Page 18 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER TEN

Alaina

Practice is chaos in the best way.

There’s no timing or pressure, just the mountain, the track, and the flood of riders chasing lines.

You ride down, stop where you want, hike back up, ride the same section again if it pissed you off the first time.

No one cares because it’s mutual respect, unspoken rules, and adrenaline-coded chaos.

I’ve hit the track four times already, and I’m still vibrating from the rush. My legs burn, my lungs hurt, and pretty much everything in my body does right now, but I want more. There’s a gnawing edge of nausea curling low in my gut, probably from the meds, the heat, or just pushing too hard.

But I don’t care.

I need another run.

If I don’t keep the adrenaline pumping, I’ll start to feel my body, and that’s a big no.

I round a corner and slow my pace, legs still buzzing from the last stretch.

Finn is standing near a brutal section of the course with three juniors from his team surrounding him.

Their bikes rest against trees, and their helmets are off, as they give him all their attention.

He’s pointing to a section with a long, gloved finger, then traces something through the air.

I can’t hear what he’s saying from here, but I don’t need to. I know exactly how he’s explaining it.

I had the luxury of that once—Finn Greer looking out for me.

Finn never rushes, never talks you down, but eases you into understanding. He gives you space to fail without ever making you feel small for trying.

And I missed the feeling for seven years straight.

He listens with his whole body, like whatever you’re saying might be the most important thing in the world, like you might be, and when you’re seventeen and everything feels too big, too much , that kind of attention means everything.

He was always there when it mattered, but never loud about it. He showed up without being asked, brought water before I even knew I was thirsty, and yeah, maybe he was my brother’s best friend and too old, too off-limits, too everything.

It didn’t matter.

He made everything feel safer. Not smaller, not easier, just possible.

No wonder I had a crush on him that hit like a runaway train.

There’s a sudden shout of panic as someone rides past me and loses control, their tire catching wrong.

They go down hard, a little higher on the slope than where Finn and the juniors are standing.

It’s not one of his teammates, but Finn is moving before the kid even finishes sliding, running to his side to check he’s okay.

The junior rider waves him off, shaking his head, and Finn laughs and claps a hand on his helmet.

God, why does he still have to be so perfect?

The butterflies in my stomach don’t flutter, they riot . It seems that the crush I thought had finally ebbed away is still here and thriving. It’s a goddamn fungus.

But just like seven years ago, it can’t be anything. I’ve gotten used to that, at least. Unrequited feelings are just extra cardio at this point. Keeps the heart rate up.

The group gets back on their bikes, the juniors peeling down the trail one by one. Finn waits until they’re all moving before swinging a leg over his bike, taking the rear so he can watch their backs.

I hang back a few more minutes before getting back to practice, and when I clear a particularly nasty rock section, I have to pull off to the side, my breath coming hard.

I idled too long, and now I’m hurting. Bad. The fire in my ribs creeps up to my shoulder, and I shift my weight, trying to stretch it out, but it only makes it worse.

A quick glance tells me I’m alone on this part of the track. So I stop pretending and let it show. I sink into the rare moment to let the pain speak louder than the plan, louder than the mask I’ve been wearing since this whole goddamn thing started.

My knees buckle a little as I press a shaking palm to my ribs, the world tilting sideways.

Stay upright. Don’t fold.

I don’t want to be like this.

I can’t keep being like this.

It’s fine, Alaina.

This won’t be your future.

You finish what you started, and then, you’re allowed to close your eyes forever.

No more pain. No more pretending. No more this .

I hold that thought like a handhold on the cliff edge.

I need it.

It’s the only thing that keeps me from breaking apart right here on the trail.

Once I’m sure I won’t unravel, I suck in a breath and force my eyes open, just as someone else comes flying down the track in a blur of pink.

Luc Delacroix blasts past like gravity is just a suggestion, tires snarling, bike practically howling, as he cuts through the silence like a goddamn war cry.

Jesus.

Wind slaps me as he rips by, and when he makes it farther down the track, another rider actually stumbles, and someone swears.

It’s the third time he’s done that today with no warning, no chill. Just full send as if he’s alone on the track and racing ghosts no one else can see. By the time I blink again, he’s already vanished into the trees.

