Gold Medal Hero Read online

  GOLD MEDAL HERO

  HERO SERIES

  BOOK 1

  By Jena Petrie

  GOLD MEDAL HERO

  Hero series Book 1

  Copyright © 2018 by Jena Petrie

  ISBN 978-0-473-41976-9

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or shared in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Please do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Locales and public names are sometimes used for authenticity. Apart from that, any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CONTACT

  DEDICATION

  I would like to take this opportunity to thank those who have helped me with this story.

  First there is my husband for all the meals he cooked, allowing me to write.

  The numerous people who helped with research on rowing, gave advice on story plot, characters, publishing and other related matters, thank you.

  And Robin of Robin Ludwig Design Inc. www.gobookcoverdesign.com for the lovely cover she designed for me.

  CHAPTER 1

  Afternoon sunshine filled the boss' office with so much heat, sweat broke out on Bailey Stoddart's palms as she entered.

  Or was it the request she'd come to make that made her so nervous?

  "Yes?"

  Nothing unusual in John's bark of greeting but her mouth dried anyway. "My friend's just rung to say Connor Freeman, a New Zealand Olympic gold medal rower, is giving a talk to the kids at her school in thirty minutes. Can I go and interview him for an article? Please, boss."

  Big Bad John's dark blue eyes screwed up so tight it was almost impossible to see the colour. "One of our gold medallists? From the–"

  "Men's Four," Bailey filled in as her palms squeezed into tight balls. "It's too good an opportunity to pass up, don't you think?"

  The boss swept a hand over the bald centre of his head. "For someone, yes, but are you up to interviewing such a celebrity?"

  Chin high, she stretched upwards. "Of course. Besides, I'm the best qualified, being involved in his sport. You know I write the local rowing club news."

  "Mm." John rubbed his chin—a sign he was not to be disturbed and Bailey waited in silence. How much more convincing did the man need, for God's sake? At this rate she wouldn't arrive in time to ask permission.

  "You row, yourself?"

  "Cox," she explained, resisting the urge to sigh. "A bit too short to row. The best rowers are super tall."

  "Won't that be a problem for you in an interview situation?"

  "No-o. He'll be used to short cox'ns."

  "Okay then. Don't forget a couple of clear photos, and get it in by five."

  Whew. "Thanks, boss." Bailey turned to leave. Stopped when John spoke again.

  "And for God's sake, girl, try to add a bit of sparkle this time. You know what I expect: something sensational, a bit of gossip, or a hint of something dark in his background."

  Her shoes swivelled around on the polished wooden floor. "I can't do that, boss! He's a national celebrity!"

  "Yeah, and even celebs have their dirty little secrets so try and suss his out, okay? Give us something eye-catching that's worthy of a banner for a change; something juicy to hook the readers instead of the basic stories you usually write. I've asked enough times already so prove you can do it by the end of the month or you're outa here."

  Back in the corridor Bailey took several deep breaths. If he'd asked her to write dirt on her ex, Sam, who'd used her, verbally abused her, then ditched her... Yeah, she'd love to write sleaze on him.

  But publicise the gossip around national rowing hero Connor Freeman?

  Not a chance.

  * * *

  Outside the Mosgiel School hall Bailey clutched the bag holding her Nikon DSLR and paused to calm her breathing. Nearly there. She lifted her chin, stretched to her full height and marched inside.

  Thank God, plenty of empty seats remained, so still time to set up the interview. Ignoring the kids' chatter, she hurried down the aisle, through a side door and towards the waiting area beside the stage. Towards the darling of the national rowing squad, Connor Freeman.

  And there he was. Alone, too.

  Perfect.

  A spark of interest flashed across Connor's handsome features but disappeared with the speed of a camera's shutter. Obviously he'd expected someone different.

  In spite of lacking his trademark smile he still looked gorgeous. More so than in any of the photos she'd seen over the last three years. Peeking out from under his national elite-winner's redcoat, a white shirt emphasized Connor's sun-bronzed face, dark hair and grey eyes. The whiff of musky aftershave that hung around him proved he was real; not a cardboard cut-out, a poster, or a photo. Not this time.

  His lack of welcome did nothing to stop the thrill of meeting this celebrity and converted into a smile that stretched right across her face. Even her feet wanted to tap a dance in celebration but she'd come for an interview and personal excitement had to be ignored. She stepped forward, her hand extended. "Connor, it's so good to have you here in Mosgiel. I'm—"

  "A reporter." Connor's lips firmed and he looked away, as if journalists were his number one hate.

  Damn. Bailey's hand dropped as she rocked back on her heels, the smile gone. He'd given plenty of interviews before; why not one more? "Yes." Again, she thrust out her hand. "Bailey Stoddart, from the Mosgiel Gazette, this town's community newspaper."

