Page 11 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

That girl could ride. She had guts, clean lines, fearless drops, and a kind of fire you couldn’t fake. She was hard not to notice, with a loud laugh, sharp eyes, wore her confidence like armor, and pretty, too, in that way people who don’t try to be pretty stand out the most.

Dane being here proves that people can come back, though. So even though I haven’t spoken to him, it has given me some hope.

Even after a scandal, after the world turns on you….

But that still might not be true for me.

You can fix a frame, strip a drivetrain, or swap out components and say, look, it’s clean now . But there’s no part swap that clears the word rapist from your name.

No tool kit for that.

If this kid manages to get his bike together, that’ll be that. I tear myself apart every night, but come morning, I’m still not the same.

I exhale sharply through my nose, fingers dragging over my jaw. That sick feeling is back, curling low in my gut.

No one cares that it doesn’t make sense, or asks questions, but I’m doing things differently this year. I may still be silent, but I’m not shrinking.

Mini Crews curses again, voice pitched high. Higher than that fake-deep thing he tried in the interview after the race, confirming that he forced it, trying to sound older or tougher.

I roll my eyes, then curse when I see what he’s doing.

He’s got the bottom bracket half out, fighting it like it slept with his sister.

The threads are probably stripped, or he’s cross-threading it in blindly.

Wrong tool, wrong angle, wrong everything.

If he keeps going at it wrong, he’ll wreck the shell.

I should turn around and leave him to it. Not my problem. Not my bike. Not my rookie.

But I keep standing there like an idiot, watching him nearly destroy a drivetrain because no one taught him better. I want to walk away, to leave him to it, but I can’t forget him meeting my eyes and not flinching away like I was a monster.

Goddammit.

Muttering another curse, I head back to the van, stepping inside as quietly as I can, and dig through the tool kit until I find the bracket wrench. It’s the correct tool, which actually gives leverage without snapping something clean off.

Guess we’re doing this.

When I walk back to him, he startles so hard he drops the flashlight. The beam skitters across the pavement and blinds me as it swings .

“Shit,” he mutters, scrambling to grab it.

I crouch down beside him and lift the wrench, preparing to loosen the bracket myself, but before I can, his hand shoots out and closes around my wrist, making me freeze.

The assumptions fly through my mind easily.

I’m radioactive, unwelcome, and he doesn’t want me to touch his bike.

His small fingers barely wrap around my arm and are smudged with grease and grit from however long he’s spent elbow-deep in parts. I brace myself to pull back, but when I look at him, I catch something in his wide, brown eyes.

Anxiety, not disgust. Not rejection.

This isn’t about me.

What the hell is going on with this kid?

Instead of pulling away, I turn my wrist slowly, holding the tool out between us.

After a beat, he lets go and takes it, muttering a quiet, comically deep, “Thank you.”

The fact that he’s talking kindly to me shouldn’t make my stomach flip, but it does. A quiet, traitorous flutter that betrays just how starved I’ve been for simple decency.

God, I’m so broken.

I want more.

Lowering myself to the ground, I lean against the bus’s wheel. It’s bloody cold, but there’s no point leaving, at least not until I get the tool back.

That’s what I tell myself.

Biting on his flashlight, he directs it downward and gets to work. Now that he has the correct wrench, it’s clear he actually knows what he’s doing. More or less.

And I’m impressed because not many rookies this green know how to deal with a bracket failure. The flashlight wobbles as he mutters under his breath to himself, and I frown at him.

Weird as hell, this one.

I saw him without the helmet for the first time in the hot seat today, and he looked off. I already knew he was shorter than the average rider, and a little too skinny, but his face wasn’t what I expected.

Where I expected smugness, maybe a cocky grin for edging me off the podium, I got nothing, even when I stared him down, ready for it.

But he just looked at me. No gloating. No malice. Just curiosity?

I tried to brush it off, but I kept thinking about that look. When I wasn’t replaying all my failures last night, eyes open, staring at the van’s roof, I replayed that. Pathetic, I know.

He was jittery as hell on the podium, then gave the world’s most awkward post-race interview, his voice cracking like he was twelve and twitching like he was wearing someone else’s skin, before finally just bolting.

Maybe he’s a late bloomer?

And I get that. Hell, I was that. My first year on the circuit, I was just another skinny kid who didn’t belong.

No one talked to me until I earned my spot.

That first World Cup run with the elite?

Fucking terrifying. All eyes on you, waiting for you to choke.

A year later, I won the World Cup overall, and everybody else was left choking on it.

Maybe that’s part of why I’m helping him too. He reminds me of me, before everything fell apart. Underneath all the awkward twitching and cracked voice bullshit, the kid can ride.

He’s a cocky little bastard when he’s on his bike, and I can respect that .

When he finishes working on his bike, he hands the wrench back without a word. My fingers close around the cold metal, and I start to get to my feet. I need to get out of here, to leave this here now, before it becomes another regret.

But then he sinks beside me, leaning his back against the wheel like it’s some kind of unspoken invitation, and for some reason, I sit back down.

Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t shared space with anyone in almost a year. Figures that this twitchy kid with his too-big hoodie and stripped bracket is the first person who doesn’t recoil from me.

So, we sit, our breath curling in the air in front of us.

I forgot silence could be this peaceful, and fuck me, I want it to last just a little longer.

I’ve had worse company, especially by myself.

The sky slowly changes, pink bleeding in like someone took a blade to the dark.

I glance at him, but he stares straight ahead, his face still half in shadow.

Now that I’m this close, I see the exhaustion in his jaw and the lines around his mouth that seem too deep for his age, giving me the feeling he doesn’t sleep much either.

When the world around us brightens, bringing our surroundings into view, the silence stays just a little bit longer.

With every passing minute, the air becomes less suffocating. I glance at him again, and he grimaces, rubbing his hip mindlessly.

My bones ache in response.

Maybe, for just this moment, we’re both holding up the same kind of broken.

I don’t move until my van does, signaling that Dad is up. My body might ache, but something inside me is lighter as I push to my feet, brushing my hands on my shorts out of habit. Mini Crews stands, too, and we face each other wordlessly.

Just like before, he holds my gaze.

Christ. That shouldn’t affect me so badly, but after a year of averted gazes and sneers, it’s everything .

The other rigs around us start coming to life, too, and I glance at them briefly, but my gaze is drawn back to Crews after only a few seconds.

I have always been an introvert, the quiet one, but I had people once. Before everything, I had a life. I was in the pits, with teammates, a crew, noise, and friends. People I didn’t even think to second-guess.

Now, I ache just to have someone to share silence with.

When people start to invade our bubble, we both know the quiet is over, but neither of us wants to break it.

He nods.

I nod back.

Then I walk toward the van, and in those few steps, I try to tell myself it doesn’t mean anything. Just because he didn’t cuss me out or tell me to fuck off doesn’t mean Mini Crews is a friend or an ally.

I won’t have those again, not until my name is cleared.

Or until my name disappears for good.