I lied. I wasn't going anywhere when I ran into Lauren by the exit. I was on my way to ask her to dance—Nicola's suggestion, but one that I didn't find particularly objectionable—when that couple cornered her. After I left the ballroom, I lingered in the hallway and circled back through another door just in time to see her leave teary-eyed. She's now back looking less sad than angry. I would ask if everything is okay, but she heads straight to Shane Hooper.

I shouldn't be surprised since they're obviously friends. I've seen them talk at the track or even eat together. I can imagine they both feel like outsiders, which probably explains why she can relax around him in spite of often being more reserved with the rest of us.

After Lauren talks to Shane, she's all-smiles again, and they go to dance. It could have been me out there with her, but now Shane is twirling her around and making her laugh. Because of his chair, their movements should be awkward, yet they aren't. The two of them are actually really cute, and it annoys the hell out of me. When Lauren plops in Shane's lap and wraps her arms around his neck to say something in his ear, I look away.

It's going to blow apart my training regiment, but I need a beer. There's a line at the table in the back where a bartender is serving drinks, but by the time I get my bottle of Belgian ale and take a swig, the music slows and Lauren is dancing with Diego.

What. The. Hell. I should have cut in earlier when I had the chance. Now I have to wait until that asshole is done to try again?

I drink another sip, the bitter liquid tasting better after each mouthful. At least Lauren doesn't look to be into it. Her posture is rigid and she's looking off into the distance, but Diego doesn't seem to mind. He's still trying to talk her up as they dance to the ballad.

It's actually quite funny seeing them together like this because in her high heels, she's now taller than the Spaniard. Thinking of her legs draw my eyes downward to her naked calves, reminding me of her in that small bikini from earlier. The memory lingers longer than it should, and my slacks tighten around my crotch, forcing me to adjust myself. Idiota. No matter the time or place, I shouldn't be thinking of her like that.

Raising the bottle to my lips again, I drain the remainder. Maybe I shouldn't approach her again right away. She could probably use a break. Besides, I don't want to look like I'm just here to take my turn on her dance card.

When Diego's hand slips from her waist and cups her ass, Lauren and I both freeze. She's actually faster to react than me as her expression goes from surprised shock to pure anger within seconds. She then mouths something, places her hand against his chest, and tries to push him away, but Diego pulls her back.

My feet are moving before I even decide what to do. Circumventing tables and dodging guests, I barely miss running into a waiter with a tray of empty cups. The delay causes me to arrive at the dance floor only after Nigel is already escorting Lauren away. She's in good hands now, so I go to Diego who's still standing on the side.

"What was that?" I poke him in the shoulder.

"Relax, man," he says, putting his hands in his pocket. "Everything is cool."

"Do not touch her again," I warn, fighting the urge to grab the guy by the lapels and throw him against the wall. When people nearby start to notice our discussion, I relax my posture and drop my hand. With the risk of sounding like a disgruntled Mafioso, I add, "Or you answer to me."

"Do you speak for her now?" Contrary to common sense, Diego has the nerve to escalate things, but I almost laugh. In spite of thrusting his chin up to appear taller, he still falls several centimeters short of my own one-meter-seventy-eight height.

"No, but her message looked clear even from there." I nod toward the back of the room where I'd been standing, wanting him to know that I saw everything.

Considering the conversation now over, I leave through a side door, slamming my entire weight against the push-bar to knock it open. The hallway is empty, and I put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. Fuck. In the excitement, I hadn't even noticed my heart rate go up and suddenly, I'm light headed. After taking a few, calming gulps of air, I find Nigel and Lauren around the corner.

"I don't want ya roaming an unfamiliar city alone," Nigel says, patting her on the shoulder. "Let me just say a quick good-bye to a couple of people, and then we'll grab a taxi to the hotel."

"Are you leaving?" I ask as a way to join the conversation.

"Yeah. I'm really tired and Nigel insisted he'd come, even though I told him not to." Lauren's face is emotionless. To an outsider, her excuse to bail early would seem perfectly reasonable.

"You go back to the party. I'll ride with her. My head hurts, anyway," I say to Nigel.

He appears skeptical at the offer. "You sure, mate?"

"Yes." I look to Lauren. "If that is okay for you."

"Uhm. Of course," she says with a little hesitation.

"All right." Nigel turns, but Lauren catches his arm.

"Wait. There's a couple at table sixteen. Windmill, Windmere, no Widemere. That's it. Can you arrange to get them paddock passes for the weekend?" she asks.

He furrows his brows at the request. "Sure, but what for?"

"Just do it for me, okay?" A faint smile appears on her face for the first time. She looks like a little kid pleading at bedtime to stay up five more minutes.

He nods. "Consider it done."

"Thanks, Nigel." She hugs him before turning to me. "Ready when you are."

We grab our coats from the cloakroom, and a taxi is already waiting curbside. As we roll through the city, I stare out at the lighted storefronts dotting the darkness. Barcelona is quite beautiful at night.

"Do you really have a headache?" Lauren asks, breaking the silence.

The leather seat crackles as I shift my weight to turn toward her. "Yes."

"I'm sorry." Her words are almost a whisper and sound shockingly sincere.

"Why?" I ask. "It is not your fault."

She wraps her coat closer around herself. "I know. I'm just trying to be polite."

"You Americans find that to be important, no? Appearing to care?" Loosening my tie, I pull it over my head before also undoing the top button on my shirt. I feel a little better already.

Lauren raises her index finger and waves it in my face. "First of all, you need to stop saying 'you Americans' because that is just plain rude. And I'm not pretending. I do care. We're literally on the same team, Seb. Why would I want anything bad for you?"

