Page 23 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mason

The night air is cool against my skin, damp in the way that always settles deep into your joints if you sit still for too long.

I stretch my legs out, away from the camping stool, and sip my magnesium drink, the citrus tang clinging to the back of my throat.

Everything aches in the way it always does after qualifying.

My shoulders are tight, my fingers twitchy, and my legs are somewhere between heavy and humming.

Dad is beside me, sitting in his usual seat, which looks like it’s been molded to him. He’s got a cloth in one hand and a tool in the other, rubbing at it in slow circles. The sound is rhythmic, familiar. Comforting, maybe. But tonight, it just grates.

Because I qualified fourth.

Fourth.

Luc, naturally, took the top spot. The chaotic bastard somehow always sticks the landing. Then Raine, the snake. And third? Allen-fucking-Crews.

My jaw flexes as I glance toward the far edge of the lot, where Mini Crews is crouched by his bike again. Alone in the dark with his head down, laser-focused, like the entire rest of the world doesn’t exist.

He’s always doing that. Always fixing something. Adjusting, tweaking, and tuning like the whole bike will fall apart if he doesn’t touch it every five minutes, and the longer I watch, the more annoyed I get.

Because what the hell is he trying to prove?

“I just don’t understand how he’s so damn fast,” I mutter. “He looks like a teenager. And have you noticed how?—”

“No,” Dad cuts in, voice dry as dust. “I haven’t noticed.” He glances up at me before going back to polishing. “Mase, I know you love to obsess over everything… your stats, your training, your lines. But I’ve never seen you obsess over another rider like this.”

“It’s not?—”

“So what if he’s small?” he asks, cutting me off. “He’s a good rider. That’s all, and you were never one to blame others for your time. He was just faster today. Doesn’t mean he will be tomorrow during the race. Give it your best and stop obsessing.”

Obsessing? Hardly.

I’ve been riled up by riders before. Luc, definitely. Raine, absolutely. But this?

This is different.

Mini Crews gets under my skin in a way I can’t explain because he’s got no business outdriving me and being fucking nice about it.

And I hate that the weird little guy jumped in to defend me. Twice. I didn’t ask for it. Didn’t need it, and he got hurt for it. Thrown down hard because of something I was in the middle of.

It looked bad too. I watched him puke before limping off like he was barely holding himself together. And what does he do today?

Qualifies third, above me, as if nothing happened.

I grip my cup tighter. “I’m not bloody obsessed.”

Dad keeps working, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “You’re talking an awful lot about that kid for someone who’s not obsessed.” I shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t even blink. Not even a flinch, of course not. “Do you have a crush on him?”

“No.” My face heats immediately. “What the fuck?”

When everything fell apart last year, I came out to my dad like it was part of the wreckage. Figured if he was going to lose everything because of me, he deserved to know all there is to know about me. No secrets. He knows I’m bi, but we don’t talk about it. Ever. I’d like for it to stay that way.

And I’m not crushing on Mini Crews. Nuh-uh. Not happening.

“You can tell me. I’m hip,” Dad continues, totally unfazed. “One time when I was younger, before your mom, there was a motocross race, and I got too drunk and…”

“ Dad! ” I groan, slapping a hand over my face. “I don’t want to hear that.”

“Just saying.” He shrugs. “Whatever floats your boat, son.”

“Crews doesn’t.”

“Okay. Why are you obsessing then? Is it because he punched Delacroix for you?”

“Didn’t ask him to,” I mutter. “And that wasn’t a punch. That was a flailing attempt at violence. He slapped him like someone trying to swat a wasp. He has no idea how to fight.”

“Well, fuck. That makes it even more impressive. Maybe the kid’s never had anyone show him how. ”

I huff out something like a laugh. “Yeah, well, you made sure I knew how to throw a punch by the time I was ten.”

“And look how well that turned out.”

He grins, but I don’t.

“You know,” he adds casually, “I remember when you were a junior, all bright-eyed and mouthy. Used to look up to a certain Crews back then.”

I groan. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting. You looked at Dane Crews like he hung the bloody moon.”

“I did not .”

He gives me a knowing look.

Okay, maybe a little, ’cause yeah, Dane Crews was my hero, everyone’s, really. Back when I was in juniors, he was the guy in downhill mountain biking. Untouchable. Legendary on a bike.

Getting signed to Crews Bikes was the dream, the endgame, the goal I built everything around, until the team imploded before I even got my shot.

“Maybe now you’ve got your own fanboy,” Dad suggests. “No harm in that.”

“He’s not a fanboy,” I grumble, frowning into my cup. “He’s kicking my arse. And I just can’t figure out his angle.”