I don’t care that he’s acting like a fucking ass again, not really, but I should probably keep an eye out so I don’t end up as roadkill. I have a feeling he’d happily run me over, especially after yesterday.

Which, yeah. That got a little heated.

Dane gave me an earful afterward. Pulled me aside like a disappointed dad and asked if I had some kind of death wish that had me mouthing off to Luc-fucking-Delacroix .

“You know he’s unpredictable, and he doesn’t forget when someone pisses him off.”

It’d been a surprise to me, too, the impulse to step in when Luc came down like a storm on Mason, and that’s on me, but the asshole is not getting under my skin.

Even if my pulse spikes every time I hear the distinct rattle of that pink bike coming up behind me.

Before the next lap, I duck into the locker area and chug back another dose of painkillers. Bracing a hand on the wall, I wait for the nausea to settle and hope they kick in fast.

The binder is too tight today, biting into my ribs every time I try to take a full breath.

The ache was bad enough that I skipped my chest guard just to make it bearable.

Kind of worked until the nausea kicked in.

Now I’m also regretting eating that sad excuse for a cereal bar I found half-mummified in the back of a kitchen drawer this morning.

Dane is out grabbing groceries, but who knows what he’ll come back with. Neither of us speaks Polish. We could end up with five kinds of pickled fish or worse, just pickles.

Ew.

That’s all the time I allow myself before I head back out, pretending nothing is wrong.

Once I hit the trail again, the edge finally dulls enough that I can breathe a little.

Thank fuck.

Poland is a newer location for the World Cup, and it has a weirdly addictive kind of dirt that’s chalky and loose in places, but soft enough that it gives just a little. The whole track has this unexpected flow to it. Even though I’ve never raced it before, it just clicks.

Or maybe I’m just too stubborn to let it throw me.

I reach the entrance of the rock garden again, eyeing the jagged stones spaced just far enough apart to make you doubt your suspension and life choices. My first pass was clean, but I want another go.

So, I unclip, swing off, and start the hike back up, pushing my bike beside me. Every step sends a jolt through my hip, and the nausea kicks up a notch, but I keep going. By the time I reach the top, someone else is already up there.

Mason Payne.

He’s clad head to toe in black and perched on his bike, still as a shadow. His full-face helmet and mirrored goggles hide everything, but I know it’s him. I knew before I even really looked.

I hoist my bike up beside where he is sitting on his and nod.

He doesn’t say anything, but he does make space for me, and we watch in silence as riders rattle through the rock garden below.

I track each line, feeling Mason’s presence like a storm cloud hovering by my side, unmoving and not close enough to touch me, but there.

And somehow, that’s comforting.

That’s how it felt the other night in the parking lot, too, when he brought a wrench I didn’t have without a word, just appearing out of the dark with exactly what I needed. He didn’t even look at me funny or comment on me tearing apart my bike in the middle of the night.

He just helped.

Would he have done that if he knew who I was?

If he knew I was Alaina? The girl he barely looked at in juniors?

Before I can even guess at an answer, a blur catches my eye as another rider barrels into the rock garden at a speed that speaks of either confidence or stupidity.

But I know that posture, that helmet tilt, that fuck-you stance he carries into every race like he’s untouchable.

Raine.

He hits the rocks hard, and it’s messy and unrefined, but it’s still fast enough for him to get away with it.

Of course, he gets away with it.

He always did.

When I woke up in a hospital bed with metal in my hip and a lung that wouldn’t inflate, he walked away clean.

When my body forgot how to breathe, he just kept winning .

My fists clench on the grips, and I stare down at the trail like I can burn a hole through it. I want him confused and shaken. I want him to feel powerless, as powerless as I did when I woke up in that hospital room. I want him to look up at the leaderboard and not understand why he’s losing .

I want him gutted.

Humiliated.

Ruined.

I want to take everything from him and make him watch .

Exhaling slowly, I try to ground myself, but I’m distracted when a rattle breaks through the trees.

Ah shit. Here comes Luc. Again.

He blasts into the clearing above us at high speed, but doesn’t slow as he approaches, just cuts the bars and skids to a stop right next to Mason. Way too close. Dust erupts around us in a thick, choking cloud, and the grit hits the back of my throat like a punch.