranker at best.”
“I think it has to do with this recent injury, and particularly the circumstances of it. It’s drawing you extra attention. Combined with how closemouthed you’ve always been about your past . . .”
“Man, this is bullshit. These are just rumors.” And they were way off the mark. So far.
Frank’s expression turned mournful. His mouth turned down at the corners, and his eyes deepened with sadness. “Sean . . . I know they’re rumors, butyou really should cover yourself. Maybe you should talk to your attorney.”
Chapter 8
A nnie had never played with fireworks before, but sitting next to Sean in his car felt like being strapped in next to a rocket launcher. He was dangerous and explosive. Part of her was tempted to reach out and touch him. His grip on the stick shift left his knuckles white with strain. The tendons along his neck stood in stark relief.
Sean Westin didn’t take things as lightly as she’d thought. Even his vehicle was something of a surprise. She’d have guessed Porsche or Lexus, but instead he drove a late-1970s Bronco. True, it had been fully restored and improved so there were butter-soft leather seats and a dashboard that rivaled any new car. The in-dash GPS was so fancy, she was surprised it didn’t do the actual steering. But the body was all business, and Sean even had two boards in the back, both of them midsized shortboards good for a wide range of surf conditions.
“Should I ask where we’re going?”
Sean had insisted on driving to the event tonight. It had seemed the most sensible option at the time, but now she regretted that she’d be an extra problem when Sean didn’t need any more shit. She couldn’t even imagine what he’d be worrying about. The calls he’d likely have to make.
“No. Yes. Fuck. Sorry, Annie.” He smacked the steering wheel. “I should take you home, but I just hit autopilot to my place.”
“It’s all right.” She twisted the hem of her dress around her pinkie. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the shot of nervousness overtaking her. “Head home. I can always call a cab.”
“No, you don’t have to do that.” He sighed. “I’ll take you home after I make one phone call, yeah? That work?”
She nodded, leaning into the corner between the seat and the door, watching him. Part of her knew if she said a single word in protest, he’d change course and take her to her place. But he’d just been given a hell of a wallop, so she was sure he needed to bring in his cavalry. As quickly as possible.
He drove with one hand atop the steering wheel and the other on the gearshift. His motions were small and efficient. On the way to the party, he’d been a good driver, but the way he kept his calm now, when he was this upset, was
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