Page 26 of Head Over Wheels

I began to suspect I’d committed an offence against the animal kingdom a few days later, when I upset a redback spider under the sun lounger, and 48 hours later I had World War Three on the back of my thigh. Dad ruled me out of racing the next one so I could have treatment without worrying about failing a drug test, leaving me lying around in the dark at home, feeling sorry for myself, while he and Colin prepared for the Great Ocean Road Race.

I’d shut myself in my bedroom again, crying silently so Mum wouldn’t hear me, and let the cortisone shot and antibioticsdo their thing. Even if I had been able to pass a drug test right now, I was in too much pain to race. The burn in my muscles, aches in my back and hands – those I was used to ignoring, pushing through. But this constant stab in my thigh tore through my concentration.

I had the women’s race running live on my computer, but I was only half-watching – I couldn’t face it when I wasn’t there myself. Bonnie and Doortje started. They would have been there to support me but, instead, the directeur sportif had given Leesa a chance to be lead rider and she was having the race of her life. Swiping at my stupid tears, I closed the browser and rolled away, tired and hurting, restless – and useless.

After Dad had told me my entire life that there were no limits to what I could achieve if I worked hard, making me believe in the power of mind over matter, it turned out there were limits after all and maybe sports psychology was a crock of shit.

My gaze fell on my mobile, sending another shudder of emotion down my spine.Seb…

Sure, my form had tanked since the moment I’d met him but, if I couldn’t race anyway, I might as well think about the feel of his skin under my hands and the way his mouth had grazed my ear as though he wanted every inch of me.

Turning back to the laptop, I opened the team website and pulled up the men’s listing. It wasn’t the first time I’d indulged myself by looking at his photo and every time I felt like a chump – instead of a champ – but it didn’t stop me.

The photographer had chosen well. He was looking at the camera with his head tilted, eyebrows raised and a lopsided grin on his face. One hand grasped the zip of his jersey and he was tugging it halfway down, revealing a glimpse of his smooth chest. The picture made my mouth water and my hair stand on end and I kicked myself for the months I’d spent with this guy’s voice in my ear, not knowing he looked like this.

And now I was staring at a picture like a lovesick teenager, dreaming about sex instead of winning races. Thank God Dad couldn’t read minds.

My bedroom door flew open and I was blinded by the sudden light.

‘Mum!’ I cried, scrambling to shut down the browser window a moment too late and wondering if I could blame the spider bite for my flushed skin.

‘Loredana Gallagher, I hate to see you like this!’ she said emphatically. After 30 years with my dad, most of them lived in Australia, Mum spoke with less of a real Italian accent and more Italian-Australian inflection from Melbourne. ‘Stop lying around in the dark. Up you get. We’ll go for a walk and get some coffee.’

Triggering my caffeine response was an effective tactic, especially because getting coffee in Melbourne was like drinking champagne in Reims or eating chocolate in Brussels. Mmm, chocolate in Brussels, kissing Seb in Brussels – feeding Seb chocolate and then kissing him.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Mum asked me, snappingme out of that immersive fantasy. Wow, I’d never had pizza or tiramisu fantasies about Gaetano, but suddenly chocolate and waffles and beer were off limits too. Oh God, chocolate, waffles and beer. I would kill for any combination of those right now.

I rose warily to follow her, hoping she might hold her peace about whatever she’d seen on my laptop screen – and in my facial expression.

‘My leg hurts,’ I grumbled as I slipped into my sloppy old trainers and shuffled to the door.

The stark summer sunshine mocked me as we walked the 15 minutes to our local quinoa-salad-and-smashed-avocado café with famous street murals copied on the walls and elaborate latte art. My leg throbbed in the heat and I wished I’d put more aloe vera on it before we left the house, but I knew Mum was trying to distract me from the pain, so I ignored it. After my turbulent teenage years, I’d learned it was better to roll with Mum’s expectations and not upset them.

Paola Gallagher – née Martinelli, former champion triathlete – was taller than my dad, straight-haired and slim, and I would never be even half as elegant. She was almost always emotionally unavailable and a raging Italian coffee snob to boot.

After we took our seats, I eyed off the uni students who were drinking cold-brew coffee with icebergs of handmade ice cream bobbing on top. It wasn’t quite a waffle, but I craved it nonetheless. Feeling Mum’s eyes on me, I ordered a long black, while she had her customary espresso. Dairywas an inflammatory food and best avoided during training and competing, a fact that was trying to remind me of Seb again and his desire to eat cheese.

And then I was staring down the thought of quitting the World Tour some time in the future and I swallowed a lump of panic. I’d only just fought my way back.

‘You might think you’re hiding it, but I know what you’re thinking about,’ Mum said softly – dangerously softly.

I choked on my first sip of coffee. ‘Do they always make it so hot?’ I muttered, fetching a napkin from the bar and mopping up my saucer. I hadn’t spilled much but I suspected, even if I’d doused my head with it, Mum wouldn’t have been put off. She was a dog with a bone when she smelled weakness.

‘You’re thinking about the things you’re missing out on to race, wondering if it’s all worth it.’

‘No!’ I insisted, although perhaps she meant all these thoughts of food that had taunted me recently. That might be a safer topic of conversation – which was saying something, given her violent disapproval of most foods. I schooled my features, hoping the tic in my jaw wasn’t visible. ‘Racing is what I want to do. I don’t need to eat cheese.’

‘Cheese?’

‘Or ice cream or waffles.’ When she eyed me, I realised I’d gone in the wrong direction with the food. ‘Seriously, don’t worry. I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself, but it won’t last. I’m sure I just need a bit of good luck and I’ll be back to my normal self.’

I swallowed a grimace when my words reminded me of that text from Seb. He obviously hadn’t realised it was the middle of the night when he sent me good luck for the race and he wouldn’t have imagined it would wake me up, either. And then he’d followed it up with:You’re amazing. I’d tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but my stomach had done a few loop-the-loops first. He meant an amazing cyclist. Of course I was an amazing cyclist.

But he’d deleted the message before I got up the next morning, leaving me wondering what exactly he’d regretted about sending it.

‘I’m not talking about your diet,’ Mum explained, giving me a meaningful look.

For a long moment I just blinked, not sure what she meant, but afraid nonetheless.

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