Page 26

Seb

I felt like a zombie, my flesh necrotising in real time as the world passed by in a smudge – with the occasional blinding yellow of a field of rapeseed.

The sensation was probably just mud drying in my cuts but, despite the scream of resistance in my blood, I was oddly calm as I inched closer to the breakaway after the crash.

As though I could suddenly tell the future, I knew I’d catch them at the last stretch of cobbles – or perhaps it was more the clarity of knowing that if I didn’t, it’d all be over for me. No win, no kiss.

But those reserves got me there. With sweat and rain dripping into my eyes, unimpeded now I’d lost my glasses, I found myself on the wheel of the last guy in the breakaway and I hadn’t died yet.

That was when a win started to feel like a real possibility and my cadence stalled.

I survived the stress of this wild sport by being the underdog.

Yeah, I’d stood on the podium twice already this season – which still didn’t feel real – but that had been a fluke.

I wasn’t that guy – the guy who won things.

But I wanted to win today.

Everything inside me seized up at the thought and I nearly lost the wheel of the guy in front before I pulled myself together. I only had to survive another ten minutes of questioning all of my life choices.

The brown fields gave way to houses and light industrial properties as we were swallowed up into the outskirts of Roubaix, one of an agglomeration of towns that sat tucked into a curve of the French border with Belgium.

The cold rain was falling more steadily now.

I knew the route better than I knew myself in that moment, knew exactly where I would push forward.

I hated the chaos of a sprint finish, but with five riders still left in the lead, it was going to get scrappy.

In silent agreement, we picked up speed through the streets lined with fans waving banners and shouting. One guy – I was too tired to even note who – pushed ahead and I swallowed a groan as I forced even more out of myself to follow.

I flew into the velodrome on his wheel, no idea if anyone was behind me or how much the other guy had left to give.

As we whipped around the first curve, he tried to drop me, sticking to the edge of the track, but I held on in his slipstream.

I’d never manage a whole lap performing so far over my threshold and, even at the last minute, conserving my strength was a necessary strategy.

Dimly registering the clang of the brass bell announcing the final lap, I held my nerve, bided my time, the effort of waiting and holding on just as difficult as what was to come when I sprinted. I didn’t know if we were the first group or not. The words on my radio were gibberish.

The finish line in sight, I threw everything I had at the bike and the track, pushing ahead of the other guy with 100 m to go – and vaguely registering a flash of colour on my left.

With a wallop of panic in my chest, I kicked the bike forward with one last push and blacked out for a second or two as I crossed the line.

Still pedalling on muscle memory and conditioning, only half-conscious and covered in mud and blood, I came to enough to decelerate around the velodrome, the crowd in the stands suddenly deafening.

The air was cool and sweet and still. The world slowed down around me, winding back – winding down – as I waited to see what shape I’d be in when my body finally stopped.

Skidding off the track and onto the grass in the middle, I wobbled off the bike and let it fall to the ground, the throb in my hands suddenly swelling to a roar. A team assistant grabbed me heavily as I stumbled, my vision tunnelling as the entire race washed through me.

The feeling was awful and wonderful and I wanted to talk about that race for the rest of my life, bore Maman and Mamie at the dinner table as they gave me their bewildered smiles, not a competitive bone in their bodies.

Lori would understand. Lori…

At first I thought I was imagining her in front of me and I gave the apparition a cocky, half-drunk smile.

But then I imagined her saying my name in a breathless tone that shot straight through my battered body and groped with my left hand – blindly as my vision swam a little from dirt and exposure and exhaustion – and connected with the soft cotton of her – my – hoodie.

I wasn’t imagining her.

A fresh surge of… something rushed in my blood and I swayed towards her. Her palm flattened on the back of my neck and my mind went completely blank as I leaned close and kissed her. Or did she lean and kiss me?

It didn’t matter. We were kissing – as though our lives depended on it. Her lips shook against mine, her mouth open and hot. Tilting her head, she tugged me close. I cupped her cheek with my other hand and everything would be right with the world, if I could just kiss her a little longer.

