Page 11 of Head Over Wheels

‘Too young, more likely. What thirty-year-old man likesStar Wars?’

‘Ahem, I’m 34. And lots of us. If you thought I was a teenager, you shouldn’t have flirted with me.’

‘I did not flirt with you!’ I had totally flirted with him. The way he’d reacted, as though praise from me was the moon and the stars, had made me think I was doing a victimless good deed.

‘What did you think was wrong with me, then?’ His mouth moved thoughtfully. When he narrowed his eyes at me, a tingle zipped up my spine. ‘Ugly. That’s it, right? You thought I was ugly. I suppose I should be thankful it’s not true.’ His cocky grin was way too cute, but he still needed to wipe it off his face.

‘What did you think was wrong withme?’ I asked.

‘Not much. I knew you were back living with your parents, so you couldn’t be too old.’

I resisted a wince at his choice of words. I wasn’t ‘back’ with my parents. I’d never moved out. Since Dad was my coach, it had never made sense.

He continued, oblivious. ‘I tried to tell myself I had no way of knowing if you were married with kids, but… I imagined you might be pretty. I mean, not as pretty as you—’ He cut himself off.

I sank a tooth into my lip so I wouldn’t smile. ‘Why did you have to add the kids? It could have been you with the kids, but it wouldn’t be such a big deal because you’re a man and you don’t have to sacrifice a quarter of your metabolism for nearly a year for the furtherment of humankind.’

‘Yep, you’re definitely Folklore,’ he murmured. The tinge of wonder in his voice was great for my ego.

‘That makes you Loonie. Can I still call you that? And why the dunes?

‘You don’t know the coast of Belgium? I thought it was a good joke.’

‘I know it’s cold on the coast of Belgium. I’m now assuming there are dunes.’

He nodded. ‘It’s not Australia, but we have a lot of sand.’

‘I like Loonie more than Frankie, though. I might have to pass it on to Colin.’

He grumbled, but I wasn’t sure if it was because of the nickname or the mention of my brother. ‘I’d prefer Seb.’

Seb. Three letters that somehow dragged a virtual friendship out into the light. He shifted on the table, running a hand through his thick hair and bringing into sharp focus all the tight lines of bone and muscle in his arm.

‘Ineverthought, when you complained about your brother, that you meantColin Gallagher,’ he muttered.

Glancing at Matilda, I said, ‘He’s a bit of a dick, but he’s not bad on the inside.’

He started to rise, then froze, his gaze whipping to mine as he clutched the tiny towel in his fist.

I turned around pointedly, coming face-to-face with Matilda again, imagining she shared my withering sigh at the amount of nudity in this sport. I probably should stop assigning feelings to a blow-up doll, especially because I sensed the danger of becoming jealous of her lifeless body.

But why did Seb have to be so cute? My experience with Gaetano last year should have cured me of all this flutterynonsense my mum constantly warned me against. She’d even suggested I’d lost concentration before the crash because I was worried he was about to break up with me. The fact that he had indeed broken up with me when I woke up from surgery made me more than a little concerned she was right.

‘You can turn around now.’

He was still slipping a T-shirt over his head when I caught sight of him. I was used to seeing guys in bib shorts, padded at the crotch, and still somehow finding them attractive, but in a soft pair of tracksuit bottoms and a plain T-shirt, stretching out after the massage, my eyes wanted to soak him up like a sponge – and my hands itched to touch.

But I knew what my mum would say even without her knowing anything about what I was feeling – thank fuck. She’d tell me the only thing I should be thinking about touching was the gold-plated surface of a trophy – many trophies. If I didn’t want it more than anyone else, I wouldn’t get it.

Seb kept talking in that frustratingly mild tone. ‘Look, if you’d rather act like we don’t know each other, that’s fine. I understand.’

‘What do you understand?’ I asked.

‘Uhm, you— Well, if we’re friends… Or flirting— I know I’m not your type in real life and that’s okay.’

‘Who is my type, then?’ I asked with a dark laugh.

‘People who… win. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.’

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