Ohhh, shit.I did not just think that.
Now was not the time to remember his rasping tone as he’d insisted my departure was going to kill him. Such melodramatic hyperbole. But he hadn’t even given me the option of staying, which showed that under all the stuff I’d started to fall in love with, he was still an emotionally illiterate dickhead.
A dickhead who was letting this tension between us affect his performance.
When we arrived at the windswept mountaintop where today’s stage would finish, I was confronted by the more immediate problem: Colin still had the rest of the Tour to survive – and so did I.
Colin
All my life, I’d found distractions – more often created them – to keep my mind off the blinding pressure of expectations everyone had for my sporting career. I’d never imagined that racing the Tour de France could be a decent distraction for something else that was upsetting me even more than the prospect of failure. I would never have imagined there’d be a day when I wouldn’t want to see Leesa Kubicka.
Dad’s dressing-down after the ill-fated breakaway hadn’t been as awful as I’d expected, probably because I’d only been half-listening as the rest of my brain tried to process the fact that Leesa was able to blissfully anticipate moving on from me.
He’d told me all the usual stuff: the lead rider had to stick to strategy; save your strength; hold your nerve; blah blah blah. I knew what he truly wanted to say: don’t be such a bloody idiot. He didn’t need to say it, since I had that bit covered. No one wanted me to be a hero.
I had the legs of a 70-year-old when we lined up for the first mountain stage on the winding roads of the Pyrenees, a thought that amused me, considering I apparently had the brain of a 12-year-old. Nellie certainly babysat me in the peloton as though I were five. He probably regretted listening to me when I told him to go for the breakaway. It wasn’t the first terrible idea I’d had.
As the day wore on, I thought of just following my front wheel off into the distance so I’d never have to cross the finish line and walk past her, feeling the furtive glances she thought I didn’t notice. I noticedeverything. She should have known that by now.
I didn’t even know what I should do to defuse the situation, when I’d probably say the wrong thing and set it all on fire again. I should stay well away from her, even when I was pulled in two, part of me wanting to talk everything through with her and part of me hurting too much to contemplate it, when she’d be gone again in a few short weeks.
My disappointment about her contract didn’t make sense. I’d never expected anything different. But then I’d never expected her to want to be close to me at all. I should have quit while I was ahead, even though that ‘Q’ word gave me hives. Too many years of sports psychology and I was imagining I could train enough to make her stay.
There was something in that sports psychology idea though. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it – probably something to do with the haze in my brain as my muscles produced some serious watts on a hardcore climb. Everything hurt; my recovery had been insufficient. But I didn’t mind the pain. It numbed everything else.
I heaved myself up the summit finish at Hautacam to the blur of colourful supporters and the taste of sweat, and crossed the line in sixth place – somehow my best finish of the Tour, although far from impressive. Looking at the guys around me, I suspected I’d made up a bit of time for the General Classification and the white jersey.
Fine. It would make Dad happy.
I had a camera shoved in my face with the logo of an Australian TV channel. Surely they were sick of me drawling nothing in particular in the aftermath of a lukewarm performance. The highest-placed Australian and I couldn’t inspire a toddler on a balance bike right now.
To think I’d had the guts to try to inspire Leesa. I didn’t have a bloody thing to offer her.
I almost wished I’d raced poorly that day rather than having to accept the back-slapping and cheers from my teammates for the rest of the evening. Turned out I was top ten after that punishing climb. I just wished I knew what Leesa was feeling.
Which was why I found myself swerving away from the others the next morning at breakfast to plonk into the seat opposite Wil.
‘Is she okay?’ I blurted out.
Wil gave me a doubtful look. ‘If you have to ask me that, I’m guessing you did something you need to make up for.’
I ignored her comment. ‘Did she sign the contract?’ It wouldn’t make much difference, since I would force her to pick up the pen myself if she didn’t sign, but my brain was snagging on thoughts about crossing the finish line of our relationship. We weren’t there yet.
‘Shouldn’t you be asking her this?’
‘I don’t think she wants to see me. I was a bit too… blunt when she told me about the contract.’
‘You mean you made this all about you instead of about her?’ Wil patted me on the hand in a motherly gesture. ‘I’m keeping an eye on her, don’t worry. You need to focus.’
‘If one more person tells me to focus, I’m going to—’ I wisely cut myself off. ‘I’m well aware prioritising anything other than the Tour de France right now would make me a bloody idiot.’
A low cough behind me made me jump and I turned and jumped again when I saw her. Christ, she was too beautiful to sneak up on me like that, wearing the kit I’d bought for her at the training camp, looking like every wet dream I’d had when I was 19.
I opened my mouth, but I couldn’t speak, as though I had verbal constipation. The way my belly was churning did make me wonder if loving someone was a bit like a stomach bug. With heartburn. Or maybe I just needed to see the team doctor and take a bit of everything to get me through this one moment of looking at Leesa andnottelling her how she made me feel.
‘Um, I was hoping to talk to Wil, if you’re done.’
I reared up to standing, stumbling because my nervous system wasn’t responding adequately to my commands. It had been like this since the moment I’d first seen her, only it seemed to be getting worse.
