‘You understand the kind of pressure he’s under,’ Tony continued.
That dragged my attention off my miserable self. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s on form this year. He’s got a real chance at themaillot blanc, if he can drop the tomfoolery and perform. It’s his big chance to step up.’
Tony’s Irish-Australian mangling of the Frenchmaillot blanc, the white jersey for the fastest young rider at the Tour de France, would have amused me if it hadn’t made my insides squeeze. That was a lot of pressure to put on Colin the Clown.
‘Okay,’ I responded thoughtfully, trying to reconcile impishly flirtatious Colin from yesterday afternoon with Tony’s expectations of a young lead rider. ‘The client has set out in a lot of detail what they want from the coverage, which is basically captivating content with a lot of footage of Colin’s butt.’
I nearly choked when Tony’s gaze swerved to me in alarm.
‘The logo on his shorts,’ I said, swallowing a wheeze. ‘I meant the logo.’
‘Of course ya did,’ Tony said with a doubtful smile.
My cheeks were hot, but I prayed Tony wouldn’t think I was blushing for any reason other than my verbal faux pas. It was a fact of life as a rider that we were stamped with logos all over our bodies and the butt-sponsor was one of the most visible.
‘I just meant I won’t need anything hard-hitting. It’s supposed to be entertaining.’
‘Being entertaining isn’t his problem – it’s keeping his head down for a win. We have the chance to attract more lucrative sponsorships for next year, but only if he doesn’t flip out before he’s secured a good finish in the Tour.’
I wanted to clarify what he meant by ‘flip out’, but that was unfortunately clear, especially after Morgan and I had compiled the challenges-and-pitfalls document for this project, containing a meticulous list of Colin’s bad behaviour. After he’d missed out on first in the Australian Nationals this year, he’d stomped onto the team bus and let loose a string of profanities. Of course, the clip had gone viral. His tantrum after a series of mechanicals during his first Paris-Roubaix two years ago had also become legendary – and not in a good way for the sponsors.
It was one of the only times I’d seen a viral video actually censored in order to be shared and ‘Colin Gallagher outburst’ was now the most common search term featuring his name.
‘He puts on a brave face, but he’s not tenacious,’ Tony continued, his voice surprisingly steady, given he was discussing his own son. ‘I’ve seen his power stats. The boy can do it this year – if he wants to, and that’s what worries me. Creating entertainment for a sponsor… I know we have to do this stuff but, if you distract him…’
My hair stood on end as I pictured him sprawling in the chair yesterday, a lazy, teasing grin on his face. Could I distract him as much as he could distract me? Everyone kept saying how well all of this worked out to have me embedded in the team, but I could only see complications, the foremost of which was that I suddenly found him inexplicably attractive. If Bill had known Colin had come to my hospital room pretending to be my boyfriend, he would never have sent me and Tony certainly would be giving me a much sterner lecture right now if he knew everything that had happened that day.
‘We all want Colin to do well,’ I said diplomatically.
‘Except the boy himself,’ Tony grumbled under his breath. ‘We want him towin. He’s got by being a larrikin all these years and I know the sponsors love the attention, but he’s not Peter Fucking Pan. He’s got to grow up now and take some responsibility. The other riders are working for him and we need to see results. Whatever you post, it can’t endanger that.’
With a gulp, I faced the fact that this job was a lot more complex than I’d expected and I was a green intern with more education than expertise. To top it off, I was a quitter who’d never had the psychology to succeed at this sport and I couldn’t afford to let that rub off on Colin.
This was all before I considered what was best for my own career, although I wasn’t feeling much spark for my future in that moment.
‘I understand,’ I assured him solemnly.
His face broke into a grin. ‘Thanks, pet. You always were one we could rely on.’
I forced a smile, although his words were another blow. Sensible. Reliable. A team rider always sacrificing for someone more talented than me. I should have just become a damn doctor, like my parents.
I’d never had much to do with Alan Hargreaves, the men’s DS –directeur sportif, and God forbid anyone said ‘sports director’ instead, even though we were an English-speaking team. I suspected he didn’t even recognise me when he came through the conference room doors, his hand extended.
Wil squeezed my arm in greeting and, before I knew what was happening, Alan thrust a piece of paper and a pen at me,Non-Disclosure Agreementwritten in big letters at the top. I glanced up in alarm.
‘Has this been agreed with the client? I’m supposed to have access.’
Tony’s gentle gaze dimmed. ‘You will have access. This is about certain information you can’t post. It was a condition of the arrangement.’
Alan picked up where he left off. ‘While you’re shadowing his preparation and the competition, you’ll naturally come across sensitive information, so we’ve set out here all the things that are off limits: Colin’s training stats, FTP, watts and all strategy discussions are strictly embargoed. We don’t want the other teams to know how good he’s punching right now. They’ll suspect, but we want to be the underdogs, keep the pressure off him until he can cope.’
Copewas an ominous word.
After signing the rather daunting NDA, I could finally rush to the breakfast room to grab a coffee before the team meeting, where I’d be officially introduced – or re-introduced. But by then my stomach was churning with nerves and the biting Italian coffee jangled straight into my blood.
I’d known some of these guys for years, spending several weeks a year on team training camp together, but it was different now that my career was officially over.
