Page 70 of Head Over Wheels

It was screwed up, but I was enjoying being mad at her – something real, despite the elaborate farce we were performing. She’d been drip-feeding the photos she’d taken two weeks ago into her social media and each had more likes than the one before, but I didn’t like the way they started to feel fake, when the time had been real. I didn’t know what to expect when I saw her.

Colin caught me looking at her photo and said with a snort, ‘Are you serious, Frankie?’

‘I just want to see if she’s got her luck back,’ I said defensively. ‘You know you should get her a new pair of earrings,’ I added.

‘What?’

‘She lost one of the ones from your mum. They were her lucky earrings.’

‘She doesn’t need luck. She believes in being the best. That’s the way we were trained.’

‘Did you forget your lucky bibs today?’ I asked.

‘Nope, I found them. I’d just put them in the wrong bag.’ His words tapered off with a grumble as I laughed at him. I knew for a fact that he was wearing dirty socks, too, and he’d kiss the Southern Cross tattoo on his arm before the start of the race.

‘Just buy her some earrings.’ My brain added a ‘kid’ to the end of that sentence because I was incapable of forgetting that Lori’s brother was 11 years younger than me.

Hopping off the bike, I headed for the bus to try to clear my thoughts, but Colin’s voice stopped me. ‘What have you got drawn on your arm today?’

‘Nothing I want to show you,’ I replied.

‘I hope it’s nothing to do with my sister this time.’

He would hope in vain. Everything I did came back to Lori, even when I wasn’t sure I wanted it to.

In a light drizzle, we lined up for the neutralised start, rolling past the tall brick terraces on the outskirts of Liège. I was ateam man that day and much more comfortable than I’d been at the start of the Paris-Roubaix, with the pressure on. I wasn’t sure if Lori’s promise to kiss me if I won – or at least earned a podium position – still stood if I rolled in exhausted after pulling someone else for three-quarters of the race.

The rain fell in earnest as the kilometres disappeared behind us and the hills of the Ardennes, the forested region of Belgium that was my spiritual cycling home, opened up around us. Colin was coddled in the middle, conserving his strength and hurling the occasional insult, which I’d learned was his way of showing affection. Despite the terrible conditions, we reached the notorious climb of the Côte de la Redoute with 35 km to go and sailed up it together more easily than I’d expected.

Then the director was urging us to go and I accelerated wildly, with Colin on my wheel. We managed a ten-second gap, then twenty seconds.

My chest started to ache. On the final climb, black spots appeared in my vision and there were moments when my legs felt like jelly. Colin powered ahead and relief swept through me: I’d delivered my teammate into a good position for the finish. I could cruise home without pushing my overtaxed body

Except that every kilometre I put behind me was one kilometre closer to Lori. Just a bit further and I could see her, ask how her race had gone, grouch at her for trying to drag me onto social media. Kiss her – for the cameras or not, I didn’t care with my thoughts hazy and fevered.

I slipped and slid down the descent back into Liège, barelyconscious of the shouts from the fans as the route took all of my remaining concentration and handling skills to navigate the technical curves.

Imagining Lori watching at the end, I saw another rider ahead of me on the final straight and pushed hard, catching him at the last minute as I plunged over the line.

I nearly ploughed into a TV crew as I struggled to brake, trying to wake up and follow the directions of the race officials to where the team assistants were waiting. More shouts of my name rose up and I waved manically. As my legs finally listened to the command to stop, I skidded to a halt and someone caught me.

Grasping them for stability I pulled back to look, but dropped my hand again when I saw it wasn’t Lori.Idiot. I didn’t know what place I’d rolled in, but I didn’t much care. I just scanned the crowds. She’d probably been joking about kissing me, but I had to look.

A strong hand grasped my jersey and I turned, the bike clattering to the ground between my legs. She was there, right there, her hand slipping around the back of my neck below my helmet, and she planted her mouth on mine.

I was alive again. Relief welled up inside me and I hauled her closer, one hand cupping her jaw. She’d landed me in an online mess, but she was here with me, her mouth open and hot and reckless.

Maybe we shouldn’t have kissed so wildly in front of the cameras again. Fans couldn’t share anything that wasn’t entirely safe-for-work. We were supposed to talk about thisfake/real relationship, the boundaries and exit strategy. But I didn’t care. I hadn’t seen her for ten days.

I might have kept my mouth on her – and screw the necessity of oxygen – but she drew away gently, her eyes clouded. As I sucked in several much-needed breaths, I realised this wasn’t all about me and something was wrong.

With a wobbly smile, she pulled off my glasses and tucked them into my helmet, pressing another quick kiss on my lips.

‘Hey,’ I breathed, not capable of a proper greeting.

Her smile was quick and amused. ‘Hey.’

‘What happened?’ I asked quietly. ‘Did you finish?’

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