Page 6 of Head Over Wheels

‘You chatting up my sister again, Frankie?’

I’d rarely been happier to hear one of my brother’s stupid jokes.

The new guy leaped to his feet as though someone had just ripped hot wax off his legs – and, given he was a pro cyclist, he would know what that felt like. ‘I need to…’ He didn’t even bother finishing the sentence. He just took off like the Road Runner – anotherLooney Tunesreference, damn it.

‘You scare him off?’ Colin asked, as he set his breakfast tray down and collapsed onto the chair Sébastien had just vacated. ‘Good girl.’

‘Fuck off’ was the best rejoinder I could muster with such a fried brain. Colin knew saying ‘good girl’ was the surest way to piss me off.

He slouched over his coffee. ‘Did he take it okay or do I have to apologise for yesterday?’

Downing the last sip of my double espresso, I hauled myself to my feet. ‘How should I know? Fix your own problems.’ Without looking back, I headed for the sliding doors of the breakfast room.

Behind me, I heard my dad’s Irish-Australian brogue. ‘That’s my girl. She’s back.’

Lucky he didn’t know the truth.

Seb

Too much philosophy was more a weakness than a strength in the competitive world of pro cycling. Psychology was useful, sure, although you had to believe it and I’d never quite managed that part. As I stood in the cool morning sunshine outside our hotel in Girona, gazing at the wisps of cloud and the distant belltower of a historic church, I was deeply philosophising, even though I should have been getting in the zone for our next training ride.

This season was my last, one long goodbye to my top-level career, such as it was. I might never get another chance to saddle up in the greatest races on the continent, against the best of the best in European and world cycling – a chance I’d never thought I’d have.

In all my years on the World Team circuit, I’d never attended a training camp quite like this one. I’d been to Girona – of course I’d been to Girona. Every cyclist has been to Girona at least once. I’d never been on a camp where the women’s team trained at the same time in the same place. Some of my previous teams hadn’t even had a women’s division, the short-sighted idiots. But even that wasn’t the biggest difference.

The difference wasme.

It was refreshing to have nothing to lose. Last year, my previous contract hadn’t been renewed – not exactly unexpected, but still not my choice. Then Tony Gallagher had come along and given me this one last hurrah with the Harper-Stacked team.

I would turn 35 this year and bow out with grace, knowing the decision had been mine.

If I was completely honest,thatwasn’t the biggest difference either. Lori Gallagher stood 5 m away and my nervous system was firing like an animal shape shifter sensing its mate – which felt as ridiculous as it sounded.

She was hot – that wasn’t in question. Her lower lip alone was enough to give me daydreams for years to come. Add in the dips and swells of her body, all strength and resilience wrapped in winter-weight skintight cycling gear, and I saw stars every time I glanced at her.

I’d never lost my shit over a beautiful woman, but the effect of Lori Gallagher defied all expectations of myself, even though there was a simple explanation – an explanation that made it all the more imperative not to get carried away thinking about her.

She reminded me unexpectedly of Folklore. Every time that word rose in my thoughts, my chest squeezed and my thoughts tangled and I was back in November, waiting impatiently for her to join the server, my heart already racing, even though we hadn’t started training.

My feelings had nothing to do with Lori Gallagher, but telling myself so wasn’t enough for my heart. I needed to keep away from her, or I’d make an even bigger fool of myself – if that were possible.

I couldn’t decide what was more embarrassing: being found by Lori Gallagher in the forest with a sex doll or the way I’d lost all ability to speak when she’d leaned over me with afrown, all freckled cheeks and enormous eyes – to say nothing of the awful conversation in the breakfast room this morning. Hopefully, she merely thought I was a huge fan, which was also true.

She was one of the most successful female cyclists of the past five years. I’d watched her bash her way through Paris-Roubaix last year for third place, covered head to toe in mud, except for the bit of her thigh where the skin had been scraped open in a crash. She’d got back on the bike after that crash and almost knocked over Gosia Zielinski in her fight to break away from the peloton.

Actually, that did sound a bit like Folklore99. But my virtual training partner had been… normal. Lori Gallagher had a reputation as a cutthroat competitor, right down to her choice of boyfriend the previous year – Gaetano Maggioli, Olympic time trial champion. And she was firmly ignoring me now.

I was projecting. I’d just got my heart broken by a person who didn’t even exist the way I thought she did. It was a sad indication of the state of my heart, if I’d handed it over to an avatar of a cyclist who could have been anyone. I missed her more than was healthy and my synapses had connected the wrong ends until it was my new teammate inciting rushing blood and a racing heartbeat.

She couldn’t actuallybemy online friend, even if her name sort of sounded like Folklore and she said ‘fuck’ a lot in that broad Australian accent. Maybe everyone in Australia said ‘fuck’ a lot.

I was so distracted I didn’t notice what was going on withthe rest of the men’s team until the pointed snickering made me turn to find every last gaze trained on me. Perhaps I’d find Matilda’s twin sister ready for me today. I had a threesome joke ready to go.

But there was no shrivelled sex doll attached to my bike this time. Instead, pastel spoke beads clinked gently as Colin pushed it towards me and colourful streamers fluttered in the breeze below the handlebars. He’d turned my sexy aero bike into a ride for a five-year-old.

Not wanting to encourage the cocky kid, I stifled my smile. ‘We’re Barbie and Ken today, yes? You know Ken is French slang for fucking?’

As I clapped Colin on the arm, a prickle on the back of my neck made me peer over my shoulder. Lori Gallagher was staring at me as though she’d recently made plans to watch theBarbiefilm with an online friend, but had never got there because she’d ghosted him.

---