Page 33

Lori

I awoke restless the following morning to find Seb still passed out next to me and my reservations roaring into overdrive.

The only training I’d done for two whole days was a little countryside jaunt on a nostalgic tandem.

My shoulder was buggered, but the rest of me needed to stay fit.

Slipping out of bed, I pulled on Seb’s shorts and my new bra and fiddled with his Zpeed set-up until it came to life, swallowing a grim smile when the message flashed up: Welcome back, LoonieDunes .

Flicking through the menus, I couldn’t help pausing on the chat server, where our last conversation was still the most recent.

The user you are trying to contact does not exist. Please check the username and try again.

I could still feel the panic at the prospect of Mum finding out I’d been anything other than disciplined and ambitious online, but now there was so much added guilt at the way I’d left without saying goodbye.

My skin prickling with misgiving, I selected a threshold workout and pressed ‘Start’ before I reconsidered and jumped back into bed with Seb, who would be warm and sleepy and soft.

The hour was torturous without music – or a voice in my ear. I kept thinking of all the conversations we’d had during warm-ups and zone two training. He knew me too well.

I must have slipped into my zone eventually, because I didn’t notice he’d woken up until his gravelly voice reached me.

‘Wow, good morning. I’m going to think about your tits in that bra every time I work out on Zpeed from now on,’ he groaned.

My foot slipped and I had to grapple with the handlebars for balance, which made the pain in my shoulder roar to life. ‘Fuck! I should never have tried this barefoot!’

He was out of bed in an instant, curling an arm around me in that unbearable way he had of touching me. ‘Hey,’ he began, but I shook my head.

‘I’m fine,’ I lied. ‘I just hate being injured.’

He looked ready to challenge me, but apparently decided against it. ‘It was my fault for distracting you.’ He was too good at taking the wind out of me.

Giving him a half-hearted shove, I said, ‘You sure did. You should give me a warning before you say the word “tits”.’

‘Consider yourself warned,’ he said, his voice low and smooth, and that was all it took for me to leave the Zpeed simulation to its workout and let Seb show me exactly what he liked about my bra.

When he left to shower, I rolled over and caught sight of my phone, connected to Seb’s charger. I’d turned on flight mode yesterday and ignored my real life while snapping photos of Seb and me, but I should probably turn everything back on and see what the damage was with my dad.

I’d expected endless buzzing for a few minutes while the notifications dropped in. But, even when I opened the conversation with Dad, there were no new messages. Was this the long-distance silent treatment?

I thought about checking my Instagram – I had the notifications filtered and switched off for the sake of my focus and mental health – but I decided against it.

I’d start posting the fake photos of Seb and me soon enough, but I didn’t want to think about that when I was wrapped up in his sheets – in the memories of his body against mine.

Chicory coffee was a much better option.

Seb had an appointment with his old cycling club in the early afternoon. I decided to tag along, curious about his professional beginnings and eager to distract myself from the feeling of being a ticking clock, about to blow this thing between us apart.

We were all contractually required to wear our team jersey when we appeared in public. He had to pull a brand-new jersey out of a packet, which reminded me how little time he’d actually been with Harper-Stacked.

But I hadn’t forgotten how smooth and toned his body looked in Lycra. As we cycled the short journey to his appointment, I was thoroughly distracted by the flex of his butt and his glistening tattoos, peeking out of his socks.

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 Francaise.’

‘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 the phone 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 garcon! 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’d set 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 not that old.

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 mean Star Trek. Adding a winky face, I posted the pictures, making sure none of the children were identifiable.