Chapter 30
Leesa
I don’t know what I’d expected. Colin was never going to rush straight to my side after hurtling over the finish line. A sweaty, desperate post-race kiss probably wasn’t as romantic as Lori and Seb had made it look last year anyway.
Colin would make headlines today, although not for ideal reasons.
He’d ridden a dumpster fire of a time trial.
How often had the women’s trainer drilled into us that a time trial was about consistency and carefully managing our limits?
Colin had been all over the place and then worked himself into the ground at the end, although I bet the fans would love him for it.
The fact that he’d come off his bike in vaguely amusing circumstances after the finish only added to the viral potential of his performance.
If he wasn’t going to come and give me a cheeky kiss – or even a cheeky grin – then I’d decided I might as well get some footage out of it, lining up the shot, trying not to notice the trickle of sweat down his throat as he guzzled from a drink bottle.
With his hair dripping and mussed, his chest still heaving, every contour of lean muscle on display under his time-trial skinsuit, he was a sponsor’s dream – a sexy dream.
When he’d accepted a recovery gel and lifted it to his mouth, I could almost believe we’d planned the moment with PowerFuel in mind, even though I was all too aware of the fact that I hadn’t spoken to him since Thursday night, when I’d passed out almost immediately after he’d fucked me against the mirror.
I was trying not to overthink that encounter, although it grew more difficult the longer he ignored me.
At least flipping me the bird was a useful reminder that although he might have lusted after me for years, he wouldn’t let anyone pin him down.
After all the unbearable winking and being charming, I had assumed we were back to our barbed banter, but whatever that was in his expression, it wasn’t good.
As he sauntered in my direction, I stopped the video and lowered my phone warily.
‘Not exactly a performance your client will be happy with,’ he grumbled.
‘There’s a… narrative in there somewhere,’ I replied, my forehead tight as I studied his reaction. ‘When I edit out your eloquent hand gesture.’
He didn’t laugh. ‘A narrative. I suppose that’s what I am to you.’
The disappointment in his tone punched me in the stomach. ‘But today was… phenomenal. The second half anyway.’
There was a hint of the open smile I realised with a pang that I missed. ‘Half a phenomenal performance. Good luck making your narrative. It’s what you’re here for and you’re so fucking talented you’ll make me look good no matter what you really think.’
My skin tingled with unease as I tried and failed to interpret his meaning. Whatever he felt he didn’t want me to see and that hurt too, even though I should have known better.
‘At least you know how good I am in bed.’
I was almost happy to see the cocky smile back, except I wasn’t sure about the reminder that this thing between us had always been casual. This was Colin Gallagher. He hadn’t even managed to be serious about the opening stage of the Tour de France.
‘I’m glad that comforts you while you’re busting your balls in the saddle.’
That made him laugh and he swiped away a drip of sweat. ‘A shame I can’t have you to make me feel better at the end of the day.’
I couldn’t tell if he was teasing me. His tone suggested so, but I hated to think he was so flippant about everything we’d shared.
He lifted a hand to my head and I was alarmed by how much I wanted the curl of his fingers around my nape, fisting in my hair. But the flash of a camera made me flinch and I came back to myself like crashing to the pavement. He couldn’t kiss me – not in public.
When I jerked away, there was a spark of something in his eyes, but I couldn’t have said what it meant. And then he was gone, more quickly than I would have thought him capable of after half a phenomenal performance.
The peloton and its entourage of brightly coloured buses, team cars, motorbikes, ambulances and the caravane publicitaire, the bizarre parade floats with saucisson and supermarket brands tossing out samples, made its way across the top of the French hexagon over the first week of the Tour.
In contrast to the smiling fans wearing polka-dot T-shirts or costumes and waving cardboard signs, amused by the bizarre vehicles shaped like fruit and vegetables or cheese or the laughing cow, the mood in the team bus was tense.
Like that rebellious kid in class at junior high, Colin did just enough over the first week to stay within striking distance of the top ten without actually making it there.
I posted clips and photos from the training camp, each one gaining more traction than the last, but my content from the Tour itself was lacklustre and it showed in the engagement stats.
Perhaps it simply wasn’t possible to top the video I’d cut together of Colin shaving his moustache, but I suspected it was because he wasn’t oozing his easy charm as he usually did.
