Page 20 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Alaina

Only a little over six more weeks.

That’s it.

I just have to make it through five more races, five more podiums, six more weeks of pretending.

Then I’m done.

No more pain. No more pretending.

No more me.

The ceiling of the bus is cracked in one corner, and I count the lines like I haven’t counted them a hundred times before.

One. Two. Three.

I lay flat on the narrow bed, hoodie bunched around my ribs, the bruise on my hip throbbing against the too-thin sheet. The mattress feels like it’s made of plywood, and I can’t get comfortable, never really do.

Two hours later, the painkillers have done their job, and so did the cold shower, which, on this bus, is the only kind of shower.

My muscles are quieter now, but the rest of me still screams into the silence that isn’t quiet.

It’s loud and roars in my ears, presses into my ribs tighter than the binder ever could.

Every part of me hurts, not only the bruises or the pulled muscles or the aching hip.

It’s deeper, in my bones, behind my eyes, somewhere no doctor can reach.

Living like this, in constant fucking pain, physical and mental, it’s unbearable .

I’m tired.

God, I’m so tired.

It’s the kind of tired you can’t sleep off but seeps into your blood, your breath, and your thoughts.

I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how easy it would be to stop.

Just stop doing , stop being . Slip off the trail one day and let the speed take me.

Let the mountain win.

I shove my hoodie down, covering the ribs the binder has already left raw, and press the heel of my hands into my eyes like I can squeeze the thoughts out.

Not yet.

I still have shit to do.

People talk about purpose like it’s this beautiful thing that lifts you, but they don’t tell you what it’s like when purpose is the only thing holding you upright.

When revenge is all that’s left, when the thought of crossing that finish line ahead of Raine is the only reason you make it out of bed because there’s nothing after.

All that’s waiting for me on the other side of the podium is more silence, pain, and pretending to be okay.

I can’t keep on pretending.

Sometimes I wonder whether the crash took something I’m still chasing. I think I died out there, and this is just the version of me that kept moving.

I should have died.

Every night, I stare at that cracked ceiling, and every thought presses too hard, while all I want is for the ache to stop .

At least when I’m flying down the trail, and I go fast enough, I can outrun all of this. Even if only for a minute.

My stomach growls loud enough to echo off the metal walls, reminding me that I’ve got nothing left in me—no food, energy, or hope, apparently.

I let out a breath through my nose and rest my arm over my eyes.

Perfect.

Starving, hollow, and spiraling into the void. Again.

Will Dane ever get back from whatever grocery store rabbit hole he fell into?

Maybe he’ll give me a quick back rub, too, to loosen the tightness in my shoulders before tomorrow. I’d even settle for one of those cheap massage guns.

A knock sounds at the bus door, and I sit up slowly, hoodie falling over my thighs. I consider changing, but I’m betting it’s just Dane, arms full of mysterious Polish snack packs and too much protein powder to unlock the door himself.

On bare feet, I pad over and flip the release, not even checking who’s outside.

The folding doors creak open, revealing Luc Delacroix standing on the step.

A sound of annoyance escapes my throat as I immediately go to shove the lever back and close it, but his hand flies out, catching the edge before the doors can fold shut. “Hey, wait.”

I freeze for a beat, then sigh and pull the lever again, letting the doors unfold fully, and narrow my eyes at him. In my deep voice, I ask, “What do you want, Delacroix?”

My gaze trails down as I actually look at him. He’s not in race gear. Not even close.

He’s showered, with damp hair still clinging to his forehead, and he’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that stretches just enough across his chest to make it obvious he works hard for every podium he stands on.

His arms are bare, and the tattoos curling down his biceps and forearms are on full display. And then there’s the shorts.

Pink.

Some obnoxiously perfect pastel that should look ridiculous but doesn’t. Not on him.

God, he’s so fucking hot.

A tingling feeling spreads between my thighs, and I press them together as heat crawls up the back of my neck, making me too aware of what I’m wearing.

No binder, no socks in my boxers. Just an oversized hoodie that covers my soft sleep shorts underneath, probably making it look like I’m not wearing anything at all. I feel exposed. Feminine.

Will he notice?

At least shaved legs are normal in this sport, aerodynamics and all.

“I want to apologize, Petit Crews.”

