Page 42

Seb

After she left, I lined up every morning, more numb than anything else.

The sun beat down on the peloton and every day was a battle of attrition that not all of us survived.

Although each team was only allowed eight riders, one of our bigger, richer rival teams dominated the bunch, keeping the pace brutally high.

Derek developed saddle sores that looked like World War Three in his shorts, so he was sent home.

Lars picked up a stomach bug and, although he battled on, he missed the timecut on a particularly brutal mountain stage and that was it for him this year.

Losing two riders increased the surface area of Tony Gallagher’s bald spot by at least half and our pool of prize money was also looking sparse, despite Colin picking up a few euros here and there with decent finishes.

If I hadn’t been this close to my limit many times before, I might have panicked, but I wasn’t going to cave – not on my last Tour.

I was just going to suffer, which I had quite an appetite for.

Colin maintained a good standing in the general classification rankings, but no one really expected him to win it.

Tony talked big on the team bus every morning, but he knew it too.

I couldn’t see either Tony or Colin without thinking of Lori. Every evening, I rolled over in bed and my mind played imaginary text-message conversations with her teasing me, until I realised what I was doing and started panicking.

Could people fall in love over text messages and virtual training rides? It was a stupid question. Of course they could. I had the evidence for it every time I looked in the mirror and saw in my expression the part of me that was missing.

I’d loved her – last year on Zpeed, I’d already loved her in an abstract way. Now she’d turned my real life upside down I struggled to imagine it without her.

It had all been real. She’d made excuses because she thought she had to be tough and I’d believed her because the alternative was believing in myself and I’d never been good at that.

Reliving that awful conversation at least twice a day, I couldn’t move past her accusation that I’d given up. She was right, I had. But I wasn’t sure I could truly believe she’d stay.

In the third week of the Tour, the DS adapted our strategy. Now Colin had settled into a solid position in the general classification, stage wins came into play and that was when the director said just about the only words capable of shocking me back into real life.

‘Amir and Nelson will stay with Colin. And Frankie? Are you ready to have a go?’

My gaze snapped up. Noooooo. I was happily Colin’s support rider, managing the team in the peloton and quietly suffering. But aiming for a stage win that I surely wouldn’t achieve? Allowing the others to ride in support of me?

I heard Lori’s voice in my head – again – telling me I had nothing to lose, which certainly felt true that day. The chances of winning were low, but… not nothing. Could I believe it? Not for her, but for me?

‘Come on, boy. Your legs don’t just shut down. It’s your head that’s the problem. But if you think you can’t do it, I’m not—’

The words erupted from deep in my chest. ‘I can do it.’

Lori

‘ That’s it, Lori! “Top Gun” strikes back! That’s our girl! ’

As I crested the hill, even the director’s gravelly praise in his ponderous Welsh accent didn’t break through the fuzz of detachment in my head.

While my lungs burned, heaving in thin mountain air, and my muscles screamed, I was thinking about how ‘Top Gun Strikes Back’ sounded like a parody film about X-Wing pilots at the special rebel academy, with Darth Maverick in the central role. Seb would laugh so—

Seb would never hear my stupid joke.

As I came to a stop by the team car, the DS Alf clapped me on the shoulder. ‘You’re back, as strong as ever! Tony is going to be so happy with everything I’ve got to tell him.’

I managed a smile, but he thankfully turned away before he looked close enough to see it hadn’t reached my eyes.

I was satisfied with my performance, proud of my hard work.

But ‘happy’ looked quite different from my feelings after that epic training ride.

I felt as though I’d lost all orientation since coming up to train at altitude.

I wanted to win, yes. But that couldn’t be everything . The goal felt so empty.

But there was nothing else in my life the week before the most prestigious women’s stage race in the calendar. Was there ever anything else in my life?

There had been, up until last week…

Doortje eyed me as she tugged off her helmet.

One small mercy of this training camp was that I wasn’t rooming with my old friend.

