Page 14 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Finn

It’s pit setup day, and the one for my team is only half up, yet I’ve already sweated through the back of my shirt. Someone is arguing about canopy height, and my mechanic is swearing at the zip ties as if they personally offended him, but honestly?

I love this part.

The chaos, the chatter, the smell of tires and chain lube in the air. It feels like home since I’ve spent half my life in places like this.

All around us in the parking area, other teams are doing the same, unpacking toolboxes and unrolling banners. From the next pit over, I hear Delacroix’s laughter ring out, obnoxious and bright. He’s already holding court with some techs who probably wish he came with a volume knob.

“Yo, Grandpa,” one of the juniors yells as he hauls a tool chest past. “You need a chair break yet, old man?”

I flip him off with a grin. “I’ll race you for it, sweetheart. You bring the walker.”

A few of the techs laugh, and someone tosses me a bottle of water. It’s all light and easy. They respect me, maybe not as much as they would a coach or a manager, but as someone who’s survived the sport longer than most.

Still, survival is not enough, not anymore. I want to build something that lasts past my last finish line.

I’ve been following the juniors closely, and none of them are better than the two kids I train back home in Canada during the off-season.

They’re siblings, a girl and a boy from my hometown, fifteen and fourteen, both better on a bike than I ever was at their age.

But their mom has to work two jobs to get by, and downhill mountain biking is a fucking expensive sport.

So I gave them everything I wish someone had given me.

Paid for what I could, begged for discounts when I couldn’t.

They’re why I stay up late watching management and sponsorship webinars and why I keep pushing through pain that would bench anyone with half a brain.

Staying in the top five and keeping my name in the rankings is not just for pride anymore.

It’s for a chance to build something worthwhile.

A team of my own. For the two bright-eyed kids who deserve to be here.

I promised them I’d have a junior team ready by next year, and if I can stay relevant, I’ll have leverage for deals, and there’s already a brand interested, a big one. They’re supposed to call me this week, and if it happens, it’ll change everything.

And if it doesn’t…

No. I can’t go there. Not yet.

When you promise kids a future, you don’t get to flinch. You either build the path or you go down trying.

The thought snaps me back to work, but halfway through adjusting one of the workbenches, my thoughts drift again, unhelpfully, to the drive over here. To the hours trapped in that clunky bus, Dane behind the wheel, Alaina passed out at the table like someone who hasn’t slept in years.

She and Dane are the reason I started training those kids in the first place. Spending four seasons with the two of them, watching Dane have Alaina’s back no matter what, making sure she had a shot, that she was seen, supported, and unstoppable, gave me something I didn’t even know I was missing.

A family.

The kind you’d bleed for without even thinking. The kind that shows up when shit hits the fan. I didn’t grow up with that. My parents are amazing, but they had me pretty late, and I’m an only child.

I didn’t know what it felt like to have such a bond until I was pulled into theirs. And then, just as fast, it was gone. Dane vanished, Alaina disappeared, and suddenly, everything was quieter than it should’ve been. I have been missing that noise ever since.

That sense of belonging, of backing someone so hard that they rise just from knowing you believe in them. I think I’m still chasing that, chasing the feeling of being part of something that matters. Or maybe just being a part of them.

And now they’re back, but Alaina is not the same person I remember. She’s so much more.

More fire, more steel. Less laughter, maybe, but every ounce of her has been alchemized into something stronger.

She’s not the kid who used to trail after us, wide-eyed and too eager.

And yeah, maybe she’s only dragging herself forward on vengeance, but given what she survived, and knowing what I know now, I get it.

She knows I know it’s her, right? Just as instinctively as I knew it was her, the second I saw her ride.

God, she’s messing with my head .

Because she’s too much like the girl I used to believe in and too far from the girl I thought I’d lost.

But somehow, impossibly, she’s better than both.

It’s like hearing a song you forgot you loved until it knocks the breath out of your lungs.

Straightening, I look around for a glimpse of her. I’ve been doing that a lot since we arrived here. Maybe if I see her enough, I’ll figure out what the hell this ache in my chest actually is.

Shaking my head, I tune into my setup and crouch down to help my mechanic relevel it for the third damn time. Not a moment after we finish, my phone buzzes in my back pocket.

Canadian area code.

My pulse spikes, and I duck behind the pit, skirt past the bus, and slip into the edge of the parking area where the noise of the circuit dulls. I’ve kept this side project pretty quiet, and I need it to stay that way for now.

