Page 17 of Head Over Wheels

Although one time I accidentally googled him instead of being sensible and zoning out in front of the telly during rest time – actually, a couple of times. It was bad that there were so many photos of him on the internet for me to study, from the old ones where he was baby-faced and red-cheeked in the colours of teams that now had different names to action shots of him dripping with sweat as he clutched the drop bars of his bike, his jersey flapping open to reveal the heart-rate monitor strapped around his chest – and some skin that I would never admit I’d studied in detail.

A particularly compelling photo of him hefting a bike over a muddy ditch revealed he’d been a cyclocross competitor as well as road racing in his early career. That explained the shoulders.

I read about his Tour de France stage wins, the most recent of which was six years ago, powering into Limoges after unexpectedly dropping the others in the breakaway on the last climb. We all had those special days where it felt as though someone had replaced our blood with pure electricity and we pedalled with fire instead of mortal muscles. I lived for those days, even though I knew there was never any guarantee that I would get one.

But I had to believe I would, so it didn’t make sense that I was staring longingly at photos of a guy instead of resting and focusing on my fitness – no matter how delicious that guy looked in skintight Lycra.

Or soft-looking hoodies in the breakfast room. Even the jersey that Colin snuck into his things that read: ‘Never underestimate an old man on a bicycle’ looked hot on Seb because of the cocky smile on his lips when he strode out wearing it.

I was walking a dangerous line cataloguing those smiles. He caught me a few times and those were my favourite, the smiles that said, ‘I see you, Folklore.’ Even more dangerous was the chance that my brother would catch me and I’d never hear the end of it. He hadn’t grown out of the ‘kid brother’ thing with me, despite turning 23 and starting to take on the lead rider position more often – a position I wasn’t entirelysure he was ready for, given the way he was acting out under pressure.

The training camp was carefully devised to combine intensifying endurance rides, recovery days and various core fitness activities that often doubled as team building – which wasn’t my favourite. I’d done a decent job of hiding my turmoil – all of it – from my roommate Doortje and the others on the women’s team, but it was kind of hard to be best buddies when most of them were employed to help me win.

Doortje was seven years older than me, Moroccan-Dutch and blunt to the point of rudeness, and she was one of my favourite people in the world – although I’d never say it to her face. As the daughter of the manager and the lead rider in the team, I didn’t expect hugs and tears from my teammates and I appreciated Doortje’s straightforwardness, where some of the other girls tied me in knots with comparisons and fear of resentment. All that stuff was in high definition in my thoughts after the months of reflection while I recovered. I kind of wished I could discuss it all with LoonieDunes, but there was no opportunity for that, even if it had been a good idea.

Doortje and I arrived at the fitness studio in the basement together at the end of the second week, grumbling as usual that the men got out of doing Zumba because their masculinity was so fragile, to find Seb there chatting to the instructor, who was definitely making heart eyes at him. She was a curvy little woman, who could shake her hips, so I could understand the appeal. My booty was entirely muscleand refused to move independently of my torso or my legs. When I did Zumba, I usually looked like one of those inflatable tube guys with the generator on the blink.

My brain worked through all of this before noticing that Seb was warming up to do Zumba with us, even though the rest of the men’s team was somewhere else doing testosterone yoga or something.

‘Did Colin tell you that today was Zumba day?’ I asked with a withering sigh.

He wrenched his gaze from our cute instructor – okay, he actually didn’t have any trouble looking away from the instructor, but I was oversensitive – and turned to me in dismay. ‘Yes. Does that mean the room is booby-trapped?’

‘No,’ I said curtly. ‘It means you’re the only guy here to dance.’

‘Ohhhh,’ he said stiltedly, with a desperate look through the glass panels, as though he could find the men’s team just outside and escape his fate.

But he bucked up quickly, even accepting that his fate was in the front row as the rest of us filled up the back. If you ask me, he accepted his fate a little too eagerly once the music started.

He looked more like Mr Bean than Shakira, but it turned out he could do a mean body roll. He copied the moves with such intensity, that Doortje stopped dancing entirely and feetched her phone to film him.

He was definitely a goof, but he was a sexy goof I could picture pressing up against on the dance floor. He noticedwhat Doortje was doing, but he just winked at her, which summoned that ball of jealousy in my stomach again. God, it was annoying.

At the end of the session, his hair was drenched with sweat and he rubbed a towel over his head, emerging with a grin that he directed at me. ‘I’ll have to thank Colin,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t know what he’s missing.’ Leaning closer, he said softly, ‘You’re my preferred Gallagher anyway.’

Before I could reply, Leesa Kubicka joined us. ‘That was awesome!’ she gushed with a smile that my jealousy interpreted as proprietary and my intellect interpreted as me being a chump over a guy and sensitive as usual about my American teammate, who was pretty and poised and apparently Mensa-worthy intelligent. ‘Noneof the other guys would have stayed – except maybe Lars, but he wouldn’t have done it with so much style.’

One morning at the beginning of the third week, Seb didn’t show up for breakfast and I spent the entire time it took me to knock back my espresso and pancake with fruit (yes, the diet was weird and we were allowed pancakes but no cheese) wondering if Colin had finally broken him. But when we headed out of the dining room, I caught a glimpse of him across the lobby in the conference room, in the corner that had been set up as a photo studio.

Doortje, Bonnie and Leesa must have noticed me looking, because they stopped and peered through the door.

‘Now, hands on your hips. We’ll try that,’ said the photographer as an uneasy-looking Seb stood in front of the lights in hisfull team kit. Orange wasn’t a great colour on everyone, but it worked for him, with his smooth brown eyes and thick hair. That and his shoulders looked impossibly broad, his corded arms lean and tough. Twenty years he said he’d been in the saddle. His body looked it: every inch built for power and resilience.

But in that moment I wasn’t thinking about his performance on the bike. My mouth was dry, my gaze glued to the bumps and furrows of muscle and bone.

Damn it, LoonieDunes washotand I’d kissed him and I didn’t have time to lose my shit over a guy right now.

He rocked back on his heels, a smile pasted onto his face, as the photographer snapped away, murmuring approvingly. The movement pushed his hips out and I heard Bonnie titter beside me.

‘Who’s got the ruler?’ she whispered, holding a hand out in front of her and squinting to measure—

‘Bonnie!’ I hissed.

‘Come on,’ Leesa said, turning to me with an eye-roll. ‘The guys make twice as much money as we do, are able to pee over the side of their bikes without even stopping and you want to take away our one remaining joy: that their dicks don’t fit in bike shorts?’

I resented her even more when she had a point.

‘I bet he’s got a big one,’ Doortje said with a speculative nod. I hadnotbeen thinking the same thing.

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