Page 27 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Luc

Wind slices through the trees, the sound needle-thin and biting through my helmet vents. The storm the UCI has been nervy about is almost here, clouds bruising darker by the second. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a low growl that vibrates through the soles of my shoes.

My back hurts, even though I had a long physio session yesterday, and I shift my weight, restless as I look around for him .

I don’t know why I care this much. Why I keep trying to get a better look at Petit Crews, hoping I’ll find something in the curve of his shoulders that will make this gnawing feeling make sense.

The holding area at the top of the mountain is a cramped stretch of packed dirt bordered by pine trees and temporary fencing.

We are lined up in order of qualifying, spaced out by staggered markers.

A metal start gate squats at the edge of the drop-in ramp, one rider at a time feeding into it as the UCI crew barks out countdowns over tinny radios.

I angle to the side, trying to see around Raine’s oversized fucking helmet, but all I get is the back of Petit’s .

Greer has already dropped in, so Payne is at the gate, all stiff-backed, with a just-as-stiff Petit Crews next in line.

I didn’t get to talk to him after the physio session, didn’t get to ask how it went, or say something that might’ve meant something, like asking about the scars on his stomach and hip.

But would he have told me anything real anyway?

I’d trusted him, opening up about my temper, about things I don’t share with anyone, but what does he do? Fucking ghosts me.

At qualifying yesterday, our eyes met across the pit, and I thought he might say something, but he just looked away and then walked off like I wasn’t even there. And then today, he tells me we’re not friends.

What the actual fuck?

As if I didn’t carry him across the lot. As if I wasn’t decent for once. Merde , I was ready to give up my physio slot for him. And I know I wouldn’t have qualified first if I hadn’t gotten my back loosened up before. Whether he realizes it or not, I might’ve sacrificed a potential win for him.

And he treats it like it’s nothing . Like I’m nothing.

People come to me. I don’t chase them. They orbit, hover, pull at me for scraps, attention, a joke, a look, a brush of skin. Even when it’s fake, they want it.

But not him.

Instead, I’m the one standing here, peering around Raine like a creep, trying to get a glimpse of a guy who couldn’t care less if I existed.

I clench my jaw as Payne drops into the course, ignoring the echo of the shit-talking that would’ve volleyed back and forth right now this time last year. The beeps ring out into the mist, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the trail and the trees.

Good riddance .

To him and our rivalry.

Payne is a bitter, joyless dick half the time, and still, Petit likes him . What does he have that I don’t? I mean… okay. He’s decent-looking in a moody, scowly, broody kind of way. But still, I’m fun, I’m hot, and I’m the fucking main prize.

And I don’t have allegations following me around everywhere I go.

Well, not severe ones like he does.

And yet, I can’t get a smile out of Petit Crews.

“Rider up,” someone calls. Petit rolls forward to the gate, finally giving me the view I was looking for, and I take advantage of it.

His body is wired tight with tension. I can see it in the way he leans over the bars. His fingers flutter, not fidgeting, more coaxing. Calming. Like he’s talking to the bike without words, syncing his nerves to it. It’s weirdly mesmerizing.

I trace the curve of his back as he leans forward, the way his jersey wrinkles the number seven above the waistband of his pants.

He’s small, but not fragile. My gaze drifts lower to the sharp taper of his waist, to the rise of his hips, to the way his pants cling just tight enough to suggest the curve of his…

My cock twitches, and I jerk upright so fast I almost lose my footing.

What the actual fuck?

Non . That did not just happen. I did not just get half-hard staring at Petit’s ass.

I wipe my gloved palms on my thighs, trying to shake off the heat crawling up my neck. I mean, he’s got a great ass, sure. Objectively . And he’s cute. Annoyingly so. Hiccups like a baby bird and talks like he’s got a cold, and somehow still rides like the fucking wind .

And I’m just me. I joke, I flirt, I get handsy. What can I say? I’m French. Physical affection is part of the export. But I’ve never actually done anything serious with a guy. Never wanted to. Never thought about…

Is that my problem?

Am I standing here, jealous of him smiling at Payne, all twitchy and obsessed because I want to fuck him?

Mon Dieu.

I exhale loudly, the sound shaky and entirely uncool , and try to get my shit together and focus on the race ahead.

But my gaze is stuck on him as his hips wiggle while he finds his stance on the pedals.

He moves his cute ass as if he knows I’m watching, even though I’m pretty sure he’d rather get hit by a truck than be ogled by me.