The phone is a brick in my hand, and my heartbeat is drumming in my ears, still, I manage to swipe to answer. “Hello?”

“Finn? Hey, man. It’s Rob from Avalanche Sports.”

I exhale, trying to steady my heartbeat. “Hey. Thanks for calling, I’m happy to hear from you.”

There’s a pause, and it’s too long.

Fuck.

“Look, I’m just gonna be straight with you.” Rob’s tone is already halfway to apologetic. “The higher-ups had a meeting. They talked it through, looked at the numbers, and they’ve decided to sit this one out.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and somehow keep my voice even. “What do you mean? I thought we were… this was almost locked in.”

“I know,” he says sympathetically, trying to soften the blow. “You made a strong case, but in the end, they just didn’t feel it was the right fit for the brand right now.”

“They’re making a mistake,” I grit out, heat creeping into my chest. “These kids? They’re the real deal. I’ve been working with them for a while now. They’ve got the talent, the mindset, the discipline, and like I told you, I’ve got the structure planned, everything from training to travel?—”

“Finn,” he interrupts, then sighs. “Come on. I get it. I do, but you’ve got no track record managing a team.”

“I’ve been in this sport for more than half my life.”

“As a rider. That’s not the same thing. Managing a junior team isn’t just about race day. It’s budgets, logistics, schedules, sponsorship coordination, athlete welfare, insurance, gear deals, it’s a lot, and if something goes wrong, it’s a big hole for us financially.”

“It won’t go wrong,” I argue, the desperation threading into my voice. “I’ve thought it through. I’ve got spreadsheets. Projections. These kids are hungry, and I wouldn’t let it fall apart. I can’t let it fall apart.”

“I hear you, mate. I do.” He pauses. “But you’re not quite the name they want to build around. They’re looking for headline potential. I’m sorry. We wish you the best, honestly.”

And with that, he hangs up.

I stand there, the silence roaring in my ears, the phone slack in my hand.

That’s it.

Weeks, hell no, months , waiting for that call. Running scenarios in my head, planning out answers, and all I got was a thirty-second no.

Falling into a crouch, I brace my forearms on my thighs, my phone dangling loosely between my hands. My knees feel like they might fold, and I just missed a landing by an inch too far, and now everything is about to crash .

Shit.

Shit!

My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt as I stare down at the dirt. The ground is solid. Unforgiving. Like everything else in this sport.

What the hell do I tell the kids?

I’ve always felt like an imposter to them, but lately, that had been changing.

They’ve always thought I’m something I’m not, looking at me and believing in me like I’m some kind of lifeline, and now the team I promised them might never exist. The future I promised to build for them, for myself, just slipped right through my fingers.

What the hell do I even say?

“Sorry, guys, guess I’m just not famous enough?”

Maybe I should get a pink jersey and a rat? God, I’m a fucking loser.

Mediocre. That’s all I’ve ever been.

The finish line has been creeping up on me for years, but I always thought I’d have something to show for it before it caught me.

Now I’m just crouching in the dirt alone, my only dream gone.

My breath catches when I straighten, and I have to press my palms to my thighs to stop the shaking, just as my phone buzzes again with a call.

I glance at the screen. It’s a FaceTime call from Kevin and Rachel.

Fuck.

My stomach twists as I swipe my palm across my thighs, then over my face, trying to scrub the failure off. Then I force the grief back down and take the call.

Kevin’s face fills the screen first. “Did you hear something? ”

I chuckle at his greeting, despite everything. “Hello to you too.”

Rachel leans into the frame, grinning, a few strands of her dark hair stuck to her cheek. “Hey, Finn!”

“Hey, Rach,” I say, forcing a smile.

She used to remind me of Alaina. I’m not even sure why anymore, especially since I’ve actually seen her again. She’s not someone you can compare to anyone else. Not really.

Kevin exhales hard, then corrects himself, apparently remembering that manners are still a thing. “Fine. Hi. How are you? Have you heard anything?”

I swallow hard, and my free hand shakes. I can’t tell them. Not yet. I won’t ruin their dream until I’ve checked every corner for another door.

“No,” I lie. “But it’s only Wednesday. We’re just setting up the pit now.”

Rachel groans dramatically, rolling her eyes. “Ugh, that’s something Kev and you can do. I’m not hauling all that shit around every race week.”