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At the other end of the coach, the boys were passing around a bottle of cheap whiskey.

Dillon watched the station disappear out the window. “I wouldn’t want to deviate from my status quo.”

Sam ran her fingers through her short hair, unsmiling. “Tell me—how are the rest of things going, marra? You’ve been quiet since your last appointment.”

Quiet—because she had nothing to report. It had been five months since her surgery. She’d been back to cycling for nearly eight weeks, but still, Dr. Monaghan wouldn’t release her for running. The thickness of the cartilage had yet to meet his requirements.

“Time,” he kept telling her.

Time she didn’t have. Already, she’d watched Bermuda from the unwelcome comforts of her mam’s lounge, staring at the live footage as Elyna Laurent breezed to an easy win on the blue carpet. Now, there were less than four weeks before she was in danger of viewing Yokohama in the same position.

Discomfitted beneath Sam’s scrutinizing glance, she self-consciously rubbed at her knee, aware of the way the joint shifted and clicked in its new, uncomfortable pattern. “It’s going.”

“Yeah?” Sam lifted a brow. “Which direction?”

“Better every day,” Dillon lied, trying to force aside her growing agitation. For months she’d tried to focus on the positive. To follow the advice of her sports psychologist, who reminded her setbacks led to comebacks—and all that other fustian nonsense he was paid to say. But each day that passeddrew her nearer to a desperation that was getting harder to keep beneath the surface.

Sam steepled her fingers. “What’s the word on Yokohama?”

Dillon shrugged. “He thinks I have a chance.”

Only, that wasn’t what he’d said. A week earlier, over a tele-appointment, Dr. Monaghan had reviewed her latest x-rays and advised her—unless her body miraculously grew two millimeters of cartilage over the next twenty-five days—the Japanese race was out of the question.

Take it slow, wait another month, and we’ll reconvene.

As if she had another month to sit around and do nothing. Leeds—her final opportunity to qualify for Los Angeles—was in eighty-seven days. She couldn’t cut it that close. She couldn’t leave that much to chance.

“Well, that’s good, innit?” Sam tapped out an enthusiastic drum roll on the hard plastic of the seat in front of her. “A chance beats a sharp stick in the eye!”

Before Dillon could muster her canned optimism—sure thing, one day at a time—the boy from earlier staggered down the aisle.

“I know you told me to piss off,” he planted himself in front of them, “but my sister’s a huge fan of yours, and she’s not going to forgive me if I don’t ask you for your autograph.”

Out of habit, Sam made a move to take the pen he’d pulled from his school bag, but he shook his head. “Sorry, I mean her.” He chucked his newly stubbled chin at Dillon. “My sister came in top ten in juniors at last year’s WTCS championship and you’re basically her idol.”

The kid wasn’t lying. You didn’t throw out the acronym for the governing body of triathlon without knowing what you were talking about.

“Alright.” Dillon felt a twinge of regret for her earlier beratement. His interest in her had nothing to do with Kam. “What’s her name?”

“Olivia.”

She signed the back of a Costa Coffee pastry wrapper.Olivia, Keep Racing.

“Ta.” The boy pocketed the wax paper.

Another lad from the group appeared over his shoulder, waving the half-empty bottle of whiskey. “Ladies care for a swig?”

For too long, Dillon stared at the Jameson label. She hadn’t had a drink in—she didn’t even know when. Sometime before she broke up with Kelsey. She and alcohol made poor choices together. Ones that didn’t bear repeating. But tonight, it felt tempting.

“No,” she finally said, aware of Sam’s side-eye at her delay. “My best to your sister, mate.”

“Cheers. She’ll be rooting for you this summer.”

Sam waited until the pair had woven their way back to the opposite end of the carriage before leaning in toward Dillon.

“You sure everything’s all right, Sinc?”

“Ace.” Dillon brushed off her concern. “Knackered, is all.”