Page 14

Lori

After the magpie incident at Nationals, my season went downhill – and not downhill in a fun way.

The first race on the World Tour calendar, the three-day Tour Down Under, was a rain-soaked disaster, where we all slipped and slid our way through the stages, collecting cuts and bruises.

After a big crash before the final sprint on the second day, I was out of the running for the general classification victory.

I’d shut myself in my bedroom again, crying silently so Mum wouldn’t hear me, and let the cortisone shot and antibiotics do their thing.

Even if I had been able to pass a drug test right now, I was in too much pain to race.

The burn in my muscles, aches in my back and hands – those I was used to ignoring, pushing through.

But this constant stab in my thigh tore through my concentration.

I had the women’s race running live on my computer, but I was only half-watching – I couldn’t face it when I wasn’t there myself.

Bonnie and Doortje started. They would have been there to support me but, instead, the directeur sportif had given Leesa a chance to be lead rider and she was having the race of her life.

Swiping at my stupid tears, I closed the browser and rolled away, tired and hurting, restless – and useless.

After Dad had told me my entire life that there were no limits to what I could achieve if I worked hard, making me believe in the power of mind over matter, it turned out there were limits after all and maybe sports psychology was a crock of shit.

My gaze fell on my mobile, sending another shudder of emotion down my spine. Seb…

Sure, my form had tanked since the moment I’d met him but, if I couldn’t race anyway, I might as well think about the feel of his skin under my hands and the way his mouth had grazed my ear as though he wanted every inch of me.

Turning back to the laptop, I opened the team website and pulled up the men’s listing. It wasn’t the first time I’d indulged myself by looking at his photo and every time I felt like a chump – instead of a champ – but it didn’t stop me.

The photographer had chosen well. He was looking at the camera with his head tilted, eyebrows raised and a lopsided grin on his face.

One hand grasped the zip of his jersey and he was tugging it halfway down, revealing a glimpse of his smooth chest. The picture made my mouth water and my hair stand on end and I kicked myself for the months I’d spent with this guy’s voice in my ear, not knowing he looked like this.

And now I was staring at a picture like a lovesick teenager, dreaming about sex instead of winning races. Thank God Dad couldn’t read minds.

My bedroom door flew open and I was blinded by the sudden light.

‘Mum!’ I cried, scrambling to shut down the browser window a moment too late and wondering if I could blame the spider bite for my flushed skin.

‘Loredana Gallagher, I hate to see you like this!’ she said emphatically.

After 30 years with my dad, most of them lived in Australia, Mum spoke with less of a real Italian accent and more Italian-Australian inflection from Melbourne.

‘Stop lying around in the dark. Up you get. We’ll go for a walk and get some coffee. ’

Triggering my caffeine response was an effective tactic, especially because getting coffee in Melbourne was like drinking champagne in Reims or eating chocolate in Brussels. Mmm, chocolate in Brussels, kissing Seb in Brussels – feeding Seb chocolate and then kissing him.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Mum asked me, snapping me out of that immersive fantasy.

Wow, I’d never had pizza or tiramisu fantasies about Gaetano, but suddenly chocolate and waffles and beer were off limits too.

Oh God, chocolate, waffles and beer. I would kill for any combination of those right now.

I rose warily to follow her, hoping she might hold her peace about whatever she’d seen on my laptop screen – and in my facial expression.

‘My leg hurts,’ I grumbled as I slipped into my sloppy old trainers and shuffled to the door.

The stark summer sunshine mocked me as we walked the 15 minutes to our local quinoa-salad-and-smashed-avocado café with famous street murals copied on the walls and elaborate latte art.

My leg throbbed in the heat and I wished I’d put more aloe vera on it before we left the house, but I knew Mum was trying to distract me from the pain, so I ignored it.

After my turbulent teenage years, I’d learned it was better to roll with Mum’s expectations and not upset them.

Paola Gallagher – née Martinelli, former champion triathlete – was taller than my dad, straight-haired and slim, and I would never be even half as elegant. She was almost always emotionally unavailable and a raging Italian coffee snob to boot.

