The Right Direction

Fenna saw her name on the fourth line and checked the heading to be sure. Not a provisional result. These were the times for all eight women. Fourth, and close enough that she needn't immediately start inventing a story about a headwind. There was no headwind indoors. She had other stories for indoors, but today she didn't need them.

Madelon came to stand beside her. Her jacket hung open over her skinsuit and she was wearing one glove. 'Well. This is going to be awkward for you.'

'What is?'

'You'll actually have to look pleased for once.'

Fenna bared her teeth.

'Stop that. You'll frighten the woman in fifth.'

She walked back with Madelon to their spot in the track centre. The wood of the Apeldoorn track shone under the lights; somewhere high in the hall, a string of flags tapped against a pole. The people with their bags and boxes were arranged differently today from training. Little islands of jackets, wheels, familiar faces making themselves at home at a race. Fenna found her towel under Gita's chair. Her coach moved her foot before she could reach for it.

'Fourth,' said Gita. 'Now let's make sure you don't spend the whole afternoon riding that two hundred metres again.'

Fenna sat down. Her legs felt good. That made waiting difficult: she wanted to keep the warmth, the hard, satisfying sense that her body could give her what she asked of it. She also wanted a pee, something to eat, and to know where Marten was. He'd said he would come in the afternoon. His own scratch race was tomorrow. For him this was a Saturday without a race; for her there could still be a long afternoon ahead.

She picked up her phone. He'd sent a photograph of the back of a sign, showing nothing but two mounting brackets. I'm in the car park. Excellent signposting here.

She typed that he should try the side with the letters on it. Then she put the phone away without checking whether he found that funny. She ought to be capable of this: being pleased he was coming, and still thinking about the woman she was about to race.

Her quarter-final opponent had qualified fifth. Fenna knew her from earlier track meetings, a rider who didn't get impatient easily. At the start the woman glanced at her and nodded. Fenna nodded back. The official sent them off with a whistle. Three laps. Suddenly everything beyond that narrow stretch of track was far away.

Fenna could hear her own breathing too loudly, as she always did when she was trying to listen to someone else. Neither of them gave much away in the first lap. She could hear the other bike behind her and knew how closely the woman was watching her. A brief glance was enough. Fenna tended to take waiting as an instruction to get on and do something.

This time she let the discomfort last a little. When the speed increased, she was there. The bell for the last lap sounded sharper than she'd expected. Her opponent moved out. Fenna saw the front wheel beside her, the shoe appearing at the same angle again and again. She held her own line. The finish arrived before her mind had reached a verdict.

She rode on and looked for the result. Her number. Through.

The exhilaration only came once she was off the bike. She wanted to hug Gita and almost did, but her coach held a bottle in front of her as though she had experience of such situations. Fenna took it.

'That was better,' said Gita.

'I thought so too.'

'I don't just mean the result.'

'I do, right now.'

Gita smiled. 'Enjoy it for five minutes.'

Marten was standing behind her chair. His hands were in his pockets, and he was looking at her so openly that she became abruptly aware of how sweaty she was. After all these weeks it could hardly surprise him. She wiped her forehead before greeting him anyway.

'Looked fast,' he said.

'That's generally the idea here.'

'Glad you mentioned it. I had something quite different planned for tomorrow.'

He bent to kiss her, briefly, right there among the kit bags. She wanted to put a hand behind his neck and keep him there. Instead she touched his wrist. The skin above his collar was still cold from outside.

'You're here,' she said.

'I did say I was coming.'

'Yes.' She took a drink. It had been a stupid thing to say, and exactly the right thing. He was here. She didn't have to add anything clever.

She faced Saskia van Dam in the semi-final. Fastest time of the day, and Saskia was wandering about as if she'd only just decided she might do a bit of cycling too. She was sitting on a bench tying her hair back again when Fenna passed.

'Good ride,' said Saskia.

Fenna wanted to say something equally casual. Given the results, 'You too' sounded like a teacher making sure everyone got a turn. She said it anyway. Saskia smiled and asked whether Fenna also found the waiting got longer when things were going well.

'Everything takes longer when I'm waiting.'

'Fair point.' Saskia tightened the last loop round her hair. 'See you out there.'

She lost the first heat of the semi-final by enough to rule out an argument over the finish photograph. The worst part was feeling where it went wrong as it happened and being unable to undo it. She'd seen Saskia accelerate, gone a fraction too late, and spent the rest of the lap trying to wipe out that fraction. By the end it had grown.

