Page 48 of Head Over Wheels

That was more than your word allowance.

I groaned – thankfully under my breath – hoping Colin was very asleep. But her next message caught me in the ribs.

I think you can win, Seb. If I can’t, then you do it.

She had me – mind, body. I wanted to get to Roubaix tomorrow and I wanted to do it faster than anyone else. With a gulp, I typed a message, letting my fingers loose on the keypad because I wasn’t allowed to send it. My thumb hovered, but I wouldn’t do it.

If it wasn’t luck, then it was psychology. She made me want to win, but I made her think of her own weakness. I was reminded of what Colin had said about Maggioli. There was no way I’d hurt her or take advantage of her when she was down. I had to keep my stupid infatuation to myself.

‘Are you texting my sister?’ came Colin’s gravelly, disapproving voice.

Quickly shutting down the phone, I set it back on the bedside table and took a deep breath. ‘She’s just messing with me,’ I insisted.

Chapter 19

Lori

Waking up after the painkillers had worn off was a hundred times worse than waking up with a hangover. I couldn’t decide what hurt the most: my shoulder, my hands, my hip or my pride.

Doortje was still asleep, so I bit back my groan as I shifted on the bed. I didn’t want to face her yet. I didn’t want to face anyone. I’d basically told Dad to go to hell last night on the way to the hospital to have my shoulder scanned.

If I’d been back in Melbourne, I’d be hiding in the basement again – which triggered a vague memory from last night, some time after I’d told Dad to go to hell but before I’d been swallowed by drugged sleep.

Groping for my phone, I woke up the screen and the app was still open to the scene of the flaying of my pride. Damn it, I really had texted Seb, as though I were a needy barnacle when I lost, instead of the professional I was supposed to be.

Eek, looking back over last night’s messages, I had been along way from professional. Woozy memories returned with force: the relief as the painkillers started to kick in; how my body had relaxed into syrup and I’d found myself suddenly thinking about Seb’s hands, about the way he’d teased me with the towel and casually talked about fucking me.

Then I’d remembered his knees nudging mine as the sun set over Siena and I’d grabbed my phone to make a fool of myself. I’d apparently conditioned myself to want him whenever I hit bottom and there was nothing good about that – well, except when he smiled, and wrote things like:Congratulations on winning – as many kisses as you want.

My throat was thick as I reread his message. Hereallywasn’t supposed to say stuff like that, making me imagine him watching my race, maybe checking me out. But then I shouldn’t have threatened to kiss him and goaded him to win.

It was thoughts of today’s race that dragged me upright to take some more ibuprofen and smear on the analgesic gel. Since I wouldn’t race for at least ten days, I could have taken something stronger, but after my recovery, I didn’t want to go anywhere near opioids again unless I was screaming.

Contorting myself into Seb’s baggy hoodie and strapping on my sling, I slipped down to breakfast, staring at the carpet and refusing to meet anyone’s eye. As I shovelled muesli into my mouth – making a mess because I’d unfortunately popped my right shoulder – I scoured the cycling news for mentions of Seb.

There was almost nothing. Nobody had guessed that he would be a lead rider for the day. I was desperate to know how hefelt, but that was exactly why I’d told him not to message me. I needed to be strong in my thoughts as well as my body if I was going to make it back from the miserable place I’d found myself in – far too low in the World Tour rankings.

But I was so sick of keeping my distance. There was nothing I could do about my shitty luck. The season was already a disaster. The way I’d manhandled the bike yesterday, I was restless and needed to shake things up. I recognised the feeling and it usually meant nothing good, but I felt it nonetheless.

Ignoring Doortje’s concerned look, I grabbed my shoulder bag and left the hotel. I might have told myself I was wandering aimlessly, but my feet took the quickest route to the velodrome. Bypassing the concrete entrance to the spectator stands that looked like a brutalist municipal swimming pool, I skirted the fence and slipped through the back gate to where the team bus was still parked from yesterday.

Swallowing bitter memories, I climbed the steps to join the support team, thankful I didn’t have to explain myself as they all assumed I was supporting Colin and not fawning foolishly over Seb. They spoke to me sparingly, as though my emotions were still close to the surface, but that was just one more frustration encouraging me to blow a fuse.

He had better win. I’d never looked forward to doing something stupid more than in that moment.

When one of the assistants turned on the TV and tuned into the online channel with English commentary, I plonked my butt in front of it, trying to resist the urge to tap my fingernails on the armrest of the seat.

Aiden, the middle-aged driver who’d worked for the team for years, placed a coffee and a banana in front of me and I somehow managed to spare him a moment to say ‘Thank you.’

As the race got under way, my stomach twisted in knots. The start was slow, the peloton wary and sedate as clouds billowed overhead, threatening rain.

The glimpses of Seb were frustratingly quick – a flash of his face, his sharp cheekbones. I wondered if he had a redback drawn on his wrist, what other rituals he had for luck. I sat on my hand to keep it still, desperate for something to happen to end the waiting, but knowing a break this early was usually suicidal.

I couldn’t help thinking that was the DS’s strategy. He wanted to see where Seb would break. Usually, a domestique would have broken already, every time, dropping back for self-preservation after delivering the leader to the head of the race. But Seb was riding a wave of luck and good form and I couldn’t help wondering if it had something to do with me.

‘Come on, Loonie,’ I muttered through my teeth.

The commentator and the DS saw the break at the same time.

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