He said it with a shrug, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his tracksuit pants and I was annoyed that my stomach flipped as though he’d asked me out on a date, as though I couldn’t tell the difference between a date and a dare. I didn’t want either.
‘I’d be worried you’d leave me behind with only a bivouac bag and a can of beans,’ I responded drily. ‘I haven’t been on a bike outdoors since I broke my arm, so you won’t want to take me on a ride anyway. I’ll stick to the team car when I need footage.’
‘What? You mean you quit cycling altogether and not just pro? You don’t even ride a beater down to the shops?’
‘Did you miss the part where I moved to LA? I’d rather not be mowed down by a Mack truck before my thirtieth birthday.’ I paused to wince. ‘God, I sound like my mom.’
‘She worries about you?’
‘Shedisapprovesof my hobby.’
He opened his mouth, but appeared to consider his words for once. ‘It wasn’t a hobby.’
‘Mom always treated it like one,’ I said with a shrug. ‘Plus, I needed to sell my bikes for the security deposit on my sublet. So, yeah, no more riding.’
He thumped a hand to his chest in mock horror. ‘Not your bikes!’ Possibly it was real horror.
‘They would have been stolen anyway if I’d been sleeping on the street,’ I pointed out with a straight face, enjoying his alarmed expression. ‘Don’t worry, I would have gone begging to my parents before I ended up on Skid Row and they probably would have helped me without a lecture for once, since I’ve finally done what they’ve been telling me to do for ten years now: I quit cycling. I’m working on getting a real job, one that might actually pay the bills – one day. No more self-indulgent failure-porn on two wheels.’
It appeared I’d managed to shock Colin Gallagher into silence as he didn’t even drawl a teasing retort. I might have preferred one to the stormy look he was giving me.
It wasn’t enough to stop me speaking now that I was on a roll. ‘It just sucks that my first real job is…you.’
I forced a breath into my lungs, not sure if I felt better or worse for having blurted all of that out. Decidedly worse the longer Colin remained silent next to me. He swallowed audibly and, when I glanced at him, he was staring into the distance.
‘Yeah, I’m… sorry about that,’ he said slowly, his voice gravelly. ‘Rough gig.’
‘I don’t mean it personally,’ I clarified in a rush, but the doubtful look he shot me suggested he smelled the platitude.
‘It’s all right, Leesa. We all know the orange PowerFuel gels taste like cat piss. That should probably be the name of the flavour. And I know what you think of me.’
His words caught me in the chest. I wasn’t so certain myself these days. When he walked so pensively beside me, the wind in his hair, I wasn’t thinking of him as my young, inane teammate from six years of training camps.
‘I didn’t want to get involved with the clients in cycling at all,’ I explained, not sure if I wanted to reassure him or simply defend myself. ‘But my boss made it pretty clear: this is my only chance to be offered a proper job at the firm.’
His face twitched with a grimace. ‘You used to make great stuff for your own social feed.’
I gave a snort, trying not to dwell on the fact that Colin must have looked at my socials. I’d been tempted to take the posts down so many times.
‘Why don’t you want to keep doing that for cycling teams? You’d be brilliant. You know what I think?’ he said suddenly, his combative tone lifting the pressure off my chest. ‘I think you’re scared you’ll want to get back on the bike.’
‘Of course I’m scared of that!’
‘Then just get back on the bike. You were a work of fucking art on a bike.’
It was his turn to shutmeup. He shot me a glance that ricocheted down my body and quickly away again.
‘Although that dress you had on this morning was nice too.’
A rush of prickles to my hairline felt like some kind of warning. ‘Don’t overdo it, Colin,’ I drawled. ‘I kept my stationary bike and tapered training, but my metabolism still hates me and I would not dare to wear a jersey and bib shorts any more.’
He had the guts to look me up and down more thoroughly. ‘Maybe you’re a little squishier in places.’
‘Colin!’ I spluttered, flinging my hands up.
He grasped my arm, more gently than I would have expected. ‘It’s a good thing,’ he insisted. ‘You were always hot and…’
My brain insisted he was pulling my leg, but my body responded with a full-on flare-up, his words dragging over my skin. The brush of his thumb over my forearm was almost unbearable. His mouth moved as he searched for more words and all I could think about was what he’d do if I lurched in and took the silly moustache for a ride.
