by Robin Lovett
“What else are you doing over there?” she shouts.
Four minutes left on the timer. I have to think of something to say. “A team of professional cyclists has been visiting my café.” Not sure why I say it.
“Professional cyclists?” she shouts with disdain, like it’s a disease. “They make money riding bikes? French people are crazy.”
“There are Americans on the team, actually.”
“Oh. Did you hear Maria got a scholarship to dental school?”
My mother drains the last three minutes with tales of all my cousins, and the children of family friends who they call my cousins. Though I’m grateful she doesn’t pester me about finding a hospital internship when I get home. It’s a thing with my family—I’m supposed to go to medical school. Part of the reason my parents emigrated to the US was so any children they had could go to the best ones.
Add to my situation that I’m an only child, me going to graduate school for French is a laughable goal overwritten by “that’s never going to happen”.
Chapter Nine
Finishing my weekly trip to the bibliothéque, the library, there’s nothing else to deter me from my insane urge to stalk Braker.
The morning rain clears, leaving the sky washed in blue. La Promenade des Anglais sera parfait! The Promenade will be perfect. I’d be going down there anyway. It’s not just to see Braker. I don’t think.
On the way to the tram stop near the school, I pass the bar where I met Paul and his friends before Mardi Gras. It’s overflowing with people. I peep in the windows.
A crowd huddles around a TV.
A bike race flies across the screen. With riders in blue in the lead.
I hustle through the door and squeeze between people.
An aerial shot shows a massive group of more than fifty cyclists riding through the French countryside. The train of bicycles moves in communion like a school of multi-colored fish, spilling down the road like water over rapids. The scenery, the hills and valleys of picturesque Provence, wrap the race in beauty.
I wander closer, drawn to the screens.
“These tricky descents are a ripe place for crashes,” the TV announcer says in French. “And with the American sprinter Terrence Braker off the front, the main group is getting very nervous.”
Braker hunkers over his handlebars, and his legs spin in a blurring circular rotation. The riders thin into a long line and round a U-shaped turn so fast they could careen off the edge.
But not only does Braker make the corner, he stands in his pedals and passes two others.
“And there he goes! With his teammate Gary Ransome on his wheel! Oh, I tell you, those two make for the most unstoppable team in cycling. Unless one of them cracks, none of the other teams will stand a chance at victory today.”
“That’s right. They’ll draft off each other all the way into Nice. A perfect strategy for the infamous ‘Terror’ to steal a win on the Promenade des Anglais this afternoon.”
I can’t believe I didn’t know about this.
The TV says, “After eight days of racing that began in Paris, the final finish is just hours away.”
That’s why they haven’t been to the café. They were racing.
“Aurélie?” a voice says in my ear. Paul stands beside me. I didn’t notice him. “Hello.”
“Hi.” I struggle to look away from the race, until the coverage breaks to a commercial.
“You decided to come out, huh?” he asks.
“Are you here for the bike race?”
“Yes,” says another guy, one of Paul’s friends from Mardi Gras. “The whole town will be, how you say, ‘going crazy’ tonight.”
The race announcers return. “We’re back for more coverage of the Paris-Nice Tour, the Race to the Sun.”
The aerial view sweeps over the sparkling Mediterranean. It shows the Promenade des Anglais lined with cheering fans near a finishing banner, and the grand villas of the Côte d’Azur dotting the blue coast of the French Riviera.
“Braker’s early lead is no real surprise. This young man, at only twenty-three years of age, is proving to be one of the fastest men on two wheels.”
There’s another close-up of Braker and, as though he can hear the announcers, he turns to the camera and winks.
It’s so cliché, but—I love it.
Gary speeds ahead, and as he passes, Braker pushes him, his hand on Gary’s butt.
I lean closer.
Braker falls into Gary’s slipstream, charging in his pedals. His magnificent legs spinning, the muscles straining under the spandex covering his thighs, and the smooth skin of his glistening calves.
I’ve never seen a guy’s legs so smooth.
The skin waxes golden in the sun and pulls taut over the bulging sinews. They’re definitely shaved, waxed, something, but it looks—good. His narrow hips rock in the saddle. A brutal determination shines from his eyes. A single-minded focus that I want directed at me.
His expression leaves no doubt: he’s going to win today, and I pity anyone who tries to beat him.
“With these boys speeding at sixty kilometers per hour,” the announcer says, “we should expect them at the finish line within the hour.”
I have to see it. I have to see Braker win.
I slap my palms on the bar. “Let’s go watch the finish!”
Paul laughs. “That’s what we were saying.”
“Oh.”
“Do you think it’s too late to get down there?”
Paul’s friend says in halting English, “Is worth try.”
Outside the bar, the rotor of the TV helicopter echoes in the air. As I ride the tram with Paul and his friends downtown, he reads us the live race feed from his phone. “The peloton caught the breakaway.”
“Peloton?”
“The main group of riders caught the Americans at the front.” I hardly notice that he’s switched from English and is speaking French to me for the first time.
I try not to react. I don’t want to explain to Paul my interest in Braker.