  At least he stood, but in spite of four inch heels added to her five foot two height, Connor's six foot three stature appeared to loom over her. "Bailey." The flat tone as he touched, then dropped her hand, implied she'd barely registered on his radar.

  Ignoring his rudeness, she hurried to explain her mission. "I'd like to interview you for an article for tomorrow's newspaper. If I could—"

  "No time. Sorry." His tall frame lowered onto the moulded plastic chair. "Have to leave for the airport straight after this talk."

  At least now she could look down instead of up to that uncomfortable height, but damn. She needed this interview like she needed oxygen. Reinforcements would be helpful too, but a glance around the dimly-lit space proved no-one lurked in the shadows. According to the school secretary, headmaster Jerry Hawkins was looking after Connor, so why had he left this guest on his own?

  Celebrity guest.

  "Where's the headmaster? He shouldn't have—"

  "Getting me a drink of water."

  "Oh. In that case, I'll have to use information from your speech for the newspaper report. Is that okay?"

  "I guess."

  "Thanks." But without an interview, how cou
ld she write something new? Having come so close to this celebrity she couldn't give up the chance to delve deeper into his persona. After all, the guy was a gorgeous hunk of male, well liked for his jovial attitude, a celebrity who'd actively promoted New Zealand at the Olympics and even spent the last couple of months giving talks to groups around the country.

  And now he was here, presenting the ideal opportunity for her to prove to the boss that a well written article on an interesting subject could really be worth publishing without using anything underhand.

  But would John ever change, even with proof?

  What if... Several times in quick succession, Bailey's fingers clenched and opened. "I'd love to write a longer article on you as well, for a magazine. Can I—"

  "Which one?"

  "Um." Any, as long as the piece included her name and was published in full without any of John's required background checks. "Whichever one's interested. No in-depth article's been written on you yet, has it?" When he shook his head she carried on. "So I don't expect to have a problem finding a publisher, with your reputation... As an excellent speaker, of course, besides your inspirational sportsmanship; both hot topics."

  "Hot topics? Lady, I think you've missed the boat on that one. The Olympics are old news now."

  "Oh, don't worry. My article would showcase the man behind the win, the way you started as a cox'n like me—"

  His head lifted, eyebrows raised, interest clear in his eyes at last. "You're a cox?"

  "That's right. Mosgiel Country Rowing Club."

  "And you think I'm inspirational?" Sitting straighter, those gorgeous grey eyes twinkled and his mouth turned up in such a brilliant, sexy, lop-sided smile, her knees wobbled.

  Oh, oh. Not a good sign. Sure, he had charisma to die for but she would not allow an interviewee to suck her in to another personal relationship, especially not a sportsman. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, too. "Definitely. Especially to me. I've followed your rowing career from your win at the Under 23 World Champs three years ago. Then your sudden rise to the top in the Men's Four the following year inspired me to try your sport. Now I cox a women's eight—."

  "Awesome."

  Oh, man. He sounded genuinely interested now... Until he looked away and her hopes plummeted like a sinking anchor. Words, that's all they were. To him she was just another reporter and not worth a toss. "Perhaps I could drive you to the airport, start the questions there, and—"

  "What experience do you have in writing for magazines?"

  "Plenty, if you count the student university one. In those three years I interviewed students, lecturers, deans, even the chancellor himself, and wrote articles on a variety of subjects, from university courses to action against pollution." Even Connor's scepticism couldn't put her off now. "I'm capable of writing your story, believe me."

  "But you've never done one on a rower."

  "Which is why my personal experience would give me an edge. My understanding of the sport means I know the jargon so you wouldn't waste time on explanations. It would also make my writing more authentic and interesting and when I detail your background I'd show how it's contributed to your drive and determination to win; essential for achieving any important goal."

  "You realise too much detail could turn readers away."

  "Of course, but I'd concentrate on your special abilities. You see, coxing's taught me so much more than rowing would have. For instance, I know that with your boat being coxless, you did the steering, as stroke you also set the pace, carried out the race plan and pushed the crew to victory. Even though it's much more than my job of steering and instructing the crew, I can relate. I know what tenacity is needed for your multitasking role and I have huge respect for rowers who accomplish it successfully."

  "You do?"

  "Yes. They're a superior breed. You especially, the way you rocketed to the top."

  He sat back in the chair, stretched out long legs and folded his arms, as if this was some ordinary conversation instead of one that could transform her career.

  "What's wrong with what you do now?"

  "Are you kidding? I work for the local rag, in an age when people can read the news on-line. Our paper's reducing staff and my job's in jeopardy."

  "How is one single article on me going to help there?"

  "By proving to my boss that my writing's good enough to publish, even without his... input."

  "But if you want to write for magazines, why bother trying to impress your boss? Why not concentrate on longer articles? Move away if you have to, if your career means so much to you."

  "Move?" She frowned. "Why?"

  "To be closer to more potential interviewees, like in a city for instance; somewhere with more opportunities for stories and more exposure for your articles."

