Free TWICE VICTORIOUS by Judith B. Glad

want to
expand, don't want to grow. Open your eyes, Adam. There are a lot of us out here who are
perfectly content to stay small, and not have to contend with the hassle of being
employers."
    "It just seems such a shame that someone with your potential is missing out on
opportunity. Stell, there's no limit to how far you could go."
    "That's enough, Adam. I'm content with my life, and I don't want to go far. Drop
it."
    "Well, I still can't understand why anyone would want to stagnate, but if that's
your idea of a good life, I'll be the last one to argue."
    Darn the man! He sounded so patronizing. It was her turn.
    "Look Adam, what would you do if I suggested that you would improve the
quality of your life if you were to take up some competitive sport? You've proven you've
got the necessary drive, the single-mindedness that it takes to be a champion." She leaned
toward him. For a second it seemed as if he was shrinking back against the door, away
from her. "And look at you! You're in excellent shape, but I'll bet you maintain your fitness
in a gym."
    His grunt of agreement was all she needed. "Had you ever considered getting
outside and doing something besides running? Take up windsurfing, maybe? I mean,
you're a prime candidate for all the stress-related illnesses and you don't seem to be doing
anything about it."
    "I'm healthy." His tone was flat, forbidding.
    "Yes, but how much more healthy would you be if you were doing something
energetic, demanding, and competitive? I'll bet you've never really gotten involved in any
sport. Not enough to know how rewarding it can be." She reached across the car, gripped
his forearm. "Do you have any idea of what you're missing?"
    With an abrupt jerk, Adam pulled his arm free. Turned the ignition key. "It's time I
took you home."
    She barely had time to fasten her seat belt before they were out of the parking lot
and roaring up Sixtieth toward her home.
    * * * *
    "Steve says hello."
    Adam looked up from the April financial statement. His sister was standing in the
door of his office, looking innocent as hell. "Steve?" Memories overwhelmed him,
memories he'd kept firmly locked away for a long time.
    "Steve Francisco. Your old buddy. Your best friend." Juliana's eyes were full of
questions. "He's in Denver, setting up a Salle."
    So Steve was finally getting around to doing what they'd once planned to do
together. Deliberately he looked down at the papers before him, but the words and
numbers they held were a jumble of black and white, meaningless shapes blurred by
intrusive memories. "So?" One word was all he could manage.
    "He called Mom last night. He wanted your phone number." Her words hung in
the air, waiting for his response.
    Adam wasn't sure what he felt. "Did she give it to him?"
    "Yes."
    "Damn!" The pen in his hand snapped. Adam looked at the pieces, tossed them
aside.
    Juliana dropped into the chair across from him, glaring. "It's been seventeen years,
Adam. When are you going to forgive Steve for your own stupidity?"
    It was just like her to blame him for the loss of a once firm friendship. She had
played big sister to his best friend since third grade. When Steve had faltered, not believing
they could be the best, Juliana had always urged him on, sharing her unwavering faith in
his ability.
    So why was he surprised at her attack? He'd always known how she felt, even
though she'd said very little at the time he'd decided to come home for good.
    "Don't you ever wonder what might have been if you hadn't decided to be so nobly
self-sacrificing, Adam? And why it was so easy for you to make that sacrifice?" Without
waiting for an answer, she rose and walked out of his office, pulling the door quietly
closed behind her.
    Wonder? Of course he'd wondered. Back then he'd spent far too many black,
lonely nights questioning his decision to give up the sport that had consumed him for so
long. Even now, with a satisfying, successful life and a golden future in store, he still
occasionally