I don't have an answer for that. Sticking the tie into my jacket pocket, I ignore the question to ask one of my own. "What happened back there? Why did you want to leave early?"

"It was nothing," she says, shaking her head with a nervous giggle.

I continue looking at her to signal: it's okay, you can tell me.

She keeps glancing down like she wants to be anywhere but here, but finally, she shrugs. "Diego got a little handsy, but it's fine."

Even though I already knew the reason, I'm really happy she's comfortable enough to tell me. At the same time, I'm sad to hear her dismiss it so easily. "No. It is not fine," I say.

She smiles, touching my arm. "Thank you. You're a good guy."

Being called a good guy for not harassing a woman seems just as logical as giving an award to someone for not setting a house on fire. Both are things that decent people just did not do, so applauding the absence of a negative action feels absurd. Is this just another Americanism that I don't understand? Turning away, I lean my head against the cool window.

After making decent time, the taxi pulls to a stop behind a long column of cars. All the other lanes are packed too, and our sedan quickly gets blocked from the rear, as well. In spite of a green signal light in the distance, nothing is moving. The driver mumbles something in Catalan—a distinct language that sounds more like a mix of French and Spanish than the general Castilian Spanish found in most of the country—and gestures toward the stalled traffic.

Pulling out my smartphone, I input the hotel's address in the map app. "Maybe there is an accident or other problem. We can sit here for a long time or we can walk. The hotel is only six hundred meters from here," I say, reading off the information from the screen.

"That's not even half a mile, right?" Lauren asks, doing the math. "We can do that."

I pay the fare and get out, reaching for her hand when she scoots out after me. Her fingers are soft and warm against mine, and I'm glad she lets me pull her along as we cross the road between the maze of standing cars.

"Good call," she says, nodding toward the gridlock once we're safely on the sidewalk. "Nothing has moved yet. Which way now?"

She still hasn't let go of my fingers, and I'm definitely not going to force it. With my free hand, I check my phone again before sticking it in my pocket. "Two streets up and then right."

This area is a typical European city-center with commercial spaces—bookstores, mini-marts, boutiques, and bakeries—on the bottom floors of the early twentieth century buildings and with apartments on the top two or three floors. Large trees planted near the curb decades ago now tower overhead, while the occasional phone booth or billboard dots the sidewalk, often forcing us to take a less than straight path.

We go about a block before Lauren stops and reaches for her right ankle.

"What is the matter?" I ask, as she undoes the strap on her sexy sandals.

"I didn't quite think this through," she says with a laugh, pulling her foot out and wriggling her toes. "These weren't really made for taking scenic strolls."

"Should we find another taxi?" I look to the street, but traffic is still stalled. At least we could sit while we waited for it to move again.

Lauren shakes her head. "No, of course not. We're almost there." Using my shoulder to steady herself, she puts her shoe back on. "Let's go."

But even after a few meters, she's awkwardly shuffling and quietly gasping in pain with every step. "Lauren, stop. This is no good," I say, coming to an abrupt halt.

"Fine. I can take them off—"

"What? No, that is not what I mean." I block her hand from reaching down. "The street is cold and dirty. Here . . .." Turning around, I point at my back. "I take you."

"You mean like a piggyback ride?" Lauren asks with a giggle.

"Yes. Come." I bend my knees a bit to make it easier for her to jump on.

"You're serious," she says, realizing I'm not kidding. "Okay, but don't blame me tomorrow if you pull a muscle or something."

"I can take worse."

"Oh, great. Well, that makes me feel all better." She laughs, holding onto my shoulders before pushing herself off the ground.

I catch her legs below the knees before Lauren wraps her arms around my neck. "Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes. You?" Her warm breath grazes my ear.

Ignoring the enticing distraction, I begin to walk. "No problem."

This is the second time tonight I lied to her. There is a problem, but it has nothing to do with her weight on my back and everything to do with the way I'm acting around her. I never did sappy things like give girls piggyback rides, not since I was ten anyway. With my fame and popularity, I could afford to be more of a 'let them come to you' type in the relationship department. And I certainly never left a party early, especially if there was an open bar. Yet, here I am, trudging down a Barcelona sidewalk, carrying my teammate home after threatening a guy for mistreating her. What next? Pistols at dawn to defend her honor?

I grin. In spite of all that, I couldn't imagine a more pleasant end to the evening than Lauren's chin occasionally touching the side of my head or her fruity perfume tickling my nose. The hem of her dress swishes against my thighs with each step, helping alert other pedestrians of our arrival. Apart from a few icy looks from mostly older Spaniards, other passersby smile or even give us approving thumbs-ups.

"I could get used to this," Lauren says. "Maybe we should try this for the race on Sunday."

I chuckle at the mental picture. "You mean like this?" I ask before breaking into the unmistakable sound effects of a race bike shifting gears while speeding up.

Lauren's laughter in my ear gets increasingly stronger, making me get into it even more. Dodging a man walking his large, white dog, I only slow to round the corner. I carry Lauren all the way to the hotel entrance, letting her down in front of the revolving door.

"You would have taken me all the way up to my room if this thing wasn't so small, wouldn't you?" she asks, pushing on the glass panel to make the entryway spin.

"Of course," I answer from the compartment right behind her.

We approached the lift together, but when it arrives, I don't move. Or better yet, I don't trust myself to.

"You're not going up?" she asks.

I shake my head. This isn't a date and walking her to her door would be totally weird. I've gotten too close already, so this is far enough. I can take the next one up. "In a little bit. Goodnight, Lauren," I say.

She smiles as the doors close. "Goodnight, Seb."