Page 4 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

Isaac Raine is thirty now, but he still looks just like his sister, Isla. They have the same blond hair, blue eyes, and cut-glass jawline. And just like back then, he carries that self-righteous I-own-this-fucking-place energy.

I saw Isla yesterday after qualifying in the pit, walking around like she owned it. She’s still racing, and since I left the circuit, she’s been the best in the women’s category, as if nothing ever happened, and she doesn’t carry the same blood as the person who took everything from me.

I turn again when we’re a few steps away to see that Isaac still has the 43 on his back. Riders pick a number between 1 and 100 when they go elite, something that sticks, because it becomes part of their identity on the track.

It’s printed on their plates, the back of their jerseys, and sometimes they even get called by the number rather than their name.

Dane was number 11 when he ruled the sport, and no one has dared to take it since. It’s been unofficially retired, the ghost of his legacy keeping it out of reach.

I never had a number back then, since juniors don’t get that kind of permanence, but I always knew I’d take 11 when I moved up to elite. I would’ve been in the women’s category while Dane was in the men’s, so we could’ve worn the same number .

Now, the number is still sitting there, untouched, but I couldn’t take it, not when I’m not racing as myself. It felt like bad karma.

So instead, I chose 7, for the seven years since it happened. Seven years since Raine stole everything.

He won’t get the reference, of course.

But I will.

Every time I see my number, I’ll remember exactly why I’m here.

I roll my shoulders, forcing myself to focus forward, only to find Mason Payne warming up on the outskirts of the area.

He’s locked into his rhythm, head low, legs a steady blur on the trainer. Everything he’s wearing is black—black jersey, black riding pants, black gloves. Even his bike is matte black, no logos, no flashy designs. The number 21 flashes white against his darkness, effortless in its statement.

Mason is not the biggest guy out here. He’s maybe three inches taller than me, five-foot-ten at most, all lean muscle built for speed.

His dark brown hair is a mess of waves, pushed back, but somehow still manages to fall forward like he ran his fingers through it and called it good.

It matches his tawny brown skin and his eyes, which are a deep brown, the kind of eyes that don’t give anything away.

He’s from Redcar, England. It’s one of the few things people actually know about him besides the rumors. He barely talks, but when he does, it is with that rough voice and English accent, and yeah, it does things to me. Always has. Even back when we were both racing as juniors.

Not that he ever talked to me then, either.

Since my crash, I’ve kept up with his career too.

They call him Pain, half because of his last name, half because of what he did four years ago in Val di Sole, Italy.

That World Cup race was a disaster. A downpour turned the course into a mudslide.

Riders crashed out left and right, only a few making it down the mountain.

Some went off track and were disqualified, others wiped out so hard they had to end the season right there.

I watched it on television, thinking even Dane would’ve struggled.

And then Mason crashed in a brutal wipeout.

Slammed into the ground so hard that his shoulder dislocated on impact.

Anyone else would’ve been done, probably screaming in the dirt, waiting for medics, but Mason got back on his bike, one arm barely working, rode the rest of the course like that, and won. Fucking badass.

But that was before.

Before his name became something people whispered about instead of cheered for last year. Before the accusations came out, and his team dropped him, his sponsors vanished, and the world decided that Mason Payne wasn’t a hero anymore. The golden boy turned pariah overnight.

He’d had a great season and signed with a big team, including a massive announcement, glossy campaign, photoshoots, the whole deal.

Mason was their new star. A few weeks later, he posted on social media that he was now riding as a privateer, and no one knew why he’d suddenly walked away from that huge contract.

Then the bike forums lit up. Rumors started spreading that he’d been kicked from the team for sexual harassment.

The whispers said he’d raped someone, but nothing ever went truly public.

It was all just speculation, half-statements, and anonymous posts, but it was enough to ruin his reputation and make everyone distance themselves from him.

It was almost enough to make me think he’d done it.

But I had more trouble believing the allegations when I heard who was making them.

I tear my gaze away, and we try to keep walking, but we can’t, because Luc Delacroix, draped head to toe in his usual pink, a walking fever dream, is standing in the dead center of the path, blocking the way like it’s his personal runway.

Which, in a way, it is.

The number 69 is slapped across his back because, of course, it is. Subtlety has never been his thing.

He’s not warming up like the others. He’s qualified in first place, so he’s got even more time to kill than I do.

Instead, he’s just standing there, every inch the goddamn king.

Toulouse, the tiny, scrappy rat he insists is his son, supported by a dozen social media declarations and photo evidence, is perched in his palm, and two fan girls who absolutely shouldn’t be up here are losing their minds over both of them.