She’d grill me until I broke down and blubbered about falling in love.

Instead, Leesa was in the other bed in my room and I only had to ignore the pinch of jealousy when she effortlessly put on a light brush of make-up and used big words, when I usually poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand and said ‘fuck’ for all occasions.

‘Are you okay?’ Doortje asked.

I forced another smile. ‘In great shape.’

‘I know you are, but that’s not what I asked.’

I tried not to be touched by her concern – and failed. ‘Seriously, it’s fine.’

My phone beeped that night as I turned out the light and I froze, my heart racing. Part of me had been waiting to hear from Seb, remembering those months after December, when he’d obviously wanted to text me and I’d been stupid enough to forbid it.

But the message was from my dad: Alf says you’re in top form. Proud of ya, my Molly.

I felt nothing but disappointment. Was that my future? Winning some races and losing some races? I’d never allowed myself to look beyond that, too scared of failing – not even sure who I was without racing.

Not sure what else to reply, I tapped out: Tell Colin he’s doing great. Watching the highlights each day had been torture, catching glimpses of Seb’s sharp jaw, his firm mouth, the tattoos on his ripped legs, and never his whole face.

He’d left a giant hole in my life.

I stifled a sigh. Even the day’s climbs hadn’t been enough to silence the questions running sprints through my brain.

Resting had been the gruelling part, trying to concentrate on a film and then force down food – no offence to our artistic and very sensitive chef.

I was the problem. Everything I ate tasted like the bones of long-dead saints.

My sigh was echoed from a metre away on the other bed. ‘If you’re awake anyway, do you want to just get it off your chest?’

‘Sorry if I’m stopping you from getting your beauty sleep.’

‘I’ve got used to you moving around in the night,’ Leesa replied. Hauling herself into a sitting position, she switched on the lamp and reached for her phone. ‘Doortje thought we might need to perform an intervention.’

‘You and Doortje were talking about me?’

‘Keep your hair on,’ Leesa said with a roll of her eyes.

‘We weren’t planning your downfall. I know you think we all resent you for being Tony’s daughter, but not everything is about you.

’ Her brow pinched, as though she hadn’t quite intended to say that.

Even with a pinched brow, Leesa Kubicka was delicate and pretty.

If I hadn’t seen over and over that she was a scrappy fighter on the bike – and one of the few members of the team who told my brother off for his pranks – I would have badly misjudged her.

‘I know not everything is about me. I promise I’ll have my head in the game for the start of the Tour.’

She gave me a withering look I was sure I’d seen her bestow on Colin numerous times. ‘That’s not what I mean. We’re all behind you 100 per cent. I just haven’t told you, yet, that I’m retiring at the end of the season, so you don’t have to worry about competition.’

Retiring… The word alone was enough for hundreds of images to burst in my brain: cheese, a fucking B&B, the yawning abyss of nothingness. ‘Why?’ I blurted out. ‘You’re not even thirty.’

‘I’m finally graduating in December. Apparently, it’s time to get a real job.’

Her answer reminded me that I was paid an unusually substantial salary for a woman in cycling, even though mine still wasn’t much to write home about. Unless we brought in lots of prize money, Leesa’s salary would be a lot less than she could make elsewhere.

I studied her, the years we’d trained and competed together suddenly feeling short. I hadn’t even taken the time to work out if we could be friends.

‘Are you looking forward to it?’

Before she could answer, Doortje flung the door open. ‘You summoned me?’ She sat heavily on my bed, bouncing as she did so.

‘The DS is going to get us into trouble if he knows we’re having an intervention instead of resting,’ I grumbled.

‘It’s for the greater good,’ Doortje said far too brightly. ‘So, tell us what went wrong with Seb. Did he break your heart or are you just restless now you’ve lost your favourite hobby?’

‘What hobby?’

‘Seb,’ Leesa said with a chuckle. ‘You seemed to enjoy doing him, if the pictures were anything to go by.’ She tapped on her phone screen. ‘This one was cute.’

