Everything I’d wanted to do since I started my internship.
‘With your knowledge and connections, it would have been perfect for you.’
For all the sheets of paper certifying my education and intelligence, I should have been able to work out what Bill Weekes was talking about.
‘I said I’d do it – I can do it. Please, I’m sure I can.’
He grinned – the kind of smile the recipient wasn’t supposed to share. ‘Good, good. I knew you’d come round. Here’s a file Morgan put together with some of our previous work with the client.’ He pushed a manila folder in my direction and even through the wash of relief, my gut was insisting I’d been played, although understanding was still a luxury Bill obviously thought I didn’t deserve. ‘I understand you requested not to be put on the PowerFuel account or anything cycling-related, but to be honest, your connection to the community is your greatest asset – the main reason we would consider taking you on long-term.’
A tingle skittered from my neck to my hairline. PowerFuel was a manufacturer of carbohydrate gels for endurance sports, the weird little sachets I slurped hours into a race to keep my metabolism functioning despite burning more nutrients than my body could actually replace – Ihadslurped when I’d been the one on the bike with my body pushed past its limits.
Bill was right, I’d asked to stay off cycling accounts – for a better range of experience, I’d claimed, but mainly because of the tingle that was turning into a stab of memory: failure, pain. That last race had been such a disaster I’d vowed never to get back on a bike and I’d kept to it.
Then I realised what Bill was talking about and my breath deserted me.
PowerFuel – July – Europe.Shiiit.
It took me a moment to find my voice. ‘You’re thinking of sending me to the Tour de France.’ The swoop in my stomach wasn’t all dread. The Grande Boucle, the three-week race that had started my own love affair with cycling – televised in the waiting room at my parents’ practice over a long summer when I was 13. It would break my heart to go back, but the prospect of being there again stole my breath with anticipation.
‘“Tour de France”,’ Bill repeated with a mock French accent that made me grimace inwardly. ‘You could be a real asset to the PowerFuel account. Did you ever win anything then?’
‘A handful of races,’ I managed to answer.
‘Pays peanuts, I imagine,’ he mused. ‘Especially for women.’
I hoped my silence implied enough assent for him to leave the subject.
‘But it’s an interesting sport. Lovely scenery and the grassroots aspect makes it intriguing indeed.’
He looked up, as though expecting me to say more, but my heart wasn’t beating properly and, if I didn’t get out of this room soon to emotionally process this development alone, I was going to burst into tears and prove how much I needed the expensive therapy I paid for out of pocket because the crappy insurance I had through this job wouldn’t cover it.
‘If that’s settled, I’ll get the contract drawn up and you can discuss the rest with Morgan.’
I stood to leave, but Bill stopped me before I got halfway to the door. ‘Don’t you have any questions for me?’
Dear God, I was supposed to have questions as well?
‘Don’t you want to know who the talent is? It might be someone you know. Wouldn’t that be a delicious development?’
‘Delicious’ wasn’t exactly how I’d describe anything to do with PowerFuel.
I still said nothing and Bill went on, ‘He wasn’t our first choice, but he’s quite a personality. Not always the most successful, but a crowd favourite – if you can capture the charisma and… play down some of his less redeeming qualities.’
He could have been describing Colin Gallagher, with his ‘less redeeming qualities’. ‘Big personality’ fit, too – bigger even than his quads. Wouldn’t that be a cruel joke—
No, I wasn’t going to imagine that. Bill meant someone else, someone who hadn’t mocked me and pranked me and… I didn’t want to think about what had happened in the hospital after my final race – what hadalmosthappened. Between me and Colin.
My throat closed. Surely my luck wasn’t that rotten?
‘But you’ll know all about that, I’m sure, since he’s on your old team, I understand.’
I groped for the back of the chair I’d just vacated as the enormity of what I’d agreed to washed over me. Even if I clung to the dim possibility that this assignment wasn’t about Colin, Bill was making me go back – to everything I’d lost.
‘The team is Harper-Stacked?’ I hadn’t said those sponsor names in months and they felt like an incantation that brought back everything I’d been trying to move on from. My teammates Lori and Doortje, Bonnie and the other riders – we’d been a kind of family, the feeling all the more powerful because we were so different.
The teamwasLori’s family – her dad was the manager and her brother… Herbrother.
‘Harper-Stacked indeed,’ Bill continued, lacing his fingers over the bulge at his middle.