Oh God, I needed her. Thrusting a gloved hand up into her hair and fisting there, I soaked her in, her choked whimper, the eager press of her upper lip, the sweep of her tongue against mine. She tasted like coming back to life – like a shared victory.

A niggling confusion made me break off for a moment, tugging off my helmet. ‘Does this mean I won?’ I asked, my voice high.

She pressed another kiss to my mouth and I was just convincing myself I was satisfied with that instead of an answer, when she shook her head and said, ‘No, you came second.’

‘But I thought—’

She cut me off with her mouth on mine again and I rubbed a thumb over her cheek in clumsy, desperate affection. Kissing her at the finish line was a heady thrill I hadn’t felt in… ever?

‘It’s close enough,’ she breathed against my lips.

‘Thank God,’ I groaned, capturing her mouth again. I was basically mauling her in public and I didn’t care a—

The sound of someone clearing their throat made me pull back, noticing with a stab of remorse that I’d smeared her face with mud.

Then the world revved up to full speed as someone shoved a camera in my face and, at the same time, I heard my grandmother say in French, ‘It’s nice to finally meet your girlfriend!’

Lori

I was deep in the shit now.

Had I planned to publicly declare something that wasn’t quite true with a scorching post-race kiss?

Not exactly. But did I embrace the chaos when it happened?

Absolutely. Seb deserved all the attention today and if I could direct the spotlight a little closer to him, it could only bring good things.

Maybe he’d get his contract renewed – or at least give his ego enough of a boost to enjoy the win.

He’d been dragged away from me for the post-race drugs-testing protocol and to face the crush of international sports media before the podium ceremony.

I’d watched from the periphery as he’d given a few comments, mainly in smooth, deep French with a wry smile that made me realise there was a whole language of his that I didn’t speak – so many sides to him I’d probably never see.

Now I was busy ducking among the team vehicles trying to avoid Dad and Colin – as well as Seb’s mum and his cute little grandma. I should have borrowed the grandma’s parka and bucket hat for camouflage.

I would have to face the consequences of my actions at some stage, but I wanted to have a word with Seb before I did so – get our story straight now I’d sufficiently recovered from the kiss to form actual words.

Veering away from where Dad was talking to Colin as he warmed down on a stationary bike, I made a dash for the spartan old shower block, where I’d noticed Seb disappearing five minutes ago.

Although the team buses had showers these days, the 1940s Roubaix shower block was an institution, with a plaque bearing the name of a past winner on every stall.

There was little heating and no privacy, but I could understand that Seb was so old-school that he visited the block as though it were a pilgrimage.

Hearing voices, I didn’t go into the communal shower room, but waited in the hall, knowing the podium was calling and he wouldn’t be long.

The door was ajar, releasing the fug of steam and the oceany scent of Seb’s shower gel.

A tuneless hum reached my ears, followed a moment later by a few snatches of Taylor’s ‘Wildest Dreams’ in a slightly groggy falsetto.

I couldn’t help myself. I peeped and I would never regret doing so. His eyes were closed as soap suds slid over his dimples and dripped onto his chest. His arms raised to wash his hair, he was hard and wet and the kiss bubbled in my veins again as my mouth watered.

Stifling a laugh, I enjoyed his gravelly version of Taylor’s words about a tall, handsome guy with utter pandemonium in my chest. What was I supposed to do with him? With us?

If he retired at the end of the season to run his fucking B&B, I’d never see him again.

That had become an unacceptable outcome.

But he wanted out of the sport and I was the sport.

He might have put up a fight today, but I’d manipulated him into it.

Being with me was a challenge I was pretty sure he didn’t want, especially since I wouldn’t have any space in my life for him when I started winning again, the way I really, really had to.

Shit, post-adrenaline symptoms had made me feel decidedly loopy if my thoughts had drifted into long-term territory. Before I was close to working myself out, Colin clomped into the shower block under a dark cloud, followed shortly after by Dad.

‘There she is, my little chaos muppet!’ Dad exclaimed.

‘I hope you have a decent explanation for why a reporter just asked me what I thought of my sister dating my domestique!’