Which… fair.

Finally, Petit Crews drops into the track, and the wind seems to go with him, as if it loves him more than it loves gravity. I huff and press a hand to my chest like that’ll slow my heartbeat.

Before I can catch my breath, Raine rolls up to the gate. The beeps start. One, two, three, and he launches. And just like that, there’s nothing left at the top of the mountain but me, the roaring wind, and my muddled thoughts.

I flex my fingers on the bars and try to shake out the tension. This is the part I normally love. The quiet before the storm. The calm before the chaos. The moment when I become everything I’ve built myself to be.

Beep. Beep.

A particularly strong gust of wind whistles through my helmet, and instead of focusing, my brain offers up what I told Petit earlier.

“You just want someone to bite you first, hmm?”

Fuck.

I would love to bite his ass and see if he hiccups when I do it.

Putain de merde, what’s wrong with me?

The final beep sounds, and I slam down the pedals and burst out of the gate on instinct, but my usual fire doesn’t ignite. There’s no adrenaline rush, no flash of clarity, just static. I’m chasing something, but I don’t even know what.

The first corner is too tight, the second, too wide. Everything is just a fraction off. The course and I are out of sync, speaking different languages.

“Focus,” I hiss, trying to claw my way back into rhythm, but I can’t because I don’t race from my head. I race from my gut, and my gut is a goddamn mess.

I’ve flirted with half the world. I’ve kissed guys, cuddled teammates, even made out with a Brazilian mechanic after a lost bet. But none of it ever made my hands shake. None of it ever made me feel like I was coming apart at the seams.

This? This is different.

I’m supposed to be unstoppable, unshakable. The three-time overall champion who doesn’t flinch, but today, I’m unraveling over a guy who won’t even look at me. Over a hiccup, and my brain is a mess, short-circuiting entirely over the idea of nibbling Petit Crews like he’s a goddamn snack.

Which, I guess he is.

Nope.

Non.

Shut. It. Down.

A root catches my back tire, and I fishtail, nearly losing it so hard my heart jumps into my throat. I barely recover, but I feel it now.

I’m not in control.

The crowd on the side of the track blurs, my breathing is ragged, and every turn feels like it’s fighting me.

This isn’t me. This isn’t how I race. I need to get it together, but I can’ t. Not with the thought of Petit’ s hiccup still stuck in my head, and the echo of his voice snapping, I’m not your friend.

My dick is confused, my brain is fucking fried, and by the time I finally hit the last sprint, I already know I’ve fucked it up.

I push on anyway, driving hard, my legs screaming and vision tunneling, but when I cross the finish line and glance over my shoulder, the time is red.

Not green.

Red.

I blink slowly, once, twice, like maybe I misread it, and the numbers will flicker, glitch, right themselves. Maybe the display is wrong, and it’s in another language today? Red means first, and everything is fine.

But it’s not.

I pull to a shaky stop, my lungs heaving, the sharp ache in my chest blooming into something colder. The crowd’s roar filters in like static, disjointed and too far away.

Cheers.

Cowbells.

People yelling Raine’s name.

The scent of ozone sharpens in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil.

The camera guy who was aiming at my finish, pivots to follow Raine as he throws himself out of the hot seat and into the spotlight like it was always his to claim, but it was supposed to be mine. It is mine.

Why isn’t it mine?

The slow creep of failure snakes through my blood. It climbs into my throat and settles behind my eyes. I try to swallow it down, but I can’t.

I scan the pit for my own media guy, my crew, someone .

But they’re not looking at me .

Because I’m not even second. Or third.

My gaze swings to the hot seat. Raine is gone, of course. But Petit is still there, stiff-backed in the second-place chair, next to Payne in third. Crews is watching me, our eyes meet, and I brace for the dismissal, the indifference, but he doesn’t look away. He sees me.

He’s frowning and doesn’t look smug or triumphant, just confused, almost asking, What the fuck happened to you?

And I wish I knew.

I wish I had an answer that didn’t make me feel like I’m slipping, like the part of me that was made for this—this fire, speed, and fame—is fading. I was built for the spotlight, for the storm. Today, I was a flash without fire, a spotlight with no soul, and noise with no note.

I drag my gaze down over him, like I’m trying to find balance in the shape of his body, the curve of his shoulder, and the tension in his jaw. I drink him in, and I huff when I catch myself doing it.

Looks like you happened, Petit.

And the fact that you wouldn’t even look at me until now.