Page 44 of Head Over Wheels

I was awake early, as I often was when Lori was racing. She hadn’t had any further altercations with animals since the Strade Bianche, but she certainly still had my bad luck. I hoped she hadn’t worn the necklace.

What had I been thinking giving it to her? She’d cried in front of me and tried to get me out of her system. A trinket from me was like a blessing from the Jamaican bobsled team, even though it seemed I had the spirit of John Candy as my coach at the moment, rest his soul.

I wondered if she’d seen that film and fumbled for my phone to write her a message – as I had a hundred times over the past four weeks, but put it down again when I remembered that disaster struck – her – every time I reached out.

‘What fucking time is it? Go back to sleep, Frankie.’

That was another development I wanted to talk to Lori about. Since Amir was competing mostly in the Continental circuit, I was now not only racing with Lori’s brother, I was sleeping with him too – in the sense of actual sleeping.

It was… strange, to say the least.

Rolling over, I tried to go back to sleep, but I knew it wouldn’t work, so I pulled on a tracksuit and jogged down to the breakfast room of our crappy hotel with furry brown carpet and a signed portrait of Gérard Depardieu on the wall in the corridor.

It wasn’t long before Colin joined me, collapsing groggily into the chair across from where I was nursing my black coffee.

‘Do you want to head out early to check out the course? Alan wants to talk to us after lunch.’

‘Sure,’ I replied listlessly. I should be more excited about discussing tactics with our directeur sportif for the race tomorrow – my 13th Paris-Roubaix, well didn’t that sound lucky? – but all I could think about was Lori out on the cobbles in the rain.

But the women didn’t start until later, so I got out in the crisp spring air for a short practice ride with Colin. I was so used to having him on my wheel, swearing and spitting, but everything he said reminded me of Lori. Everything Ididreminded me of Lori. She would hate knowing that, instead of fighting through my final year of professional racing, I was mooning over her and waiting for every little glimpse of the back of her neck in the breakfast room when we happened to be in the same hotel – which had only happened twice since Siena.

Back at the hotel for lunch, Colin and I both looked incessantly at our watches as we shovelled in the chicken and rice without tasting anything. When the time ticked over to a quarter to two, I was tapping my fingers manically on the table, picturing Lori’s tough, streamlined – sexy – body in her tight orange-and-blue jersey, a scowl on her freckled – gorgeous – face.

‘Dad will text me if something happens,’ Colin said casually, setting his phone down next to his plate.

My gaze snapped up.

‘Do you think you’re being subtle? Whatever’s going onwith my sister, just be aware that the only reason I’m not on your case is because she told me to back off – and maybe because I still feel bad you actually made it up the Coll de la Creueta on training camp.’ The last part was mumbled; a poor excuse for an apology if you ask me.

‘There’s nothing going on.’

Colin’s only response was a doubtful glance that also reminded me of her.

‘Just because we share resources with the women’s team doesn’t mean we can all just hook up.’

‘I know, mate,’ I assured him hurriedly.

‘I’m not your mate.’ His tone made me look up again and study him. There was a crease on his forehead I hadn’t noticed before, shadows in his eyes that both reminded me of how young he was and made him look so much older.

‘Fair enough,’ I agreed. ‘But I only want what’s best for her too, you know. And I’m well aware that I’m not it.’

I might have given too much away, because his brow lifted. ‘Good, because I regret not running Gaetano off sooner last year. I thought it was just some fun. She hasn’t… she was never the type to go after guys. She was never… you know, that into anyone before. But he got into her head.’

The cold down my spine had nothing to do with the weather. I wasn’t sure what upset me more: that she’d felt something – real – for Maggioli or that he’d hurt her because of it. I’d unfortunately got into her head too, without anything much romantic between us. I needed to keep staying away from her – not even any messaging banter.

Colin’s phone beeped and he snatched it up.

‘What’s happened?’

He released a breath on a sigh and I tried to calm myself down too. ‘Nothing much. Early breakaway, but it probably won’t last. She’s well-positioned in the peloton with Doortje.’

Colin gave another humph and then tapped at his phone until he brought up the coverage on the sports channel that showed most of the races. Propping it up with a glass on one side of the table, we ate in silence, glued to the little screen, until Alan Hargreaves, the DS, found us half an hour later.

The peloton had just reached the first section of cobblestones when Colin shut the phone down as reluctantly as I would have. Slouched in our chairs in the conference room listening to the spindly director, I was distracted and in no way expecting the shock that came at me.

‘Right, chaps, we’re shaking things up a bit tomorrow, as you’ll see, because we’ve called Nellie away from his wedding plans.’

Nellie was actually called Jarin Nelson, another Australian from somewhere called Adelaide. He didn’t look old enough to be getting married, but he’d barely spoken about anything else on training camp back in December.

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