To my horror, she flipped the device around to show me the smiling selfie I’d taken that day at his old school.

Since I was sticking pins in myself, I fumbled for my own phone and scrolled to the next picture I’d taken that day.

My stomach clenched, soaking in the lines of his throat, the way his lips were puckered against my cheek.

The soft smile on my face. This wasn’t helping.

‘I was talking about texting Seb, mainly,’ Doortje continued, oblivious to my threatening tears. ‘Although maybe you had a more energetic hobby you liked to do with him. Ohhh, dear, sweetie,’ she said suddenly when she caught sight of the photo on my screen. ‘He broke your heart.’

She exchanged a look with Leesa while I sniffed back stupid tears. ‘He wasn’t a hobby,’ I insisted. ‘He was… a good friend.’

‘And you realised too late that you shouldn’t fuck a friend?’ Leesa finished with a wince.

‘Yeah, maybe we shouldn’t have… without talking about…’ We shouldn’t have slept together while I was trying to convince myself that I could shut down my pesky feelings, that no one could mess with ‘Top Gun’ Gallagher.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be ‘Top Gun’ any more.

I could be the very human ‘Folklore’ Gallagher, who laughed at corny jokes and felt pain and enjoyed the anticipation of receiving a text message from a special someone and did some stupid things sometimes – like blurting out that she could fall in love with a person who might not return her feelings.

Why had I ever wanted to forget those few months I’d spent living mostly online? I’d been focused on the difficulties – on the grief, the pain. I never appreciated the freedom to find myself, perhaps for the first time in my life.

He’d found me too – and he wasn’t getting rid of me as easily as he might think.

Folklore was just as much a fighter. Maybe Folklore would win races too and, if she did, then I could show Seb our relationship was unrelated to my career – and more long-lasting.

I could show him that love could be a strength for both of us and not an impediment.

‘I think the intervention worked,’ Leesa said to Doortje in a stage whisper.

‘I didn’t realise we’d done the intervention.’

I chuckled, allowing a few damning tears to leak out. ‘You guys are the best. I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have you on my team.’

As they cooed and wrapped their arms around me in a three-way hug, I wasn’t sure I deserved, my phone screen lit up again.

‘Is it him?’

‘I’m sure it’s—’ I frowned when I saw the name pop up. ‘Colin?’

Leesa responded with her usual eye-roll. ‘What does he have to say?’

I read the short text from my brother and froze: We’re aiming for a stage win tomorrow – with Seb. I thought you’d want to know. He’s terrible company but refused to text you himself. Maybe he needs a pep talk?

My hair stood on end, imagining him a wreck of nerves, dealing with the pressure he wasn’t used to. I wished I could give him a kiss, poke him in the ribs and say something silly until he smiled – or rolled his eyes. But I wouldn’t give him a pep talk.

In Siena, before the Paris-Roubaix, I’d wanted to give him some confidence – some fight – but really, I’d wanted him to like me and I’d been scared there wasn’t anything to like outside of my career.

He’d shown me my life had more meaning than winning and losing.

It didn’t make me any weaker or split my focus.

I’d moved a little closer to his point of view, and perhaps he’d moved a little closer to mine.

I wished I knew what he was thinking right now, the night before one of the biggest chances of his career. Whether he won or lost, I’d—

Okay, I hadn’t developed that much chill overnight. He’d better win. I wanted to see him wipe the others’ faces on the tarmac and then I’d admire his body on the podium.

If he believed in himself enough to go for the win, could he take a chance on me – on us?

Lost in indecision for several minutes, my thumbs hovered over the keypad, my conversation with LoonieDunes on the screen – all eight months of it since the day I collected him from the hills after Colin’s prank, all the cross-purposes and misunderstandings, fears and vulnerabilities.

I treasured all of it and the main thing I regretted was telling him not to text me.

I tapped out a message and hit ‘Send’.