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George had not planned on being charmed by Tadej Pogačar.
In fact, he was determined to do the exact opposite, reminding himself repeatedly before his transfer that no human was as perfect as Pogačar appeared. The rest of the world seemed to worship the ground he walked on, but George was a contrarian at heart, and he wasn’t going to let some Slovenian boy, no matter how talented, change that.
Well, that was the plan, anyway.
George had met Pogačar, of course, before the move to UAE. Despite the size of the peloton and the riders’ hectic, mismatched race schedules, there were enough slow-paced rides, shared hotels, and mandatory formal events to allow everyone on the world tour circuit to at least become acquainted. And no matter how hard he tried, in the past few years, there was just no avoiding Tadej.
Tadej? When had Pogačar become Tadej in George’s mind?
Maybe it was when, on the first day of training camp in January, his new teammate greeted him with a hug and a blinding smile.
“It is good to have you on the team, eh? We will work very hard this month,” Pogačar said with a grin.
George scrambled to come up with a response, unable to think of anything but the hand still resting on George’s shoulder.
“Ah, right, thanks mate,” George said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as dismissive to Pogačar as it did to his own ears.
But he didn’t seem offended, still grinning as he gave George’s shoulder a squeeze and turned away to greet someone else.
George shook his head, miffed at his own awkwardness in the face of someone eight years his junior. He decided he’d worry about the implications of that moment later.
Maybe Pogačar became Tadej several days later, when George realized that he might actually be the real deal.
Three days into team camp and George was really starting to get annoyed. Not because Pogačar was annoying, but because he wasn’t.
He would greet each member of the team every morning, cheerfully asking them about their families or chatting about hobbies. He was focused and serious during meetings, listening intently when anyone spoke and choosing his words carefully when he did. And most importantly, he rode his bicycle harder, faster, and longer than anyone else.
In just a few days, Pogačar proved he wasn’t just some naive boy who had been given more talent than he could handle. He was thoughtful, empathetic, smart, ambitious, and simply a rather nice guy to be around. He had all the makings of a great cyclist and an even better leader.
Fine. Maybe popular opinion was right.
Perhaps he stopped being Pogačar when George was alone with him for the first time, and he finally noticed how beautiful he was.
Training camps were a strange mixture of suffering and luxury. After a day full of the kind of efforts that made George question his career choice, the team spent the evening by the pool. After a few hours, most of the others had slipped away to their rooms and George found himself suddenly alone in the hot tub with Tadej Pogačar, talking about the weather. Tadej’s eyes were somehow even brighter than usual, delicate droplets of water caught in his long eyelashes reflecting the soft lighting of the pool. George couldn’t seem to tear his own eyes away.
“George, was it hard to be on Jumbo, with so many of the guys from the same country?”
George thought they had been talking about whether it was worse to ride in the heat or the cold, but didn’t protest the change in subject.
“Oh, you mean all the Dutch speakers? Yeah, it was a bit difficult because they could all talk so easily to each other– sometimes they’d forget not everyone could understand them. It was alright, though. I was in the same boat as Sepp and Primož, and it helped us become friends.”
Tadej nodded thoughtfully. “It is very hard to go from Slovenia to here, where I must speak English. But there are people from many countries here, and it is hard for everyone,” Tadej looked up at George coyly. “Well, not you, of course.”
George blinked, suddenly very aware of the cool evening air against his skin, which seemed to be getting increasingly warm. They were sitting closer than was necessary considering there was no one else in the hot tub, but George couldn’t bring himself to move a muscle.
He realized it was probably his turn to talk.
“Hm? Oh, yes, well,” George took in a sharp breath. “I’m, um, still quite nervous, yeah? It’s all very different and new and I just hope I can be an asset to you. A- And the team, the team.”
Tadej just smiled. “You are already, because now I have a new friend.”
Finally unable to stand the piercing eye contact, George looked down, first at Tadej’s pink, slightly chapped lips, then his freckled shoulders, and finally the pale, smooth expanse of his chest. His nipples were nearly obscured by the frothy, bubbling water of the hot tub. George’s eyes snapped back up to Tadej’s when he realized what he was doing. He felt himself flush even further.
If he had blinked, he would have missed the way Tadej’s eyes reflected his own, flicking down George’s exposed body and back up to his face.
“It is late, and we have one more early morning tomorrow, yeah?” Tadej said, voice slightly hushed.
“Suppose so, yeah,” George said, matching Tadej’s whisper.
For a long moment, neither man made a move to leave the hot tub.
Tadej’s watch chimed, conveniently breaking the silence. He glanced at it and frowned slightly.
“John is looking for me.” He pressed a button to silence the notification and looked back up at George, face softening. “It was very good to talk with you, George. I hope we will know each other better this year.”
George and Tadej got out of the hot tub, hurriedly drying off and slipping their t-shirts on, looking anywhere but at each other. They silently collected their belongings and made their way into the hotel, hair still dripping down their backs. Both were apparently fascinated with the interior design of the elevator as the car went up. George’s room was on the floor below Tadej’s, and he looked back at Tadej as the doors opened and he stepped out.
“Goodnight, George,” Tadej said.
“‘Night, Tadej,” George responded.
The elevator doors closed on the most brilliant smile George had ever seen.
Okay, so maybe that was when things changed.
Pogačar was no longer just Pogačar, the cycling prodigy, the ruthless winning machine. He was Tadej, and he was so young, and so sweet, and so good. George wanted nothing more than to protect him.
One thing was for sure–he was going to help him win.