Page 3 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER TWO

Alaina

The second my boots hit the dirt outside the bus, Dane lets out a long, exaggerated whistle. “Damn. Look at you.”

I turn, already scowling before he even finishes. “Say something stupid, and I’ll run you over with my bike.”

“Nah, just…” Dane smirks, making a show of looking me up and down. “Didn’t realize I’d wake up with a brother today.”

“Shh,” I hiss, looking around to see whether anybody heard us before I punch him in the arm. Hard.

“Ow, shit!” He rubs the spot, still grinning. “All right, all right. Looks good, Al, but you know you kinda look like…”

I point a finger at him. “If you say Justin Bieber , I swear to God.”

Because I kind of do. Fuck.

Dane snorts. “I was gonna say a discount MotoGP rider, but sure, let’s go with Bieber.”

“Unbelievable.”

The binder is already pinching tightly across my ribs, and I know it’s only going to get worse once I’m pedaling.

But the rolled-up socks in my boxers really seal the deal.

They’re not too obvious. I’m not going for big-dick energy, but Dane said that without them, it was noticeable something was missing.

I’m also wearing a chest guard, which I always wear during races. It helps hide the boob situation under the jersey, adds another layer of don’t look too close, but it doesn’t make me feel any safer. Not anymore.

I was wearing one when I crashed too. It only covers your chest and spine, great when you’re flying over the handlebars, but useless when your side gets slammed into a tree at race speed. The impact hit where the padding didn’t.

So now, this is my life—compression gear, improvised bulges, trauma armor, and praying nothing shifts or cracks mid-race. Fantastic.

My hair feels weird, the freshly-cut strands brushing against my forehead, falling into my eyes when I tilt my head. I hate it. I don’t hate it. I don’t know.

I shove my helmet on, securing the chin strap like it’ll also strap down my thoughts.

Dane just watches, amused. “Problem solved, huh?”

“Shut up.”

The goggles feel strange today too. I always go for darker lenses, hiding my eyes behind them, but the sky is thick with clouds, making it too dim for tinted ones.

This is fine.

I’m fine.

“Come on.” I unlock the back of the bus, grab my bike, and turn toward the gondola station. “Let’s go ride.”

The rigs of the privateers are clustered around the parking lot, and we pass Mason Payne’s black van.

The back doors are open just enough to let me see inside and spot a neatly organized setup of spare parts, tools, and a lone folding chair.

Two motocross bikes are strapped onto a hanger at the back.

His dad walks out from behind it, and I turn my head quickly.

I shouldn’t stare at them like everybody else does.

We keep walking, past other guys like us, the ones who don’t have the backing of a big team, and then, we hit the pits.

The difference is obnoxious.

Factory teams secure the best spots at the front for their massive setups with full team trucks and sponsor logos covering everything in sight.

A real team has everything. A team manager, two to five pro riders, depending on how deep their pockets are, and a mechanic for each one, so no factory rider has to share.

A physio, since throwing yourself down a mountain for a living tends to wreck your body.

Then there’s a team assistant and line spotter there to scope out the best lines and report back, ensuring their riders always have the best possible strategy, and, of course, a content producer, because in this sport, social media matters as much as winning.

The smaller teams operate on maybe a budget of $200,000 a season, which is a fortune, but still nothing compared to the biggest teams, whose budgets climb past a million, with the top riders pulling in six figures a year, easily.

And then there’s the rest of us.

Privateers don’t get fancy pit setups, personal mechanics, a salary, or a team truck.

Most crash in their vans, eat gas station food, and scrape together everything they can just to be here.

The factory riders sleep in hotels with the media and the rest of the circuit.

The only ones who stay in the big team trucks are the mechanics, mostly for security, making sure no one walks off with a bike that’s worth more than some people’s cars.

The smell of chain grease, energy drinks, and damp dirt hangs in the air, and I take it all in as we walk past the difference, the money, and the reality of this sport.

And I tell myself, again…

This is fine.

None of that matters once I’m on the mountain.

The track doesn’t care about logos, bank accounts, or who sleeps in a van or a five-star suite. Once I drop in, it’s just gravity and guts.