Ah . He’s still scared.

I tilt my head. “I’m not going to rat you out.”

He blinks. “You’re not?”

“I’m not,” I repeat, holding his gaze. “I’ll beat you on the track. Not like that.”

“Okay.” His mouth curls into that signature grin, the one that says he gets away with everything . “That’s… nice of you.”

“Yeah.” I hold myself tighter against my ribs. “So go grovel to Payne. He’s the one with more reason to get your ass kicked off the circuit.”

Luc waves that off with a flick of his fingers. “Oh, I don’t worry about him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Why not?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “He never says anything. ”

The words hang there, barely a shrug of a sentence, and I don’t know why , but that bothers me. Maybe because it’s true or because Luc is used to winning battles people don’t bother fighting, or maybe it’s because I see that even when Mason should say something, he doesn’t.

“You do that often?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Luc raises an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Start fights like that.”

He shrugs again, dismissing the question. “Anyway…” his voice lowers just a little, “… I’m here to tell you I’m sorry, even though you’re not ratting me out. Pushing you down the track was shitty of me.”

“Sure.” I reach for the lever again, ready to shut the door and be done with this, but Luc pushes the folding panels open before they can close and steps inside like it’s his goddamn living room.

I step back, scowling at him. “Can I help you?”

He glances around the bus, then back at me with that stupid grin still on his face. “Can I come in?”

I level him with a look. “I don’t know how it is in France, but normally you ask before you’re already inside.”

He smirks. “Oh, I do. I’ve got numbers you could call to verify.”

It takes me a second.

“Ugh.”

“ Petit Crews.” Luc chuckles, full of himself and full of shit. “You are so not fun.”

“I am fun,” I shoot back instantly, a little too defensively even to my ears.

He strolls past me like he owns the damn bus and flops down on the bench at the small table, legs sprawling, arms stretching out as if he’s marking territory.

“No, you’re not. ”

I fold my arms. “I’m fun with people who don’t make me want to throw them off a cliff.”

Luc grins, infuriatingly unbothered. “Ah, so it’s a you problem.”

I scowl. “It’s an everyone-who-acts-like-you problem.”

He leans back, settling in, and I suspect he enjoys fighting more than peace. “Most people love me.”

I jerk my chin toward the door. “Then go find them .”

He doesn’t move. Of course he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans over, opens the tiny refrigerator beside the table, and pulls out one of my energy drinks.

What is it with pro athletes and stealing my shit?

“Really, Delacroix?” I say as he cracks open the can. “You can leave now. I won’t tell a soul. Not even Dane, okay? So you don’t have to worry about him coming after you.”

That makes him laugh. A soft, real kind of laugh, like the idea of Dane Crews kicking his ass is the most ridiculous thing he’s heard all week, then takes a sip like we’re just two friends having a chill conversation.

“We can go back to how it was before today,” I offer, hoping that’s the last nail in whatever this is.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, still sipping. “And how exactly was it before? Because honestly, you’ve been a cocky little shit to me since day one, and I have no idea why.”

That makes me pause.

Because it’s true. I have been like that.

“Is it me taking first place?” He sets the can down, and it sounds half-empty already. “Because, sorry to break it to you, Petit , but that’s not gonna change.”

“No,” I say, more quietly than I mean to.

“Then what?” He tilts his head. “Why don’t you like me even though you don’t know me?”

All the teasing drops away. He’s not grinning now, just watching me with these sky-blue, tired eyes that seem older than he is.

“Why did you push me down a mountain even though you don’t know me ? I haven’t done anything to provoke that.”

Well, except mouthing off, but that’s not a crime.

“I know.” Luc sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know, okay? I’m not proud of it. I have a temper, and it just…” he shrugs helplessly, “… takes me places.”

It’s the first thing he’s said that doesn’t sound like a joke. My legs are stiff as I slide into the seat across from him. He glances up, probably surprised I came closer instead of trying to kick him out again.

My hip throbs under the table, but I ignore it. We regard each other, and it seems he wants to say more but doesn’t know how, and it makes me soften toward him, just a little.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Luc doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks away from mine, but then back again.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he counters, holding my gaze steady, and his eyes tell me that he hopes I say yes. That he needs me to care .

And that throws me. Why me?