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In his first year with Barloworld, Chris finds himself in Britain in December - it’s his own decision, made to completely assure his flight from home doesn’t get delayed or cancelled and cause him to rush back to training.
It’s a bit strange. He’s used to Christmas being hot, clinging onto British tradition with hot roasts and songs about snow and wearing his stifling formal-ish clothes, despite none of that really applying to an equatorial Christmas. Here, it’s cold and very grey - grey streets lined with something between grey snow and grey slush, grey buildings reaching up into grey sky, the greyness only cut by warm yellow storefronts selling holiday cheer with seasonal mark-ups.
Maybe Chris is a bit of a grinch, but he’s spending Christmas alone - could anything else be expected of him?
He brings this up on a leisurely ride with Geraint, his only British teammate, as they push their pedals around just outside of London and Geraint asks what he’s doing for Christmas in an effort to make small talk.
“Don’t you have any relatives here?” Geraint asks, bemused.
Chris shrugs. “Haven’t seen them in years. It just feels a bit rude to drop in on them with this little notice, you know? Like, that’s something I can’t just do. It’s always been a big event that takes us half a year to organise, and I’ll be in and out too quick for it to be worth their while."
Geraint nods understandingly, and they ride in silence for a little while.
“You could always spend Christmas with me?” Geraint offers.
“What?”
“If you don’t mind a Welsh Christmas, come back home with me. My family won’t mind. There’s always more than enough.”
“Won’t that be a bit weird?” Chris asks, doubtful.
“Nah,” Geraint shakes his head. “They know who you are. You wouldn’t be the first cyclist to join us for Christmas, anyways, we used to be all over the shop back in the Maindy Flyers days. Bloody chaos, teenage Welsh track cyclists all going mental under the one roof. Hell, they might be distracted by you and stop asking me why I don’t have a girlfriend yet,” Geraint snickers.
This is how Chris finds himself squished beside Geraint and his pointy elbows at a long table, with Geraint’s mother and aunt simultaneously offering him more beef wellington and potatoes, and a cousin’s new girlfriend on his other side, equally overwhelmed by the raucous atmosphere.
Chris has prepared for any questions that could be thrown at him - lives in Kenya most of the time, rode for them but couldn’t ride the Olympics, so after a bit of chaos is now riding with Team GB, that’s how he knows Geraint, he’s a domestique for now but he’d like to win a Grand Tour one day - but Geraint’s family is more knowledgeable than he thought.
“Shame there’s no big pro team for Britain yet, it’d be nice to see you two ride the big races a bit more,” Geraint’s dad comments. “D’you ever think of changing teams, Chris?”
"Well, maybe if a better offer comes up,” Chris replies, earning a chuckle from around the table. “It's not looking promising, though, I’ll stick where I am for now.”
“Brailsford was saying something about getting us on the ProTour circuit in the near future, though,” Geraint interjects through a mouthful of carrot. “Don’t know what that’s all about. Hopefully he won't try and sell us off or something if we fold.”
"He's your Olympics man, isn't he?" someone else asks, and it turns out that Chris' prepared answers actually do come in handy, as do the anecdotes surrounding his hectic racing license change just before the road races.
When, after dinner, he's told he doesn't have to help clear away plates or bring out desserts, Chris instead helps out with the presents. He sits cross-legged under the tree, not wanting to acknowledge how elf-like he must look, and passes them along to Geraint's mother, who calls out the name written on it and hands it on with a hug and a kiss.
Geraint, and many of the young adult relatives, insist they're too old for this shit, but if the look on his face when he pulls rugby tickets out of an envelope is anything to go by, Chris would say Geraint is as excited as ever by Christmas.
There's one more present, just out of Chris' reach, a little box wrapped in bright red paper with crisply folded corners.
"Excuse me, there's-"
"Ah! How could I forget?" She hands the present over to Chris with a smile - it's got his name on it, written on a little sticker with a snowman and blue glitter. He’s touched, and being away from home at Christmas doesn’t feel as bad anymore.
"Are you sure?" he asks. “You really didn’t have to, you’ve done more than enough.”
"It's just a little something,” she waves him off cheerily. “You had to have something to open on Christmas!" She gives him a pat on the shoulder as she stands up.
Chris is careful not to rip the wrapping paper, unsticking the tape and unfolding it nicely to reveal a festive-looking little box of dark chocolate peppermint bark - good stuff, too, with sugar-crusted mint leaves and stripy rock candy studding the glossy slabs.
'Thank you," he says earnestly, not feeling quite as grinchy anymore.
He's officially banned from the kitchen when he offers to help with the washing up, and so splits a beer with Geraint, nibbling on chocolate bark. It's an awful flavour pairing, but he suffers through it.
"So, final thoughts on the Thomas family Christmas?" Geraint asks, helping himself to Chris' box of chocolate.
Chris thinks of his own family Christmases, and for a second, he's homesick for the heat and the wildly-unsuited celebrations, but it passes.
"It's not too bad at all, G."
Geraint smiles and nods, pleased, already searching the box for another small piece, and Chris half-heartedly bats his hand away.
“Reckon you’ll join us next year?”
“You’ll be around, right?”
Geraint nods.
“Absolutely not, then,” Chris grins.