Pit Lane Persephone

Chapter 9: Seb

Wednesday, September 18 – Barcelona, Spain

I'm alone in the lift as it heads to the hotel's top floor.

There's usually a fortnight between races, but this time I barely had a week at home before I flew to Barcelona for a bunch of pre-race events. It's not like I'm complaining; I know I'm fortunate. Each year, hundreds of guys dream of being just a little bit better than everyone else to get a shot. I've always been at the right place at the right time, showing that much more potential or crossing the finish line that much faster.

From the outside, it may seem glamorous: a different country every two weeks for nine months out of the year with television interviews, your racing number on shirts and hats, and pictures in magazines. But the life of a professional racer is often pretty boring with a strict schedule of tasks, deliverables, and appearances. Yet even that's a small sacrifice compared to its rewards.

At nineteen, I've been to over thirty countries, I have my own apartment, and I have enough name recognition to easily get a job in the entertainment industry if and when I decide to give up riding. Not that retirement is anywhere on my mind. I'm going to conquer all three categories—3Prix down, 2Prix and PrixMoto still to go—in the world federation before I'd consider easing up. Even then, I'd most likely only leave if I had to, whether through firing or injury.

Neither option sounds pleasant, and both could occur at almost any time. Of all the perks of being a world champion, job security still isn't one of them. Only being the best matters and as soon as you can't deliver, someone else is waiting to take your place.

The cab jerks to a stop and I step out before turning left to follow the signs to the GIMNASIO. For a random Wednesday in mid-September, the workout room is busy thanks to all the racers staying here. Spotting Milan Mraz from the Vasteras team leaving one of the treadmills, I grab a fluffy, white towel and take the spot before someone else jumps on.

The machine is near the back wall along with some ellipticals and has a good view of the space. There's a nice variety of strength and conditioning equipment, as well as free weights. Past them, a long, glass wall looks out at the rooftop pool. There are over a dozen guys inside working out, but outside there are just three girls, soaking up the sun. I don't spend time trying to figure out which of the WAGs are out there. It doesn't matter to me either way.

The summer's latest—and already overplayed—electro-pop anthem blares through the speakers and while it's not bad, it gets distorted with the conversations happening all at once. I should have brought my own music. At least the rhythmic thumping sets a good pace to run. I start up the treadmill and settle into a steady jog.

"How is Austin?" The clank of a barbell being lowered back onto its stand follows the unexpected question. I turn my head just as Dai sits up on the bench.

"I do not know," I say, lowering my eyes back to the digital screen.

"You're not staying in touch?" Gareth asks from the machine beside me.

I press a button to increase the speed. Forced to move faster, my feet strike a constant beat with each repetition. "No."

Diego lays his towel down and takes Dai's spot. "Why would he? With Harris out, Seb now at least has a chance at winning this year," he says, lowering himself under the metal bar for the bench press.

"That is true for many of us," I huff as I try to keep my breathing even.

"Except for Luca." Dai—spotting for his teammate from behind the bench—nods toward the Italian who is working on bicep curls at another station. "He could not win if you tied rockets to his bike."

Everyone within earshot laughs, while Luca throws Dai the bird with his free hand.

"Or your new teammate," Diego adds as he takes the weight off the stand and lowers the bar to his chest. "You're lucky Cadmium got someone who is very pretty, but not too fast."

Is coming to Lauren's defense is worth it? She can take care of herself. Hell, she'd probably get mad at me for fighting her battles. The guys are just messing around anyway, seeing who can talk up a better game and rile the other up the quickest. But the smug look on Diego's face bothers me more than usual. I can't let it go completely. "She is a good rider," I say.

Diego does three more reps before stowing the barbell and sitting up again. "She is good for a girl, yes. But she will never be as good as us." He wipes his face with the towel. "Especially if she is too lazy to work for it."

This catches me off guard and I slow down, forgetting I'm on a moving belt. Only my quick reflexes keep me from crashing to the floor.

"Lazy?" I ask, returning to a proper pace again while holding back a variety of expletives that flood my head. Lauren can easily be called many things—uptight, emotional, and impulsive come to mind—but lazy is one thing that has never occurred to me.

"Why did she arrive late and then leave early yesterday?" The Spaniard shrugs his shoulders before extending his arms and looking around. "Or where is she now?"

I could answer both questions easily with the added bonus of making Diego Martin look like a fool at the same time. I could reveal how Lauren's flight from America was delayed by six hours and she had rushed directly from the airport to the children's hospital where we were already visiting with the sick kids, trying to brighten up their day while getting a few photos in the papers. I also could mention that she felt so guilty about missing a large portion of the tour, she'd backtracked and sat with several young patients, privately reading them books instead of attending the cocktail reception thrown in our honor. And I certainly could tell Diego that I'd seen her in the lobby this morning on my way to breakfast already returning from her usual run and that she's probably avoiding the fitness room just so she wouldn't have to subject herself to the likes of the present company.

Lauren's actions at the hospital aren't my business to reveal. And before I can decide how best to phrase the rest—I do, after all, consider these guys friends even if they can be sexist oafs—my teammate appears outside the window.

"Look. Look." Josh Peters, a PrixMoto rider also staying here, nudges the guys next to him as she walks out through a side door to the pool. Like a group of dogs, the others turn their heads and watch her pass by the bikini-wearing girls lying side-by-side. But instead of joining them, she waves hello and chooses a plastic lounger on the other end. When she pulls her sundress over her head revealing a tiny, blue bikini on her toned but curvy body, the pack around me grunts.

"I do not lie when I say this, but I'd tap that," Diego says as he stares out the window.

"You'd tap that?" Reid asks. "Who do you think you are? Fucking French Montana?"

Everyone except Diego laughs. Even I can't hide my amusement. "Of course you would, Martin. She is a girl and she has a pulse," I say, trying to maintain my even breathing. Between the sight of my really hot teammate wearing practically nothing, making fun of the Spaniard, and still running at fourteen kilometers per hour, it isn't easy.

Diego smirks. "I was still right. See? She is not only lazy, but rude, too. Thinks she is better than all of us, even the girls."

I roll my eyes at Diego's expertise at sandwiching comments about arousal between two insults all aimed at the same person. No wonder he prefers hook-ups to relationships. But given my own last six months, I'm in no position to make judgments.

"Corinne tells me she invited Lauren with them to the beauty salon to get ready for tonight and she say no," Luca says.

"Why does that matter? She does what she wants. Who cares?" I hop off the treadmill. I've had enough. These guys are worse than old ladies when it comes to gossip. I'll come back later when the place is less crowded.

Switching off the machine, I drape the towel around my neck and head out of the gym. I have to email Nando about new merchandise for my website and return a call from a promoter in Ibiza anyway.