The clatter of cables and metal fills the station as Dane and I step into the gondola, the doors sliding shut behind us. It rocks slightly as it ascends, climbing higher into the thick, gray sky. My bike is mounted outside, its blue frame streaked with dirt from practice runs.

I tried to clean it earlier, but we’re in Fort William, Scotland, and the dirt here sticks like crazy.

It’s the first of seven stops in this year’s World Cup. After this, it’s Poland, then Austria, France, Italy, Canada, and finally, Snowshoe, West Virginia.

The place where I crashed. The last World Cup I raced.

And home.

I close my eyes for a moment and imagine myself on the parcel of land Dad bought for us when Dane and I were both climbing the racing ranks. It was probably another thing to keep us out of his hair. Still, I’m grateful, because that land became ours.

We built our own downhill track there, and it’s brutal, the kind of track that pushes you past your limits every single ride. The house we built at the top of the hill isn’t a mansion or some over-the-top villa like Dad’s poky penthouse in Washington DC, but it has a glorious view.

Our house is a home, big and open, built from wood and stone, and with enough rooms to fit an entire race team, even though only Dane and I live there.

Rustic luxury, Dad’s real estate agent called it once, wrinkling her nose like she was too good for it, but Dane and I never cared about fancy things.

Our house and track are all we need. And for the last seven years, it’s where I’ve trained like a maniac.

So maybe it’s fitting that the final race is in the bike park next to it, at the place where I almost died.

And the place where I’ll be resurrected.

Full circle.

I open my eyes and see that the gondola has climbed high enough that the treetops have thinned, revealing the racecourse. My helmet thunks against the plastic window when I lean forward for a better look, making Dane huff a laugh next to me.

So graceful.

Riders are already on the track, moving as streaks of color against the gray-brown earth, carving down the descents, and hammering over the rock gardens with zero respect for their bones.

I’m a little late, but it doesn’t matter. I qualified in the top four, which means I have time.

The Downhill World Cup isn’t like motocross or F1. There’s no shoulder-to-shoulder chaos or pack charging down the track. It’s one rider at a time against the clock. You get one run, one shot to lay it all down.

Qualifying sets the order. The fastest qualifier drops last, which means the pressure only intensifies as the day goes on. Everyone is watching you, and you know exactly what time you have to beat.

“Nervous?” Dane asks as he watches me, his arms crossed.

I snort. “Please.”

I’m so fucking anxious I could projectile vomit with enough force to drill a hole through this window.

The gondola docks at the top, and I grab my bike from its side before we step out into controlled chaos. Riders crowd the summit station, most already clipped into their bikes, which sit on stationary rollers, legs spinning.

All of them are men.

And I don’t just recognize these guys, I know them. I’ve spent the last seven years watching every race, every highlight reel, every behind-the-scenes clip I could get my hands on.

Dane used to call it an obsession, said I knew more about half these riders than their team managers, but it wasn’t obsession, it was preparation.

While I trained, I also studied and learned how my competitors tick, what rattles them, what fires them up, how they ride when they’re leading versus chasing.

I’ve seen their breakdowns, their comebacks, their bad crashes, and miraculous saves.

I know who looks over their shoulder too much and who never does.

I didn’t come here blind.

Dane listed me as twenty, not my real age of twenty-four, and so far, no one has looked twice. Thanks to my disguise, I look like just another rookie with a baby face racing his first elite World Cup.

Mechanics hover nearby, making last-minute adjustments. Spotters murmur over line choices to their riders, pointing at imaginary sections of the course, tracing the air with their fingers, and I breathe in all the energy, tension, and weight of everything about to happen.

God, I missed this particular World Cup pre-race chaos.

“Ready?” Dane asks in a low tone beside me.

I nod, and we weave through the people. I can’t stop my eyes from wandering and looking for Raine, though, and sure enough, I find him within seconds.

Isaac is locked in on his warm-up, his legs pumping on the trainer and face set in concentration until he glances up and sees Dane. His rhythm stumbles, showing a fraction of hesitation that shouldn’t mean anything but feels like a tiny victory anyway.

Dane doesn’t even spare him a glance, but I do and catch the split-second flicker in Isaac’s eyes, the way his jaw tightens, and fingers flex subtly on his grips.

Then Raine’s gaze flicks to me.

Shit.

I look away fast, pretending I didn’t just get caught looking.