His legs moving on that bike, his body like a machine. A very hard, very chiseled machine. He moves with such power, I—I—
He’s doing it to me again, and I’m not even looking at him this time.
The tram arrives on the Promenade, the sea reflecting the sun in blinding azure, and I’m frantic for a very different reason than last time at Carnival. I can’t get into the thick of the party fast enough. I don’t care that I swore I would never hang out with Paul and his friends again. By my watch, we only have fifteen minutes until the finish.
“We have to hurry or we’ll miss it.” I skip onto the sidewalk.
“You are excited,” Paul says.
I am, probably more so than he’s ever seen me.
“Allez!” Paul points down the street and flashes me a luminous smile.
I’m startled a moment but follow after him. He’s not being condescending now; he’s excited that I’m excited. But all I can feel is my lungs fluttering with anticipation that has nothing to do with the French guy I’m following and everything to do with the American bike rider I can’t wait to see. I have a crush on a guy. More than a crush. The fastest cyclist on the pro racing circuit is into me!
The words of the French announcers clarify over the tapping of my sneakers on the sidewalk. “…only five kilometers from the finish. They’re just coming into view, folks!”
When the crowd thickens, Paul stops alongside aluminum barriers. “We may not be able to see if we go farther,” he says. “Too many people.”
I lean over the barrier and see the broad finishing arch across the avenue. We won’t see “The Terror” roaring across the line, but it’s better than not at all. The rest of our group crushes behind us against the barrier. The approaching riders in the distance are a group of shifting
gray dots.
The announcing speakers blare from the finish line. “Can ‘The Terror’ and his BG team still pull off the win? He and Ransome wasted a lot of energy on that breakaway only to have the other riders catch them.”
“Other powerful sprinters are biting his heels: Klaus Grabe from Germany and France’s own Maxime Besnier.”
Cool and cocky, easy and indefatigable Terrence Braker losing a race—doesn’t seem possible.
But it must be.
The announcers increase in volume and fervor. The riders no longer gray, I can see blue jerseys at the front, and I bounce on my heels. “They’re in the lead. He’s going to win!”
“Who?” Paul asks.
Oh, shit. “Uh—the American, of course.”
“Yes,” Paul says in my ear. “I want the French to win.”
They’re coming fast, the riders growing larger at an alarming rate.
The announcer shouts, “BG begins the lead-out train for their sprinter. The brown jerseys of the French team come up the outside. The lone red jersey of Klaus Grabe drafts off Braker’s wheel, waiting to slingshot around him and steal the win.”
They approach like a swarm of bees, the whirring buzz of spinning wheels and clicking gears filling the air. In two blinks, they ride past: riders in blue, riders in brown, a rainbow of jerseys. Then they’re gone.
I crane my neck to look up the road.
The announcers shout so fast I strain to translate. “It’s Gary Ransome driving to the line! Braker on his wheel, followed by Grabe. Besnier passes on the outside, but he’s gone too early. Ransome falls off the back, and there’s the famous kick: Terror Braker’s out of the saddle! Klaus is on his wheel. He lurches, tries to pass, but he’s too late. No one can break him! It’s THEE TERRREURRRR FOR THE WIIIN!”
“Yes!” I jump and clap my hands.
Paul puts his face in front of mine. “Good race, oui?”
“Yes.” I put a hand on my chest, struggling to think. “That was—oui, yeah. Really good.”
“I didn’t know American girls liked cycling.” He eyes me like I’m a cute fascination.
“Yeah. I’m not normal.”
“You want to see the podium awards?”
“Yes,” I blurt. I need to calm down before I embarrass myself, but I haven’t been this enthused about anything in a long time.
We sidle through the thick crowds to a tented stage with a podium and a giant Jumbotron replaying Braker’s win.
At first all I see is Gary, riding straight at the camera. Then, in perfect synch, Gary leans left, Braker pulls right. He attacks on the balls of his feet in an aerodynamic crouch, straight like an arrow to the finish.
He never looks back.
The German flounders behind him in a futile struggle, unable to match Braker’s agility or sheer will. Though he’s bigger than Braker; his shoulders spread wider and higher, even from behind. The Grabe guy is a hulk, yet Braker beat him. Most people are taller than me at five foot, zero inches. I’ve never thought about how tall Braker is.
“TERREUUR BRAKEUURRRR!” The French announcer yells his name with a thick accent. I push closer to the stage, but I’m too short to see through the people.
“Ici!” Paul says, and helps me scramble onto a concrete barrier.
“Merci.” I stand on the stone shelf.
Pop music blasts through the speakers, and Braker enters in his spandex team kit. Soft sneakers change his walk from the hard-bottomed cycling shoe swagger. He glides like mere walking is too easy for him, as though moving minus his two-wheeled machine is amusing.
He steps on the podium, arms in the air, and sees me, standing on the barrier, visible above everyone. His eyes widen, brighten, and he flashes me a big, toothy grin.
I wait for him to look away, but he doesn’t.
Two razor-thin female models wearing dresses, hemmed to expose leg, stand on either side of him. In their four-inch stilettos, they’re as tall as Braker, even though he’s standing on a six-inch podium.
