Page 16 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER NINE

Luc

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The world spins before my eyes even open.

The knock comes again, louder this time, as if the person on the other side wants to be punched.

“Delacroix. Track walk is in twenty.” The voice is muffled, male, and way too chipper for this hour. “Get your lazy ass up, or Paul is gonna throw a fit.”

I groan and roll onto my back, wincing as something pulls in my lower spine. Everything feels tight, like I slept folded in half.

“ Merci , Otis,” I croak, my voice gravelly from booze and not enough sleep. “ Tu es un ange .”

“No clue what you just said,” Otis calls through the door, the cheerful bastard . “Ten minutes.”

I flip him off out of habit, even though the gesture is entirely absorbed by the hotel duvet.

The room smells like leftover cologne and someone else’s cigarettes.

I don’t even smoke, but one of the Polish guys last night offered me one, so I took it.

The party was good. Great, even. Bielsko-Bia?a knows how to throw down.

There was vodka, dancing, and questionable techno.

At one point, I think I traded shirts with a local guy named Radek.

He was nice. Might have been in love with me.

My skull pulses again when I sit up.

Toulouse shifts in his hammock, nestled in the corner of his travel cage by the window. The little bastard is passed out like royalty, with one tiny paw flopped over his nose, tail curled.

“Morning, mon amour, ” I murmur as I haul myself to the edge of the bed.

Toulouse doesn’t budge.

Figures. Rats are too practical to party until four in the morning.

The cage isn’t huge, but Toulouse doesn’t need much space. He only sleeps in it because I don’t trust hotel staff not to step on him if he’s out. At home, he’s got a castle, but here, he’s got a hammock and enough fleece blankets to cover a corpse.

Most nights, he sleeps with me anyway, curled in my hoodie, tucked into the crook of my arm, or using my chest as a mattress. However, last night I came in reeking of beer and smoke, so he probably noped out the second I opened the door.

Fair enough.

I shuffle to the bathroom, wincing as the floor tiles press too sharply against my feet.

The mirror greets me with a face that looks better than it should after a night like that, even though my blue eyes are bloodshot, and my dark mullet is flattened on one side from sleep, wild on the other.

There’s a red mark on my cheek, which is maybe from the pillow, or maybe from the girl who bit me during that shot game.

I look like trouble, which, let’s be honest, is the point.

I flash myself a grin. It makes my mustache twitch.

Taking a quick shower, I brush my teeth under the spray, then step out and chug water like it owes me something. Dehydration gnaws behind my eyes, and my head feels like it was used as a drum in a nightclub.

When I’m done, I stand in front of the mirror again and trace the bite mark with one finger. “ T’es ridicule, ” I mutter to my reflection, but I smile anyway because ridiculous works.

I run a hand through my still-damp hair, flattening the worst of it, then turn and head back into the room.

Toulouse stirs when I drop a protein bar onto the nightstand with a crinkle.

“You coming?” I ask him, tugging on shorts and a fresh hoodie, black with a pink stripe down the side, my signature.

I reach out to him, and he blinks up at me, slow and judgmental, then stretches with a tiny yawn, tongue flicking out. A moment later, he hops onto my sleeve and easily scampers up until he disappears into the hood.

Good man.

I grab my phone from the bed, and the screen lights up with chaos. Group chats blowing up, DMs stacked in the triple digits, and half a dozen notifications from girls I don’t remember meeting last night.

But tucked in the middle of it all, lost between the noise, is the only one that matters, because she’s the only one who really cares.

Maman

Bonjour, mon soleil. Track walk today, right? I’m proud of you. Call me if you have time. Je t’aime.

A lump lodges in my throat before I can swallow it, and I text my mom back quickly.

Je t’aime aussi, Maman. Have a great day. I’ll call you tonight. Promise.

I stare at the screen longingly, missing her more than I’ll ever say out loud. Maybe I will actually call her tonight, then maybe I won’t need to go out to chase extra noise again.

Maybe it’ll keep the silence from eating at me.

The hallway smells like cleaning spray and tired athletes. Otis leans against the opposite wall, scrolling on his phone, but he looks up when I approach.

“There he is. Was starting to think you died.”

“I did,” I say with a smirk, sliding my sunglasses onto my face. “Came back hotter.”

He snorts, shaking his head. Otis is one of the newer additions to our squad.

