Page 10 of Head Over Wheels

But the running gag with Matilda was exactly the kind of thing LoonieDunes would do. He’d had a joke for every occasion, including one time he’d spent an entire time trial on Zpeed telling meStar Warsjokes about Luke driving aToy-Yoda and the Jedi rock star Bon Jovi-Wan Kenobi until I was so out of breath from groaning I could barely pedal. Thinking of being out of breath reminded me of the burpees and then I was angry again. Good. Anger was something I could use.

I turned the handle of room 315 and pushed, expecting resistance – and hoping to freak him out with a horror-movie doorknob rattle – but the door flew open and I realised it might not have been such a good idea to burst in on him after all.

Matilda was on one of the twin beds, staring at the ceiling and thinking of England as my online training partner groaned and gasped and grunted, all of this to a soundtrack of dramatic instrumental music. I froze, telling myself to look away, but also brutally curious.

‘Too hard.Too hard!’ he howled to the swannie giving his legs a thorough massage after the day’s longer ride and gruelling interval training.

‘I’d say someone’s too soft,’ I commented, cocking my head to observe his reaction.

He shot up from the massage table that had been set up in the corner of the room, the little towel slipping precariously. I needed to look away. He might not like me skimming my eyes down his taut, broad chest to his packed thighs and the curve of his muscular butt – which I could see a bit more of than he was probably comfortable with.

Except, he didn’t seem uncomfortable. I even had time to catalogue a few tattoos: a band around his upper arm, nearthe faded tan line. The backs of his muscular calves were decorated with thick patterns that must have hurt – not that pain was unfamiliar to an endurance athlete.

‘Uh,’ was all he said. I waited for him to finish, noticing he had a tell-tale crick in his collarbone from a crash. A stylised gear sprocket with a pattern of flourishes was inked just below, stark against his pale skin. Just like this morning in the gym, my brain slowed right down until the only thought left in it was how fine LoonieDunes looked in real life. ‘I thought… you wouldn’t want to see me,’ he finally managed.

I do…

That was part of the reason I’d ghosted him in the first place, if I was honest with myself. I’d started to want the laughter in my ear, to need the encouragement that was more than just sports psychology – the little bit of living that I’d unexpectedly found while stuck at my parents’ place, in pain and endlessly frustrated.

But I’d left that frustration in my parents’ basement, as my mum had told me to, and I was back, ready to focus on racing. The sensation of acids and adrenaline surging and reacting in my blood was part of who I was. I had to focus on those feelings and nothing too… soft.

Winning was part of who I was as well – earning the win, not some guy letting me win.

‘Should I come back later?’ I asked without taking a step in the direction of the door. The swannie was Chris, an old hand I’d known for years, and he was studiously ignoring meand probably wondering whether to tell Dad I’d burst in on a naked teammate who was only covered by a titchy towel.

‘All done,’ Chris said, scurrying for the door without even closing the lid on the ointment on the bedside table.

‘Amir will be coming back soon,’ Sébastien said, referring to his roommate. Road cyclists might have a reputation as divas, but the reality of close team quarters and a gruelling endurance sport was less than glamorous.

He sat up, rearranging the towel as he reached down to turn off whatever he’d been watching on his phone. It had probably been some concept-heavy sci-fi, the weirdo. He’d tried to make me watch some tense deep-space horror crap, but I would have preferred to train alone than put myself through that and it turned out he liked classic romcoms almost as much.

‘It’s fine if you don’t want to see me,’ he continued mildly – too mildly for my taste. With the sight of him leaning his elbows on his knees, his posture completely relaxed and vast amounts of skin on show, I struggled to organise my scrambled thoughts. But I did not want him to put a shirt on. I flung myself onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, jumping in surprise when Matilda bounced. ‘Aren’t you angry with me? I deleted my account without saying goodbye.’

He froze and the emotions churning in his stormy eyes made me feel marginally better for ditching him in a panic. ‘Maybe you could have let me down a little more gently.’

I opened my mouth to defend myself, but I got caught up on his word choice and my brain glitched. He thought thishad been some kind of break-up? I suppose it had been, even though our friendship had never crossed any lines.

‘But I get it now. You had to drop me and move on. I missed you – I mean, I missed Folklore – but I get it. I’m not Gaetano Maggioli. My dad isn’t Tony Gallagher. I’ve won only two stages of the Tour de France in the space of nearly fifteen years on the circuit.’

You missed me?I managed not to voice that one. ‘You’ve won stages?’

The smirk he gave me sparkled with amusement. ‘Yeah. Does that make me sexy?’

‘I’ve seen you naked on a massage table, squealing like a girl with one butt cheek on show. Do you think that’s sexy?’

He laughed, and I hated that I recognised the sound in my blood, that it made me want to be Folklore99 instead of ‘Top Gun’ Gallagher, the ridiculous nickname my dad had insisted I get called in the press.

‘What do we do now?’ I whined.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do we know each other or not?’

‘Lore,’ he began, but stopped suddenly. ‘Should I still call you that?’

‘This is the weirdest thing ever,’ I groaned. ‘I thought you were…’ Luckily, I stopped myself before I said what I’d been thinking.

‘What? Old?’ he prompted.

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