For the second heat she resolved not to let the first dictate her ride. Yet it came back as soon as she saw Saskia ahead. She grew cautious in a way that did her little good. By the time she dared do something, Saskia had already made her move. Two–nil to Saskia. The result was clear; the anger would take longer.

She stayed in her chair with the bottle between her knees. Gita let her describe what she'd done. The first part came out too fast, as though her coach might otherwise think she hadn't noticed anything herself. Halfway through she stopped.

'I can hear myself doing it.'

'What?'

'Explaining that I actually can ride.'

Gita pointed her pen at the bottle. 'You've got the bronze match coming up. You can use what you've just noticed there.'

Fenna screwed the cap on. She didn't want a sensible conversation about a worthwhile afternoon. She wanted another go at Saskia, and to win this time. But Saskia was racing for gold and she wasn't. That wasn't unfair. It was worse: it was right.

Marten only sat beside her once Gita was talking to the organisers. His knee touched hers. She looked at their legs, his jeans and her bare thighs below the edge of her skinsuit. A man with a broom tried to get behind their chairs. Marten shifted over, bringing his knee closer still.

'I don't want to hear how well I've done,' she said.

'Good. I was going to ask whether that bar next to you was going spare.'

She picked it up and gave him half. 'You only get the small bit.'

He examined the uneven break. 'It's a surprisingly harsh world.'

She watched his mouth as he ate. It was utterly inappropriate to be chiefly wondering what it would feel like if he pressed her against the kitchen cupboards. It had nothing to do with losing her semi-final, and perhaps everything to do with how keenly aware of her body she still was. She didn't just want to sit politely waiting for her next heat.

'I'm up again soon,' she said.

'I'm not on your bike.'

'Just as well.'

He rested his hand on her thigh, above the knee. Not encouragement, not checking a muscle. Just his hand. She put hers over it. When Gita came back, they both moved their hands with the speed of two people concealing something everyone could already see.

For bronze she rode against the other losing semi-finalist. Fenna had no desire left to be satisfied with almost. In the first heat she stayed calm enough not to try to put everything right at once. She won. Then it got harder, because a one-heat lead had suddenly become something she could lose. In the second her opponent stayed beside her longer than Fenna liked. She held on all the way to the line, then had to wait for the official to indicate the result.

Two–nil. Third. She rode another lap without trying to look serious.

Madelon was clapping beside their bags, still wearing her one glove. This time Gita lowered her bottle when Fenna approached. It wasn't much of a hug, more two arms and a bicycle getting in the way. Fenna laughed against her coach's shoulder. She suddenly felt how tired she was.

During the brief medal presentation she didn't look at Marten. She wanted to remember it from where she stood: her feet on the little podium, the weight of the small medal on its ribbon, Saskia pulling a jumper over her skinsuit beside her and getting the neck caught by her ear. Fenna helped pull it down. Saskia thanked her and asked where the photographer was. So winning could look this ordinary too.

Later, by her car, Fenna held the medal up in front of Marten's face. 'You're allowed to touch this one.'

'Can I wear it too?'

'Then one of the organisers will come after you.'

He let the disc slide over his fingers and handed it back. She put it in the side pocket of her bag, where it tapped against her car key. She didn't want to drive home alone. Before she asked, she knew she'd be upset if he said he needed to rest. He had to race tomorrow. Of course he was allowed to want his own evening.

'Will you come over after dinner?' she asked. 'Or I could come to yours. I want to see you tonight.'

He looked at her. 'We can do that.'

'You don't have to celebrate if you don't want to.'

'I'm perfectly capable of eating when someone else has come third.'

She grinned, but his answer still wasn't quite what she was asking. She stepped closer and took hold of his jacket. 'I mean afterwards too.'

'I thought you might.' His voice softened. 'Mine? I have to be up early tomorrow, and then all my stuff's there.'

'I'll probably be awake anyway.'

He kissed her against the cold side of the car. She slipped her hands under his jacket, felt his jumper and the warmth beneath. It could be awkward for a moment, with their bags on the ground and someone slamming a car door further along. When they drew apart, he stroked his thumb along her jaw.

'You've still got a tiny bit of something on your nose,' he said.

Fenna pulled a hand out and rubbed it. 'Why are you only telling me now?'

'I wanted to find out whether the bronze medallist was dangerous.'

She shoved his shoulder. Not hard enough to get rid of him. Tonight she would go to his flat with clean clothes, her own food if he wanted her to, and the medal somewhere at the bottom of her bag. She didn't need to take it to bed to know she'd ridden well. Marten, on the other hand, she thought, and was laughing before he asked what was funny.