He’s tall, dark skinned with a bald head, light brown eyes, and a big smile.

He is always unnervingly put together for someone in our line of sport.

There’s something about him that’s too neat, too polite, but he’s quick, and he doesn’t flinch when I needle him, which earns him points.

Otis still watches me like he hasn’t decided whether I’m the devil or just French. I like that in a teammate.

We head down together. Half the team is already gathered by the hotel entrance, and our manager, Paul, who’s in his mid-fifties and built like a brick wall, waves me over. “Glad you made it, Delacroix.”

“Couldn’t bear the thought of missing all this exciting dirt.”

A few of the juniors snort, but Paul doesn’t.

“Last week, I let you skip track walk because I assumed you were doing sponsor content. And yesterday, I let you skip the team meeting because I assumed you’d get some training in. Now I’m assuming you’re about one hangover away from making me regret all of it.”

He’s not wrong.

“You worry too much, bossman.” I flash him a smile. “I’ll be golden on race day.”

“You’d better be,” he says simply, his tone indicating it’s already written on the gravestone of my contract.

And yeah, if I weren’t winning, none of this would fly. Not the drinking, the partying, or the missed meetings. He could fire me easily, but he won’t. Not yet.

I tug down my sunglasses to rub at my eyes before I think better of it, and Paul catches the bloodshot mess underneath.

“ Luc . Jesus. I thought you were on detox until the break.”

I flash him my best smile. “I was. I detoxed between drinks.”

Paul doesn’t sigh so much as deflate. One massive hand scrubs his face like he’s trying to erase me from memory, then jerks his chin for Otis to round up the others. As he walks away, I fall into step beside him.

“You’re a pro athlete, Delacroix. Try acting like it.”

“So winning the World Cup last Sunday doesn’t count as acting like a pro?” He doesn’t answer, which means I’ve already won. I let the silence stretch just long enough to taste it, then toss in, “Also… I need my usual before Sunday. Back’s stiff.”

Paul grunts. “You hungover or actually in pain?”

“Bit of both.”

He gives me that sideways look of part exasperation, part surrender, but I know he’ll make it happen, even if it means juggling the schedule again. We have two physios for the team, including four elite riders and four juniors, and their time is strictly divided. No favorites, no extras .

Except for me.

When I go for too many days without having my muscles tortured, my back turns into a disaster.

And yeah, I’m aware I take more than my share of physio hours, but Paul lets it slide.

He likes results, and I bring them, including flash, drama, and podiums, even if I need more time on the massage table than most to keep making it look easy.

It isn’t.

My legs still move, the bike still obeys, but somewhere between the start gate and the finish line, the fun packed its bags and left.

I’ve been off this season. Not enough to derail me, but enough that the itch under my skin feels more like a splinter I can’t dig out.

I’m winning, still grinning, still being the Luc Delacroix everyone expects.

But on the nights that are not like last night, the nights I don’t throw myself into chaos, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling, feeling as if the whole damn world is on mute, my back hurting with the weight of carrying a version of me I’m not sure I can keep being.

The big silver cabin sways gently on its cables as we reach the gondola platform, and it’s already half-loaded with at least fifteen riders and their entourage. I come to a stop just short of the door and tug at the edge of my hoodie.

Toulouse peeks out, ears twitching in the breeze.

“Stay tucked, mon amour, ” I murmur, gently nudging him back inside. “It’s going to be crowded.”

Behind me, someone calls, “Let’s go, sixty-nine.”

Probably one of the juniors. Smartass.

I flash a grin over my shoulder and step aside. “After you, peasants.”

They do as they’re told, leaving me to step in last, just as the doors slide closed.

Boots scuff, backpacks thud, and bodies press too close. Funny how I don’t mind the closeness in a club, but cable cars?

Fuck no.

The gondola sways slightly as it climbs. Otis is somehow next to me again, rambling about line changes and course conditions in a way only someone still green enough can. Meanwhile, I’m fantasizing about throwing myself out the window.

Toulouse’s nose twitches near my neck as we pass a patch of sunlight. He’s the only reason I haven’t gone fully feral this morning. I lean against the cabin wall, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding how much I’m checked out of the conversation.

The gondola jolts as it reaches the top, and everyone piles out, our bikes having been left behind at the bottom. Track walk is just that. A walk. No tires, no speed, just boots on dirt and too much talking.

I hate it.