Seb emerged, his whistle going flat and trailing off, his presence completing the absurd tableau before I could work out a suitable justification for my behaviour.

He’d changed into fresh bib shorts, but he hadn’t bothered with a shirt.

The gear sprocket tattooed above his right pec was dewy and dark with moisture.

The muscle and tendons over his chest and arms bunched as he moved and his skin radiated heat and there went my ability to form sentences again.

By the time I curled my tongue back into my mouth, I noticed the ugly graze on his side that would need to be bandaged before he pulled on a clean jersey.

It was little wonder I was scrambling around for the slightest feeling of control over my own life when I was a wreck just looking at him, torn between the desire to protect him and the insistent firing of all my pheromones in the presence of his battle-hardened body.

He seemed to accept Dad and Colin’s presence as the requisite drama of the afternoon, his shoulders jerking with a deep sigh as his gaze switched between us, lingering on me with a hint of a raised eyebrow that shouldn’t have been enough to steal my breath, but was anyway.

Then Colin put his foot in it, turning to Seb in indignation. ‘You said she was messing with you, not the other way around!’

Seb

I opened my mouth to respond, but froze with the knowledge that anything I said right now would be the wrong thing. Lori was less circumspect.

‘I am messing with him!’ she insisted and although part of me melted at how very Lori that blurted statement was, mostly I was scraped raw everywhere and rather put out that she’d reduce the best kiss of my life to messing around.

‘He’s got such good form, he just needed a. .. nudge to get a result.’

That kiss had been a hell of a lot more than a nudge and I was put out enough to think about walking her back into the shower stalls and proving it.

‘You didn’t have to kiss him to do that, Lori,’ Tony Gallagher said, his tone nasal and high with exasperation.

‘You were worried about the sponsors, Dad. If I can’t win races, at least I can do something to attract attention to the team.’

My head spun with all the subtext in her statement. It had to pinch that she’d had another rotten result yesterday and, if she resented me for having form when she didn’t, I wouldn’t judge her for it. But using this… chemistry between us for sponsors? That part made me want to barf.

‘Lore—’ I began, but Colin cut me off.

‘Did you hear what those reporters were saying? They’re talking about how you have a type and it’s guys in a Harper-Stacked uniform! They even asked him if you’re the reason he got a contract with the team!’

She flinched, a flicker of panic crossing her expression, and our audience started to chafe. I didn’t want to make things worse for her, but I also needed to settle my own feelings about the kiss and what it had meant.

‘Chill out, little bro,’ she responded, and the expression ‘Attack is the best defence’ crossed my mind as I watched her press Colin’s buttons until he inflated like an accordion.

‘You document all your pranks on social media. A bit of attention to my love life isn’t anything new and I’ve heard it all before – and worse. ’

Her words sent a chill of dismay through me: she was talking about Gaetano. The more I learned about her life, the more complications I saw.

The conversation felt like a tightrope. ‘I’m sure no one will—’

‘Does that mean he’s your boyfriend?’ The disbelief in Colin’s tone pricked me, even though I understood it was warranted.

‘Um’ was all I managed, earning a blistering look from Lori. ‘No!’ I insisted more strongly. ‘Of course not. She’s completely focused on her training.’ When Colin narrowed his eyes at me, I wondered whether I’d come on too strong with that one, even though it was true.

‘But there’s no harm in a few reporters thinking he is,’ Lori said with a jerky shrug. ‘People love a romance.’ She said ‘people’ with such a particular tone, I suspected she’d thought about substituting ‘suckers’.

Tony reached for her, his wrinkles curled up in concern. ‘I know I talk a lot about the sponsors, but it’s not your—’

‘Don’t worry, Dad. I know what I’m doing.’

That one was clearly a lie.

She whirled to face me, her jaw set. ‘I really didn’t mean anything—’

I cut her off with a shake of my head. She’d made her point as best she could in front of her family and I wanted to wallow in the misery of remembering that kiss on my own from now.

‘Enjoy the podium,’ she said, her voice unexpectedly heated. ‘You bloody deserve it.’