  "Oh, even if I worked in Dunedin, I could live here. Better climate, better social scene, quieter, friendlier, and with better access to news because the locals here are more likely to let me know when anything interesting comes up."

  The background noise from the hall increased, zapped up her enthusiasm and injected her with a shot of confidence. "Isn't it a shame the high school students are missing out on hearing your address because of the fire there? Still, I'm sure these younger kids will love to hear your talk. It means your trip's not wasted and I had the chance to meet you." She laughed. "So glad I didn't miss the opportunity."

  "I would have thought a fire would be more newsworthy than my talk."

  "Not to me."

  A frown line appeared between his eyebrows as he gazed beyond her to the closed hall door.

  As if looking to escape.

  "We could Skype," she suggested, her fingers crossed.

  "Possibly."

  Really? "You mean, I can do it?" Wow. Her stilettos almost bounced on the floor but she forced them still. Maybe this story would be the one to finally impress her parents. High time they stopped comparing her to that medical-researcher-doctor-brother.

  Still, she needed a sign; proof she hadn't misread Connor's response.

  He actually smiled. Not his trademark grin and not something that really showed pleasure, but a—we'll see—kind of smile. "I'd have to assess your writing first."

  Bummer. Her heels thumped to the floor. She needed to know now, before he slipped out of her life again and forgot all about her. But why hadn't she thought to bring a sample piece with her? Too nervous, too impatient and in too much of a hurry to think of it. How would Connor, with his public speaking experience, view that slip-up? "I'll give you a link later, to an article I wrote at uni. In the meantime, can I take some photos, just in case?"

  At his nod she crouched, zooming in and out with her camera lens and snapping several shots while he posed, his expression serious. Too serious, blast him, and nothing like his normal casual appearance, so she slid the camera back in the bag. "I'll take some of you during the talk as well, so don't get upset if you see a flash."

  "There are always flashes."

  At his bored tone she swung around, checking the dim space again. "Jerry's taking a long time. Perhaps the water's been cut off for the fire."

  "God, I hope not. Need it, you understand, before this talk." Long fingers pulled at his ear lobe. "Never given a talk to kids this young before."

  Really? Couldn't be nervous, could he?

  As if searching for clues, he turned his palms over.

  Smooth palms, suggesting he hadn't rowed since the Olympics.

  "Usually, the presentations I give are to high school kids or older, but with the short notice this time and much younger kids, well, I don't have the right stuff prepared." He flashed a pleading look. "So, what do I tell them, Bailey? Help me out, will you? Tell me what to say."

  Poor guy, thrown in at the deep end like that. Who would have realized this change of schools would produce such a challenge? "Same as usual I guess but keep it more general and your language simple. Ask questions and get them to answer to keep their attention. And show them your medal, but not
till the end. That'll keep them in suspense."

  "Sounds like you know a lot about kids." He looked at her speculatively. "Got some of your own?"

  "Jeez, no. Not even a boyfriend." Like she'd ever find a decent one. One who didn't use her. But why had she revealed so much to Connor, the playboy of the national rowing squad? Nervousness? Carelessness? Or plain simple stupidity? "Just a niece and a nephew."

  The chattering of a few hundred kids burst from behind her and the headmaster stepped through the doorway from the hall, a glass of water in each hand. He flashed a smile at her as the automatic door closed behind him. "Heard you were here. Been interviewing Connor? I've just had trouble convincing another reporter we don't need him. Got one already, I said."

  "Thanks," she told Jerry as Connor almost snatched the drink from the headmaster's hand. Her own itched to grab the spare. "Can I drive your guest to the airport afterwards?"

  "Of course."

  "No need to worry about the kids," she assured her interviewee with a nod towards the hall door. "They're excited already."

  Ignoring her, he drained his glass and reached for the other. "I'll take this with me if that's okay."

  "Fine, and it's time to go." With a nod to her, Jerry led his guest away.

  Moments later Bailey slid into a vacant seat at the side of the hall and set up her phone to record as the welcoming applause died down. Had she given Connor enough ideas to keep these youngsters entertained?

  Sure, he started well with a confident stride to the lectern. Towering over it, he scanned the room until he spotted Bailey, his cheeky grin a complete contrast to the nervousness displayed earlier.

  What?

  Facing the front again, he addressed the kids, his tone confident, self-assured, strong. "Do any of you want to compete in the Olympics?"

  Several heads nodded in reply.

  "Come on," he coaxed, lifting the lectern and carrying it closer to the edge of the stage, so effortlessly it could have been made of plywood.

  Show off.

  "Hands up those of you who say yes."

  Like tall reeds in a pond, arms stretched up throughout the hall.

  "Great. I did. Won my event and got a medal to prove it. Wanna see?" His hand vanished inside his jacket while heads nodded and kids yelled their excitement.