A Return

Wout was surrounded as soon as he joined the bunch at the start line. Everyone wanted to talk to him, wanted to tell him how glad they were that he was better. There were tentative hip slaps and bright smiles, a crowd of well-wishers.

Pippo was one of the last ones to approach. He sidled up to Wout’s right as some of the other riders dispersed. “I was worried,” he said. He nudged his hand to Wout’s side. A little to the left, and he would be pressing against one of the broken ribs.

“Don’t be,” Wout said. “I’m back.” He enjoyed the kindness. He disliked the pity.

Pippo smiled. It was a soft thing. “I still worried.”

Wout studied him. Both their eyes were hidden behind their mirrored sunglasses. “It sucked,” Wout admitted. He took a deep breath, then let it out. “I hated every moment.”

Pippo’s hand shifted so it was settled on Wout’s back. “Now you’re here.”

Wout’s legs itched. They always did before a race. They wanted to move, to push, to win. “I don’t expect anyone to go easy on me.”

That startled a laugh from Pippo. His smile sharpened. “Oh,” he said. “We won’t.”