The only clip from the Tour that had made any impact was a three-second flash of him lounging in an ice bath and giving the camera a wink.
Sunday was a hilly stage through Brittany, ending on the outskirts of the mediaeval town of Guérande.
With our enormous team buses parked around the ancient city wall, we kind of ruined the aesthetic of the quaint little place with bunting strung across the top of the narrow lanes and pastel shopfronts like the cover of a book.
We’d even lucked out with one of the only 15 sunny days in Brittany every year.
Actually, I wasn’t sure of that statistic.
It did rain a lot here, but 15 days might be as spurious as the pseudo-science factoid that people are within three feet of a spider at all times. At least I hoped that was spurious.
The sun was wreaking havoc with the riders, though, the team car busy distributing more bottles to the swannies placed along the route with their musettes, the string bags the riders grabbed to refuel without stopping.
Because I noticed every little damn thing about Colin, I knew he had peeling sunburn on the back of his neck and if he stripped off, I’d see the outline of his skinsuit as though he were still wearing it, just with a pale-skinned, naked man printed on it, which would incidentally be the best birthday present in the entire world for Colin Gallagher.
Except, I wouldn’t be around when he turned 26.
Hilly stages were flat enough that even the riders who weren’t climbing specialists had a chance at the win but mountainous enough that a bunch sprint at the end was unlikely.
These types of stages used to haunt me with their uncertainty.
Instinct, quick reactions and risk-taking were often rewarded and none of those had ever been my strong point.
‘God, I love a hilly stage.’
Of course Lori did. I’d hitched a lift into Guérande from our hotel with her and Seb and then we’d made our way to the team bus to watch the coverage.
After 20 minutes in the car with Lori and her boyfriend, the day before they had to separate for Lori to prepare for the Tour de France Femmes, I felt like a third wheel and was trying to ignore the casual affection that seemed so easy between them – and Lori’s collection of nicknames for him, from ‘Frankie’ to ‘Loonie’ to ‘baby’, which I suspected she didn’t realise she was saying.
Maybe I was trying to forget how Colin had called me ‘baby’. I wasn’t sure I liked it. I didn’t think I’d ever let anyone else call me that. But Colin…
That man was the exception to every rule.
‘I bet you that Colin can’t keep it in.’
I jerked my head up from where I’d been scrolling absently through the PowerFuel feed on my phone to find that Lori had been talking to me.
She was sitting one row in front of me in the swivelling seats.
The TV coverage was on a screen behind the driver’s seat, the riders rolling out of the city at a leisurely pace in a neutralised start.
The helicopter footage sent visceral memories over my skin: handlebar tape under my palms; Lori behind me, getting in the zone while Bonnie and I enjoyed the calm before the storm. Later in the race, we’d give it everything to lend Lori extra speed while she bided her time for an attack.
That was Colin’s job today and I finally realised what Lori had meant with ‘can’t keep it in’. Of course she hadn’t meant anything to do with his sex life. She probably preferred to imagine he didn’t have one, which must have taken an enormous effort, given his boundless swagger.
‘I think the strategy for today is to stay in the peloton, mark the other contenders,’ I replied. Don’t do anything stupid, had been the DS’s words. ‘Except I’m not supposed to tell anyone that. I signed an NDA,’ I continued ruefully.
‘Don’t worry. I’m safe,’ Lori said with an amused smile. ‘I bet between Colin and me and that last crash, you were happy to see the back of Harper-Stacked.’
I’d always assumed Lori was the embodiment of the team: a winner, happy to sacrifice everything. But in that self-deprecating comment, I understood she’d simply been dealing with the pressure her way.
‘I was pretty down after the crash,’ I began, ‘but it still hurt to leave. You’re lucky you still have the team. I didn’t get on a bike at all for a while, I was so upset.’ Until Colin had forced me back on and reminded me there was more to the sport than winning – an unexpectedly mature lesson.
To my surprise, Lori nodded grimly. ‘That’s relatable.
I’m glad we didn’t entirely kill your love of the sport, especially last year when I was a jerk.
’ Her outburst at the Paris-Roubaix came to mind, when she’d dislocated her shoulder and taken out her frustration on her bike – and the rest of the team.
‘I know you had rotten luck last year. I was there. And it was kind of nice to see you had a human side.’