Page 84 of Don't Brake My Heart
The chances weren’t good, but no matter how many times I told myself that, my heart leaped and I imagined him doing it, finishing on the podium and proving everyone wrong.
The gap between the peloton and the breakaway ticked downwards along with the kilometres. Two minutes, then 80 seconds, 40, 20. The three riders out front were working hard, shooting along the country roads at 30 miles per hour. Colin’s heart rate was sky-high, setting off all the monitoring equipment.
The race footage was astonishing as the riders approached Guérande, the twisting, curving peloton moving across the haphazard grid of coastal ponds where sea salt crystallised to be harvested, the water a mirror for the afternoon sky and the low rays of the sun.
‘Come on,’ I muttered through gritted teeth, still horrified but now unable to look away, annoyed when the footage switched back to the peloton.
The salt flats disappeared, replaced by red-roofed houses on the outskirts of the town. After navigating a tight turn, the breakaway powered into the curve along the mediaeval city wall, followed by the peloton, mere seconds behind them.
I toppled out of the bus behind Lori and Seb and we all rushed for the finish line. Seb had the footage running on his phone and I stumbled on the cobblestones, my gaze locked on the small screen. He held out an arm for me and I took it without even thanking him.
I couldn’t breathe. The image was striking: Colin and the other two in the foreground with the platoon of riders storming at them in the background. My fingernails digging into my palms, I was wound up so tight, I wondered when I would break. The commentator’s voice grew impassioned as the gap persisted. Any second now—
My phone rang.
The annoying buzz drew my frustrated gaze and I would have silenced it and ignored it, except I caught sight of the name ‘Bill Weekes’ and then I froze. When the big boss called, one didn’t refuse it.
Letting go of Seb, I connected the call. My gaze strayed back to the view of the race, a shot from above showing three vulnerable figures pedalling for their lives, the commentator’s voice tinny over the small speaker.
‘Hi there, Bill. What can I do for you?’
‘Leesa! How’re you doing? Is now a good time?’
I opened my mouth to say no, it really wasn’t, but he continued as though the question had been rhetorical.
‘I wanted to catch you personally before I send this email.’
Those were some of the only words capable of slicing through my distracted haze. The sounds of the admin and support staff milling around the finish line dimmed to background noise. ‘An email?’
‘Yes, in light of the recent stats on the PowerFuel account – and a rather glowing endorsement I received—’
‘Can they hang on for the last 300 m? A heroic effort from the breakaway today. Nearly 150 km alone, draining all of their reserves. To be caught on the finish line? It would be heartbreaking. But it hasn’t happened yet. They’re still out front!’
The commentator’s tone had reached fever pitch. Lori grabbed my arm and tugged me with her as she found a spot with a view of the finish line and there they were, Colin and the other two, small specks in the distance. Just a few more yards—
Bill’s voice was still in my ear. ‘I’ll be sending you a new two-year contract. I’m pleased to offer you the second pay grade already, in recognition of everything you’ve done on this project.’
Contract! A pay rise. I struggled to register everything Bill was saying. There was a sense of relief there, vindication, but also—
Colin was 50 feet from the finish line when it happened. One moment he was up out of his saddle, baring his teeth and throwing everything into a sprint, and the next the peloton swarmed and I lost him from view.
Seb was holding his phone limply, the TV commentary still running.
‘No! At the very last second! That must feel like being run over by a freight train! The peloton absolutely flattened Gallagher, Arnim and Keller. Jonah swallowed by the whale and just as epic. That is bitter! So very bitter. It looks like Archambault might have been the first over the line, followed by De Jong, but it’s going to take a minute to disentangle that finish. What does this mean for Gallagher’s GC chances? What do you think? Fifth or sixth today? But with no time advantage over the peloton and he’s gotta be running close to zero right now.We love to see these battles, but he’s run himself dry before we’ve even reached the mountain stages.’
I fumbled for something to hold onto and found the cool metal of a barrier with some sponsor’s name blazoned on it.
‘Leesa?’ Bill prompted, his voice suddenly sounding an ocean away.
‘Um, that’s wonderful news.’ My voice was all breath and I hoped he interpreted that as excitement.
I was supposed to be excited. I could finally tell my parents I had a real job – and start properly paying off my degrees. I could get a lease on my own place, invite friends around – I couldhavefriends who weren’t teammates or colleagues. I could have a relationship that wasn’t disrupted by distance or training or psychology.
A relationship that wasn’t with Colin Gallagher.
I scanned the chaos at the finish line, men and bikes scattered, groaning and cheers, hugs and confusion. I couldn’t find Colin and Bill kept talking in my ear.
‘I’m glad to hear you’ll be accepting. Now, I’m pushed for time, but I wanted to make sure I spoke to you in person rather than a big fat contract just showing up in your inbox. Take your time to read and then sign on the dotted line – I mean, the online document signing procedure – and send it back when you’re ready. I’ll let you get back to it. Keep up the good work!’