Apparently, he really brings that thing everywhere.

Ew.

He’s laughing loudly, his blue eyes full of mischief, and his short brown mullet is a little messy like he just rolled out of bed or maybe came straight from a party.

Probably both. A mustache sits above his smirk, the kind that somehow makes him look even more annoyingly charming instead of ridiculous, because Luc Delacroix is the definition of effortlessly cool.

He’s tall, maybe six-foot-one, all muscle and bold, colorful tattoos that sleeve both arms. He moves like a man who never hesitates, doubts, or loses sleep over anything.

And, yeah, even I can admit it. He’s annoyingly, disgustingly attractive. Every girl here thinks he’s the hottest racer on the circuit.

Because he is.

That stupid accent and that reckless French charm, paired with that ridiculous confidence, somehow always works in his favor.

Three years ago, he was just another kid from a small town near Les Gets, France. Then the best team in the circuit scouted him, plucking him straight from obscurity and throwing him onto the world stage. Now, soon to be twenty-four, he’s on top.

The media loves him, and fans eat up his every move. He’s their Flying Frenchman , the reigning champion. Luc won the last three World Cups, and if he wins this one, he’ll do what Dane almost did—secure the most back-to-back titles in history. But he won’t.

Because this year, I’m here.

I try to move past, but he’s still in the way, grinning like he’s the main attraction and the whole world should be grateful for it. Dane clears his throat, and Luc finally moves, but only just, making it clear he’s doing us a favor.

“Apologies, mes amis. ” He dips his head dramatically. “It is hard to remember that not everyone is here just to see me.”

“Yeah.” I roll my shoulders, forcing my voice to drop, roughening the edges in hopes of sounding like a guy as I squeeze my bike past him. “Must be exhausting carrying around an ego that big.”

“Ah, Petit .” I turn just in time to see his grin stretch wider, and his eyes fill with wicked delight. “My ego is not the only thing that is big.”

What a dickhead.

The girls giggle, and Dane exhales sharply through his nose, apparently trying really hard not to laugh as he follows me. Traitor.

I keep walking, face heating like an idiot under my helmet as I push my bike farther away from them and toward some other riders in the back.

Most just show up here to warm up, letting their mechanics handle the rest like hauling up their bikes, checking tire pressure, making last-minute tweaks, but I don’t let anyone touch my bike.

I’m my own mechanic. The only one I trust.

Dane nudges my shoulder and steers me toward a free spot he’s apparently arranged for me. There’s a trainer stand already set up, waiting for me to clip in, and I roll my bike onto it, locking my frame into place before strapping my shoes into the pedals.

The second I sit, the sock shifts.

Perfect.

I subtly squirm in the saddle, trying to adjust without drawing attention, but it probably just looks like I’m wrestling a half-chub mid-warm-up.

Around me, riders are already spinning, heads down, lost in their pre-race focus, and I wish it were like the races we did before the World Cup.

There was no circus and no spectacle then.

You just warmed up by yourself, got to the top, raced, and left , not like this. Not having to be side by side with…

None of them are wearing a helmet.

Fuck.

I grit my teeth, gripping my bars tighter for a moment before I begrudgingly release them and yank my helmet off. I shove it at Dane, who takes it with a laugh, fully enjoying my suffering.

Justin Bieber, here you go.

My now-short hair falls loose, and I blow it out of my face with an irritated huff. The air feels weird against the back of my neck, too exposed, but no one flinches or double takes.

That should be a win, right?

Weirdly enough, it feels like the opposite, and every nod of casual acceptance chisels away another piece of the girl I used to be.

I push the ache down and start pedaling, letting my legs find their rhythm.

The burn kicks in fast, but it’s a welcome kind of pain.

It’s unlike the other pain, which is already creeping back in, but a slow, sick pulse through my ribs, spine, and hip.

It always starts like this, a whisper that builds until it’s a scream.

I took my pills. Naproxen in the morning and again before we left the bus, washed down with the last of my lukewarm energy drink.

I dosed myself so hard, I felt numb for a while, and I was grateful for it.

I’m thankful for the quiet where pain used to live, but it never lasts.

Now it’s back, clawing its way up my spine, reminding me that I don’t get to forget.

I shift in the saddle, trying to find a position where it doesn’t feel like knives are stabbing into my hip, but there isn’t one. There never is. I don’t let it show, though. I can’t. I’ve done this dance a hundred times.

Pretend the burn in your legs is louder than the pain in your bones, and just keep spinning, keep going. This is the price of being here, of coming back, and pretending to be someone who’s still whole.

This is fine. It doesn’t matter.

It won’t be forever.