Page 5 of Off the Mark
“Elaine always had a strong hand in the programming here, so while we can strategize around fundraising, we need someone who knows the day-to-day business of running this place.” She pinned me with a look. “And I’ll be honest. Cutting programs here would be a massive loss to this community. But it might be our only option to save us, moving forward. I wouldn’t turn awayanycreative solutions to keep it though, Rowan. So if you want to be our interim director and shore up some extra funds so we can keep it? That’s the type of leadership we need.”
I scrubbed a hand down my face with a dry laugh. “I mean, you’ve done such a convincing job of selling this gig. Demanding, long hours, burnout, long-term health issues…”
She cracked a smile. “The truth’s the truth. I couldn’t offer it to you without being candid.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll be clear. The board, per Elaine’s recommendation, is asking you to step in as the director, temporarily, while we search for a funding miracle as well as Elaine’s replacement.”
“And you’re sure Elaine’s not coming back? I’m just having a difficult time not…” I swallowed. “You know. Imagining her not being around.”
“I am too,” she said softly. “She’s been not only a colleague to me but also a dear friend. But her wife, Mattie, told me that she’s been worried about Elaine’s health for months. This is not the way anyone wants to opt into retirement, but between you and me…it’s time. Elaine’s health needs come before anything else.”
I turned to face the windows, mulling over what she’d said. Knowing she was right. When I was playing ball, how many times was I sent out to replace a pitcher whose arm was spent?
How many damn times was I pulled off the mound for that exact same reason?
Our bodies had limits. I knew that better than anyone. And if the fate of the senior food program—and Dean’s job—was on the line, what choice did I have?
I rubbed a hand across my jaw before revealing a lazy grin. “It just so happens you picked the right day to come in here and ask. Because I woke up hungry for a challenge. Long-term, you’ll want to hire someone much more qualified than I am for the permanent role. But you can trust an ex-pitcher to step in and get the job done for the time being. And program cuts won’t be necessary. I’ll handle it, I promise.”
“It can be animmenseamount of pressure, Rowan,” she said carefully. “Are you sure?”
I stretched my arms out wide behind me, hooking my ankle over my knee. “Pressure’s standing under the lights at Citi Field, dodging a ball rocketing at your head going ninety miles an hour. I watched Elaine do this job for the past three years. How hard can the learning curve be?”
3
CHARLIE
Dempsey handed me a bottle of water and a handful of ibuprofen with only ahintof disapproval on her face.
I was perched on the back of my truck, with my jacket, chest protector, goggles, and helmet in a pile by my side. Around us, the parking lot was crowded with a contingent of dedicated fans, fellow riders, race staff, and mechanics. The summer sun warmed my bare shoulders as I stretched my stiff neck.
Wincing, I chugged the bottle of water with the pain medicine. And when Dempsey crooked her finger, I bent my head and let her place an ice pack along my hairline.
My agent hadn’t competitively raced in more than a decade, but she still showed up to a track with the basics. She was almost as tall as I was—taller in those heels—and her suit was a deep, royal purple. Dempsey was in her late forties, white with a buzzed head, cat’s-eye glasses, and more ink on her body than I had.
“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” I removed the ice pack to peer up at her.
“It’s not even been twenty minutes. Of course I’m still mad.”
“I know I’m a total pain in the ass.” I gave her my cheekiest grin. “Lovable though, right?”
Her fingers gently lifted my chin so she could examine my face for cuts and scrapes, an old habit of hers born more from affection than legitimate medical knowledge. “You’re lucky my specialty is working with stubborn, hard-headed…lovable…pains in the ass.”
Then her good humor vanished. “Charlie. You’re here in Philly for three weeks of elite-level racing and you bailed on a baby jump right before the finish line. This bad press situation would have been a lot better if you’d won.”
I trained my eyes on the city skyline, barely visible through the cloud of dust. “I had a bad race, Dempsey. This shit happens sometimes. You know that.”
“Yes,andnumerous shots of tequila the night before make it more likely to happen.” My stomach lurched at the reminder. “Youdefinitelyknow that.”
She stepped to the side, placing herself into my line of vision and studying me for so long I started to fidget. “Is everything okay with you?”
I flexed my hand, testing the tender knuckles. They’d been hit by a spray of rocks thrown back by the rider in front of me on the first lap. “I’m fine. Apart from, you know, embarrassing myself in front of my fans and colleagues just now.”
“You’re fine,” she repeated flatly.
“Yep. Though I would literally kill for a greasy breakfast sandwich.”
“Because all ofthis”—she waved her hand up and down my body—“hasavoiding my feelingswritten all over it. Is Malcolm okay?”
I hid a grimace. “Dad’s groovy. Currently going through an obsession with British baking shows and feeding a lot of burned croissants to his dogs.”