“Why would he need an angle?”

“Why else would he be on my side?”

I don’t say, no one is on my side anymore beside s you.

Dad shrugs, that kind of shrug that somehow manages to say both maybe you’re right and you’re being ridiculous in equal measure.

“I don’t know, maybe because being associated with you is such a good look,” he says with a smirk.

I scowl harder.

“Or maybe…” he adds, setting the tool down with a little clink , “… this kid just has a spine. ”

“Or he’s an idiot,” I counter.

Dad glances over at me, quiet for a beat.

“I didn’t believe it,” he says softly. “Does that make me an idiot too?”

I flinch.

Fuck.

The words dig in somewhere deep, pressure against something that already hurts. Dad leans back in his chair, eyes tilted up toward the sky like the constellations will offer him backup. “All I’m saying is, it’s okay to make new friends. Not everyone’s out for you.”

“Sure feels like it, though,” I mutter, feeling that familiar pang in my chest. The one I can’t name without sounding pathetic. It just sits there, heavy, old, and stupid.

He brushes his hands off on a rag as he gets up. “From where I’m standing, it looks like you’re the hang-up here. Not the guy who’s trying to be your friend.”

I don’t reply, but my eyes do wander to where the obsessive little gremlin is still crouched over his bike, seemingly checking the bolts again. When the light inside their bus goes out, he clicks on his flashlight.

“That’s my cue.” Dad nods toward the van. “You coming?”

I should, but maybe Dad is right and Mini Crews isn’t playing some long game, maybe he’s just decent. Or I just haven’t spotted his angle yet.

Only one way to find out.

“In a minute.”

Dad smirks before he turns away. “Night.”

“Night.”

I wait until I hear the van door slide shut and the soft sounds of him settling inside fade into stillness before making my move.

I stand, set my glass down, wipe my palms on my thighs, once.

Twice. And head toward Mini Crews. He doesn’t seem to notice me until I lean my weight against the bus beside him, making him startle.

“How’s your hip?” I ask quietly.

He blinks at me, wearing a deer-in-the-headlights look, apparently stunned that I’m talking to him.

Right, this is a first for us.

“I’ll surv…” he starts, sounding squeaky before clearing his throat and dropping his voice an octave. “I’ll survive.”

I stifle a laugh.

Not just because of the voice, which, let’s be honest, is kind of hilarious, but because of the words. I’ll survive. That’s been my mantra all year.

Whispered between races when people talked about me as if I couldn’t hear them, into my pillow on sleepless nights, scraped into my bones like a goddamn brand.

I’ll survive this.

I nod toward the bike. “You done with that?”

He glances down. “Yeah. For an hour or so.”

Okaaay.

Mini Crews grabs the handlebars and rolls it quietly to the back of the bus. He pops open the back door, lifts the bike in like it’s made of glass, and locks everything up tight before turning back to me.

I gesture with my chin. “Come on.”

He blinks. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere no one can see us.” I start walking away from the vans. “Don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea and kick us off the circuit.”

He frowns, but doesn’t argue or even ask. He just follows.

Huh.

Either he really doesn’t believe the rumors, or he’s stupid enough to follow a guy accused of assault into the dark without blinking .

Ballsy or daft.

When we’re close to the side entrance of the hotel, he glances at me. “You want to go inside?”

“We’re going to the gym.”

“The gym?” He narrows his eyes. “Is that even allowed?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Why shouldn’t it be?”

“We’re privateers .” He looks baffled. “This is the hotel for the media and the teams.”

“And the circuit pays every hotel they’re staying in for the season to keep the gym open all week for all riders. It’s not exclusive. How do you not know that?”

“It wasn’t like that seven years ago.”

I stop walking. “How would you know?”

Something flickers across his face, too fast to pin down. “Dane told me about it.”

Right.

“Anyway…” I start toward the entrance again, “… we’re not breaking any rules. Relax.”

We move through the quiet hotel, all polished floors and too-bright lighting. The gym is nearly empty, except for one guy jogging on a treadmill, too absorbed in his headphones to notice us.

As we walk past the mirrored wall, I glance over at Mini Crews again.

He only comes up to about my nose. There’s no way to tell whether he’s got muscle under the oversized hoodie he’s always wearing when he’s not in a race jersey, but I know he has to have. You don’t ride this level without it. I’m lean, too, but I can throw a punch when I need to.

Let’s see if he can .

We head to the back where the mats are, and I stop, then turn to face him. “Okay. Let’s do this. ”

He looks around before his brown eyes come back to me. “Do what?”