He holds a trophy in one hand and a bouquet of flowers. Like it’s a planned dance, he bends at the waist and thrusts his chin out, inviting the models to kiss his cheeks. Both do. At the same time. And pose there.
Cameras flash and I gasp. It’s so archaic, sexist. Two women dressed up like trophies give kisses to the winner, their lips frozen on his cheeks.
Braker stares at me and humor lasers from his eyes. His mouth curves, his dimple hidden behind the lips of a model.
He winks at me.
My cheeks catch fire. They blaze so hot that the heat spreads to my neck, down my spine and into my belly.
The models back away, one holding the trophy for him. Then he arches his arm with the bouquet and launches the flowers, straight at me.
They smack me in the chest, and my arms snap up to catch them.
My nose is ensconced in blooms. I’ve never held such a large bouquet before. He threw me flowers, like a backwards bride thing.
Paul tugs on my sleeve with a skeptical look. “Do you know him?”
He and his friends eye me with confusion and curiosity. Embarrassed to be holding such an extravagant thing, I hand the flowers to the girl standing beside Paul. “Want to see?”
She takes them gladly.
On the stage, Braker cradles a bottle of champagne as big as his arm. He shakes it and holds it against his hip while he twists off the cork.
It pops and creamy white fizz spews out the top. It arches in the air. Then, using his thumb over the nozzle, he lifts the bottle high, spraying the crowd with champagne.
The mischievous glee on his face astonishes me.
It’s so crude that I cringe and close my eyes. I don’t know why it bothers me. It’s like I’m watching something I shouldn’t. But I want to see it. I love the triumphant look on his face, like he could dance around us on his fingertips if he wanted. He’s wooed the crowd into his hand, and now he’s playing games with us and loving it.
Or maybe it’s just me he’s done that to.
He takes the champagne, holds the massive bottle to his lips and pours it into his mouth. I watch his lips wrap the bottle top, and his throat works and swallows the bubbly.
Seeing him do that makes me dizzy, and I crouch to my knees.
“Aurélie.” Paul puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I slip back to the ground and lean against the barrier a little longer, a little woozy from the show.
“I think you know him,” Paul says. “Are you friends with this Terror?”
I sputter a cough. “His name is Terrence.”
Chapter Ten
A thrill runs down my spine at saying his name. Terrence. His real one on my tongue, while everyone else calls him his race name, feels like an intimate thing. Like I know him better than any of these other people.
Racers on bikes weave between the spectators. A BG rider approaches us.
“Aurelia.” It’s Gary, his helmet shadowing his face. “Did you enjoy the race?”
“Yeah.”
His mouth quirks when he sees the other girl holding my flowers. “You should come to the party. And bring your friends.”
“Party?”
“Where?” Paul says.
Gary mentions the address, and Paul’s eyes narrow. “We have no car.”
“Start walking up the road. Somebody will pick you up.” Gary rolls his bike closer to me. “He asked me to invite you.”
When Gary is gone, Paul and his friends laugh.
“How do you know him?” the girl with my flowers asks.
“I met him at a café.”
“You must have more than ‘met’ him.” Paul nudges me.
I would normally retreat in embarrassment, like at Mardi Gras, but I want to go to this party. “Which way, Paul?
”
“We can take the tram for a while, but then we will walk and hope like he said that ‘someone picks us up’.”
The sun descends behind us on our tram ride, and by the time we reach the final stop, no sunlight reaches the street surface.
“We have to teach in the morning,” I say. “We can’t stay late.”
Paul points at the luxury villas lining the steep road. “I think this may be a party worth losing sleep for.”
Two cars stop beside us, and a Cockney accent says from a window, “Come on then, Frenchie. Get in.” It’s Beanpole.
Our group crams into the vehicles. My hips jammed between his and the door, I say, “I don’t know your name.”
“Ralph.”
“Rafe?”
“You Yanks would say RELLLLF.” The ‘L’ is so fat on his tongue that I laugh.
We ascend the winding road, and go down a long driveway to a house framed by sandstone Corinthian columns and cultivated shrubbery.
Inside, it’s a palace. The ceilings soar with moldings and frescos in a Renaissance style. It’s old and lavish.
“For someone who doesn’t know how to have fun, you are full of surprises.” Paul elbows me playfully.
I wander the grand space, sipping fine champagne and mingling with guests. I guess meeting an American boy in my café wasn’t so un-French after all.
An hour or more goes by, but I feel like the party hasn’t started. I’ve checked every corner for Braker—er, Terrence—for that dimple and those narrow hips in those tight jeans.
I spot Ralph again and tap him on the shoulder. “Where’s Terrence?”
He sticks out his tongue. “Wanker had trouble with the winner’s doping tests.”
My breath catches. “As in he didn’t pass?”
“Nah, Frenchie. He just couldn’t take a piss.”
“Oh.”
He laughs and so do I. “Poor guy was so dehydrated, they made him wait around until he could do it. Don’t worry. He’ll be here soon.”
I follow the sounds of the sea onto a broad terrace. I expect a chill, but warm heaters dot the granite deck. The horizon across the water still has a sliver of peach from the sunset.