After we took our seats, I eyed off the uni students who were drinking cold-brew coffee with icebergs of handmade ice cream bobbing on top.

It wasn’t quite a waffle, but I craved it nonetheless.

Feeling Mum’s eyes on me, I ordered a long black, while she had her customary espresso.

Dairy was an inflammatory food and best avoided during training and competing, a fact that was trying to remind me of Seb again and his desire to eat cheese.

And then I was staring down the thought of quitting the World Tour some time in the future and I swallowed a lump of panic. I’d only just fought my way back.

‘You might think you’re hiding it, but I know what you’re thinking about,’ Mum said softly – dangerously softly.

I choked on my first sip of coffee. ‘Do they always make it so hot?’ I muttered, fetching a napkin from the bar and mopping up my saucer. I hadn’t spilled much but I suspected, even if I’d doused my head with it, Mum wouldn’t have been put off. She was a dog with a bone when she smelled weakness.

‘You’re thinking about the things you’re missing out on to race, wondering if it’s all worth it.’

‘No!’ I insisted, although perhaps she meant all these thoughts of food that had taunted me recently.

That might be a safer topic of conversation – which was saying something, given her violent disapproval of most foods.

I schooled my features, hoping the tic in my jaw wasn’t visible.

‘Racing is what I want to do. I don’t need to eat cheese. ’

‘Cheese?’

‘Or ice cream or waffles.’ When she eyed me, I realised I’d gone in the wrong direction with the food. ‘Seriously, don’t worry. I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself, but it won’t last. I’m sure I just need a bit of good luck and I’ll be back to my normal self.’

I swallowed a grimace when my words reminded me of that text from Seb.

He obviously hadn’t realised it was the middle of the night when he sent me good luck for the race and he wouldn’t have imagined it would wake me up, either.

And then he’d followed it up with: You’re amazing .

I’d tried to roll over and go back to sleep, but my stomach had done a few loop-the-loops first. He meant an amazing cyclist. Of course I was an amazing cyclist.

But he’d deleted the message before I got up the next morning, leaving me wondering what exactly he’d regretted about sending it.

‘I’m not talking about your diet,’ Mum explained, giving me a meaningful look.

For a long moment I just blinked, not sure what she meant, but afraid nonetheless.

She took my hand, which alarmed me further.

‘Lolly,’ she said gently, which made me squirm in a way ‘Molly’ never did, ‘I know you were talking to someone online last year and I saw your computer screen just now. 25 is still so young. I know I’d already met your dad by that age, but those last few years of competing kept my spirits up after I quit and I’m so glad I didn’t give up when my family suggested I should. ’

‘What?’

‘Trust me, you’re not ready for love right now.’

‘I’m not—’ The urge to contradict her was hard-wired into me after years of experiencing her ‘care’ for me only in criticism. I took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I’m not looking for love – truly. But if one day I did want… nothing would make me quit!’

Her mouth pinched into a doubtful frown. ‘I do remember what it was like at your age and I wish someone had told me this: in a relationship, someone always loses.’

I clutched my coffee cup, annoyed I felt so fragile that the urge to cry rose behind my eyes. I didn’t know what to say – what to think. I didn’t like to sympathise or agree with Mum, but her words – her tone – struck a chord. I didn’t lose – I couldn’t, after everything I’d sacrificed.

Squeezing my hand as though I were actually the daughter she wanted and not the one she’d got, Mum said, ‘Just make sure it’s not you that loses.

Please yourself, make your own goals and reach them.

No man is worth compromising for. I wanted to tell you this all last year.

I was so worried Gaetano would affect your performance and I regretted not picking up the phone and trying to warn you, but your father… ’

That was familiar: everything was Dad’s fault. I remembered the unexpected texts during the training camp, as though Mum didn’t want to contact Dad herself. They shared a bed, but what if that was only out of stubbornness – which ran in the family?

‘We don’t need to talk about last year—’

‘I know, bella. I don’t want to go over it again either, but I’m so worried someone will break your heart again, or at least distract you, especially after I saw you looking—’

‘It’s nothing,’ I tried to assure her. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.

