Page 5 of Head Over Wheels

‘Molly, my girl!’

The short, wiry form of the ‘Irish bullet’, team manager and former national road-race champion – my dad, Tony Gallagher – whooshed into the room with his usual gusto.

‘Morning, Dad.’

Taking a seat at a spare table with my back to Sébastien Franck, I waited for Dad to join me, sipping my coffee.

‘Sleep well?’

I nodded, even though I’d rolled around a bit, as I often did these days, when my muscles stiffened up.

‘Back on the road with the girls today!’

I forced a smile in response, hating that the prospect filled me with dread. ‘Oh, I got a message from Mum,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘She told me to ask you about that quote for garden work at home?’

The message had been a little strange, but I knew Dad gotso deep into his strategising as he planned the season that I hadn’t been completely surprised he’d forgotten something. But his expression when I mentioned it was weak and uncertain.

‘All right, love. I’ll get back to her,’ he mumbled.

That feeling of everyone watching me returned in force, but this time I recognised the anxiety for what it was: the feeling that nothing had returned to normal and this year would not run as smoothly as I needed it to.

As I was quietlynotpanicking, Dad glanced up suddenly and raised his hand. ‘Frankie! You done already? Come and sit down, son.’

Goosebumps swept up my forehead and I was afraid I was blushing – for no reason, I tried to remind myself.

It didn’t help that he seemed equally hesitant. ‘Euh…’

Keeping my eyes trained on my porridge, I ignored him – really quite rudely – as Dad insisted he join us. But the hairs on my arms stood up when he took the chair next to mine.

‘Settling in okay? I hear Amir snores. If you need some ear plugs, we’ve got plenty.’

‘Thanks,’ he replied, with a hint of a chuckle that I wished I could un-hear. Everything he did reminded me of soft words in my headset, breaths, panting jokes as we pushed each other on the stationary bike, separated by the distance of half a world.

It was a good thing I’d ghosted him or I’d be even more distracted from the only goal that counted this year: winning.

In an awkward pause, I caught him glancing at me again and looked down at my outfit to check there wasn’t anything off. But no, I had on my usual baggy T-shirt and tracksuit bottoms, no make-up to smear.

‘You won’t take Colin’s stunt too much to heart, I hope? He only meant it in fun,’ Dad was saying.

‘I know,’ Sébastien replied. ‘I understand Australians have a… unique sense of humour.’

‘Good man!’ Dad said, clapping him on the shoulder.

‘You could have just taken the doll off your bike,’ I added. ‘You don’t need to let Colin pick on you. It was childish and unfair of him.’

He gave an eloquent nod that had its own French accent. ‘He’s not going to win theMiss Congenialityaward, but it’s not the worst welcome I’ve had into a new team.’ He was still speaking, but I stopped listening when he mentionedMiss Congeniality. A coincidence? At least this one wasn’t the fault of my overactive brain. He’d actually said it – mentioned a movie I’d watched with LoonieDunes, before I’d dropped him like a hot coal. I wasn’t making it up this time.

But LoonieDunes was Canadian. He was a long way away, somewhere in the depths of the internet, not sitting right next to me, giving me goosebumps and looking at me with wide, honey eyes.

Wasn’t he?

‘Have you… seen that movie?’ I had to ask.

‘It’s a classic,’ he said, his tone oddly halting. ‘You probably… don’t like romcoms.’

‘I didn’t until recently.’ I wanted to curl the words back in as soon as I uttered them. ‘You like romcoms?’

‘Euh—’

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