Page 67 of Head Over Wheels

The afternoon wasn’t quite how I’d imagined. Instead of arriving at a community sports club, he stopped the tandem outside a little white building with a sign that read ‘École de la Communauté Française.’

‘This is your school?’

He nodded. ‘The club organised a trail for the kids in the forest this afternoon to give cyclocross a try.’

‘With their famous son to inspire them?’

He peered back at me with a scowl. ‘You have no idea how many times I’ve turned up to this event and none of the kids have recognised me.’

‘Well, today they have the runner-up of the Paris-Roubaix,’ I pointed out, pressing a quick kiss to his lips and enjoying the dazed look that came over him whenever I did that. ‘Here, we should take a photo.’

Raising my phone, I lined up the shot with Seb in the foreground, wearing his helmet and sunglasses, with the school in the background.

‘Smile!’ Of course he pouted instead, but the result was still unbearably cute. Leaning on my handlebars, I slung an arm over his shoulder and set up a selfie that was mostly helmets – and smiles, I noticed with a start.

My finger hovered for one last shot and he craned his neck at the last minute to press a kiss to my cheek. I shut thephone down quickly, unwilling to check the photo where I probably looked just as dazed as he had.

As he slipped the padlock through the chain around the tandem, a voice reached us from across the road. ‘Sebi! Salut, mon garçon! Quel résultat à Roubaix, petit veinard!’ A grey-haired man with a prodigious moustache climbed out of a tiny car and approached, enfolding Seb in a hug with so much backslapping I wondered if it had grown aggressive.

Seb replied with more French, sparing me only a single awkward glance. It was unfortunately enough for moustache-man to peer at me and then clap a hand over his chest in melodramatic disbelief. ‘Loredana Gallagher! La vache, our boy brought home Loredana Gallagher!’

‘Just say hello, JP,’ Seb suggested sourly.

‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. My name is Jean-Philippe Delginiesse and I’m delighted to meet you.’

Although the president of his old club was warm and genuine, the flicker of alarm up my spine didn’t go away as we met a young trainer and eventually headed inside to collect the children.

I tugged at Seb’s jersey before we entered the gym. ‘Maybe it’s better if you don’t introduce me,’ I murmured. This wasn’t about me. It was Seb’s moment to give back to his community on a day where he deserved every bit of attention and praise. The fleeting fake relationship had no place here.

But it was too late for the club president, who insisted on taking a photo of the two of us in front of the course they’dset up for the kids. I didn’t imagine he’d like that photo haunting his retirement.

He didn’t seem to pick up on my concerns, smiling at the kids and tapping their helmets in encouragement, before hopping on the bike the trainer had brought for him and showing off. I knew he was good. I’d seen him racing. But seeing him handle a bike over tree roots, slaloming around tight curves and over dips and rolls was a whole other level of skill.

When he finished off with a gratuitous hop and a wheelie, to raucous applause from the children, I couldn’t help thinking again that he shouldn’t retire, that he was as good as he’d ever been and 34 wasn’t even old – or at least notthatold.

My fingers were restless, holding his phone while he chatted to the kids and the teachers, his hands tucked under his armpits against the chill of the April afternoon. Without really intending to, I used the code he’d given me in Siena and unlocked the device. I knew I should leave it alone, but I noticed the Instagram icon and tapped on it. His last post was nearly two years earlier, which made me inwardly groan. How much sponsorship money had he been missing out on? People loved cycling action shots and training videos and a rider’s view of the big races.

He also had hundreds of notifications, many of them from the past two days. I recognised several cycling insider accounts and tapped on one, hoping I might see his finish in Roubaix one more time. But instead, it was a reel with photos of him and me. Words flashed up on the screen:Lori Gallagher has breathed new life into a tired career.

No wonder he hadn’t wanted the attention. But he had it now, and I had to fix it for him. At least we’d agreed to fake this relationship, so I could make sure he looked good.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I snapped a photo of him smiling at the kids and sent the one I’d taken outside the school to his phone. One post at least would not be about me. Opening the messaging app to download the picture, I saw an unsent text in the box and my breath caught.

No matter what happened today, you were gorgeous on the bike. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You had your heart in it. You’re so beautiful and real, whether you win or lose.

Time stopped. Tears had been threatening all morning and I had to pull myself together in the next five seconds or I’d be in trouble. The only good decision I’d made recently was telling him not to text me anything except congratulations, because I was devastated – spilling open and messy and in danger of… believing him.

How could I focus on racing when he kept twisting me up with feelings?

Taking a couple of heaving breaths, I swiped away the messaging app and concentrated on what I’d planned to do: get him the attention he deserved – sponsorship, fans, everything in the sport.

I uploaded both photos with the caption:la nouvelle génération, and I don’t meanStar Trek. Adding a winky face, I posted the pictures, making sure none of the children were identifiable.

Taking up my own phone, I liked the picture and shared it.Opening up a new post, I selected the selfie of the two of us smiling and my thumb hovered over the button to post. It was a nice photo and a lot less damning than the make-out session on Sunday, but I still felt raw just looking at it. The next photo, where he’d surprised me with a kiss on the cheek, made me panic. The stars in my eyes were obvious to the naked eye.

But my heart raced and I couldn’t post it. The fans wanted to see ‘Top Gun’ Gallagher and that’s not who I was with Seb. Me and my big mouth, suggesting a stupid fake relationship. I shut down my phone before the vulnerability struck me again.

Arriving back at the farm, I tackled him with a hug, making him drop the tandem with a clatter. I belatedly realised we had never hugged before, but that was a detail I was determined to overlook. His arms came around me adorably slowly, one hand clutching the back of my head.

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