I’m not going to get a boyfriend. I exist on this planet to pilot a bike and win some trophies while I’m doing it.

I am a cycling nun with a vow of chastity.

So I might have slept with a guy on training camp, but it was just sex and it won’t happen again because now I’m focused on the season – if I can just get to the starting line next time. Okay?’

She gulped and I sipped as calmly as I could while she processed my overshare. Yep, I didn’t have my mum’s poise. Sometimes I thought she used it on purpose to make me squirm.

‘Just… be careful. I don’t want to see you give up everything you’ve worked so hard for.’

‘I am being careful and nobody’s giving up. Give me some credit. I’m not going to find a guy and quit like you did.’ Ouch. So much for the mother-daughter bonding of a coffee date.

‘I didn’t have much of a choice, especially after you came along.

You wouldn’t have your team today if I hadn’t.

You can’t have it all – especially not as a woman.

Before you throw away all the time and effort your father and I have put into your training and career, at least make sure you’ve chosen the right person. At your age, it’s difficult.’

Even at 25, she treated me like a mixed-up teenager, but today I didn’t feel far off. Worse, I had to admit she had a point and now I was thinking about how much Colin and I – and maybe even Dad – had cost her.

‘All right, Mum,’ I mumbled. ‘Point taken. There’s only one thing I really want and that’s my career back.’

I usually managed not to begrudge my brother his victories, but this one stung.

Since I’d already been bitten and stung, Colin’s triumphal return on Sunday night with the trophy from the Great Ocean Road Race was difficult to swallow.

Even worse, Leesa had taken home the women’s trophy the day before, making her journey out from the US unfortunately worthwhile.

Not many riders travelled to Australia for the Tour Down Under and the Great Ocean Road Race.

It was expensive and tiring for two races without much cachet, but it made them easier to win, being our home competition – at least that’s what I told myself when Colin kept parading his trophy around.

It was a wonder he didn’t poke himself with the pointy bit.

‘You’ve got a break until the Strade Bianche now, ay?’ Dad said, slapping Colin on the shoulder. ‘I think we should crack open the champagne!’

I accepted a glass with a false smile and raised it in Colin’s direction.

The way he dipped his head and studied me with his brow low was enough for me to realise he knew I wasn’t so calm on the inside.

Surprisingly, he didn’t say anything or even rub my face in it when no one was looking.

I must have looked a sad wreck indeed. Dad wrapped an arm around him and shook him hard enough to slosh the champagne.

‘Silver at Nationals, winner today!’

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I snatched it out with relief that I had something to do other than pull a muscle in my face.

When I saw it was a message from Seb, my nose stung with more stifled tears and that was a weird Seb side-effect I was not on board with.

But when I saw the message, I snorted a laugh, glad I hadn’t been mid-sip.

I know I’m only supposed to text you if you win, but is Colin’s trophy actually a shark fin? I didn’t think it was legal to hunt sharks for their fins.

Studying Colin’s prize, I could see his point. I checked online and it was supposed to be a wave. The resemblance seemed unintentional, but now I couldn’t unsee it.

It might be because there are seven different species of shark around here.

He replied immediately: Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water…

I should have predicted that response.

You’re not selling me on Australia: spiders, sharks, magpies. Oops, shouldn’t mention the magpies.

His teasing pricked me with indignation and relief and it took a moment for me to gather a smart response.

Yeah, well, life’s not all chocolate and waffles .

Dad approached and I hurriedly stuffed my phone away, the conversation with Mum still too fresh in my mind. I probably shouldn’t have told her I’d slept with someone on the team. If it got back to Dad… Oops. I’d have to make sure he didn’t guess it was Seb.

He clapped his arm around me, giving me a gentler version of the shakedown he’d given Colin. ‘How’s my Molly? Ready for the next one, ay? Good on ya.’

Actually, no. I didn’t feel ready for the next race. I felt adrift – on the brink of failure. I was already the sister, the daughter, with half the prize money potential of my brother simply because of the lack of a warped Y chromosome. If I stopped bringing home the trophies…

It didn’t bear thinking about. I had to get back my form – and my luck. And I really had to stop wasting time thinking about Seb.