Page 43 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

“Still. You’d know.” She pulls out her phone. “Let’s check. I’m not a doctor, but Google and I are basically interns by now.”

I groan. “This is hell. ”

Piper scrolls, mumbling to herself. “Well, apparently, it is possible. I’ve had a lot of female riders in here who don’t get their period regularly. All the training, stress, hormone imbalances… it messes everything up. Maybe yours were all scrambled and now they’re rebalancing?”

I shoot her a look. “Why would they? I’m not training less. If anything, I’m doing more than before.”

“Okay… maybe not then,” she admits. “Maybe you have a stomach bug? Ate something bad. Magnesium overdose? You guys drink those giant recovery drinks like it’s your job. Normal people would hang over the toilet for days.”

I perk up. “That could actually be it. I chugged a full bottle this morning before practice.”

“There you go,” she says, visibly relieved. “Let’s go with that, but let me work on your hip a little if it’s giving you that much hell.”

I nod stiffly and flop back with a grunt, pulling up my hoodie to free my hip and stomach, and trying to breathe through the steady throb in my abdomen.

As Piper starts working, her fingers move too precisely to be soothing.

She finds a knot on my side near my hipbone and presses, and a bolt of pain shoots down my leg like fire.

I hiss. “Jesus, woman.”

“Breathe. I’m not even going hard yet.”

I lie there in pained silence while she keeps going, her thumbs digging into muscle that feels like it’s just one big bruise.

“I’m sorry you can’t have kids,” she murmurs quietly after a while.

I bark a laugh, half-real, half-reflexive-pain-response. “Oh, that’s the least of my problems.”

“You don’t want kids?”

“Nope. Never wanted them. Can’t see children in my future. ”

Not that I have a future anyway, I think but don’t say.

Piper presses her palm down into the joint of my hip and grinds into it, and a raw, involuntary curse claws its way out of my throat.

She winces. “Sorry, tight as hell there.”

“No shit,” I grit out, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. “What about you? Do you want kids?”

“Sure, with the right man.”

“The right man like… my brother?”

Her cheeks pinken. “I really said that, didn’t I?”

I smirk. “You so did.”

“Did he… say anything?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. “But he’s still sick as fuck, so maybe you’re lucky, and he thinks it was a fever dream.”

“You’re only saying that to make me feel better.”

“Yep.”

She groans. “He’s so going to remember it, isn’t he?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fuck.”

“Hey.” I rest back on my elbows as Piper digs into another knot. “I mean, shoot your shot. He’s single, he’s a nice guy. And honestly, girl, you’re pretty cool yourself.”

I don’t say the rest aloud. That I’d be glad, relieved to know somebody is there for him when I’m not anymore.

She exhales through her nose. “I’ll think about it. But maybe not. Maybe we just go our separate ways from now on.”

“Not gonna happen.” I raise an eyebrow. “I need you, and I need him. So, you’re kinda stuck.”

“Stuck with the hot-as-fuck Dane Crews,” she muses. “Yeah, there are worse fates.”

“Ew,” I mutter. “He’s still my brother.”

“Sorry.” She lifts her hands in mock surrender. “Anyway, there’s nothing I could really find . I mean, aside from the obvious, your muscles are all in tension, rock hard around the hips. But for the new pain, if I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s period stuff.”

“It hurts like a motherfucker though.”

“Yeah, it does. Want painkillers?”

“Already on them. Thanks.”

She leans against the counter, folding her arms. “Well, if I’m wrong about it being the drink messing with your stomach, you’re about to make history as the first guy on the circuit to get his period.”

“Ha ha,” I deadpan.

“Speaking of gender crises, Otis told me he found you in Delacroix’s room yesterday morning. What was that about?” Her smile is pure maniac.

Fisher, you little gossip.

I sit up. “I’ve got shit to do.”

“No waaait,” she whines as I start pulling down my hoodie. “It was just getting interesting.”

“Uh-huh.”

I’m halfway to the door when she says, “Wait, hold up.”

I stop, glancing back, and she grabs her phone and holds it out. “Put in your number so I can text you mine. Next time, instead of stomping in here like it’s an ER, you could just call.”

“Sorry,” I mumble, taking the phone and typing quickly.

Piper steps forward and hugs me before I can make my exit. “Call me if it gets worse.”

“I will,” I promise quietly when she lets go of me.

The moment I step out of the pit, it hits me just how alive everything is, with people everywhere.

Riders laughing, mechanics hauling gear, someone walking past with fries drowning in cheese, and something that smells suspiciously like bratwurst. The whole place buzzes with energy. Adrenaline and carbs in equal measure .

My stomach growls, hunger now overriding the nausea and pain. Maybe I should get some food for Dane and me. He’s probably hungry for more than the sad crackers and canned soup he’s been living on. Putting something in my stomach will probably help settle it. And maybe I’ll find Luc there.

I start toward the gondola station, since there’s a restaurant next to it, tucked just above the pit level with a little walk-up takeaway counter. Fries. Schnitzel. Kaiserschmarrn.

But I barely make it to the edge of the locker room zone when a sharp voice cuts through the air.

“Crews! Number seven!”

I go rigid like I’ve been shot.

One of the UCI officials waves me over, stepping fully out of the big white tent half-swallowed by the gondola building. “We’re doing doping tests. Come on.”

“Wait, what? That wasn’t on the schedule.”

“That’s why they’re called surprise tests.” He points toward the men’s bathroom. “Go ahead.”

Fuck.

I step inside hesitantly and immediately want to back out. Two officials in blue lanyards are posted like statues beside the row of urinals, each holding a clipboard, supervising the racers standing at the second and fourth urinals. One of the racers is Mason.

He’s got his back to me, thank God, but the sound of him pissing into a cup might be the most mortifying thing I’ve ever heard. I whip my head away so fast I nearly sprain my neck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My breath hitches, and my pulse is in my ears.

Breathe, Alaina. Just breathe.

This isn’t news. We knew this could happen .

You can’t ask for privacy during a doping test. The officials are literally allowed to stand there and watch you piss into the cup. That’s the whole point. No switching samples, no cheating, or faking it. And yeah, I don’t have a fucking dick. But Dane prepared for this.

“My manager…” I start, sounding a little shaky. “He arranged for me to do all doping tests via blood.”

The official frowns, flipping through his clipboard. “I don’t see anything listed under medical exemptions.”

My heart plummets straight into my gut, and I start to ramble. “There has to be. I lost a kidney. Urine tests might not be reliable and could skew the results. I don’t want to risk that, that’s why I’ve been moved to the blood-only protocol.”

He squints down again, unconvinced. “Nothing here says that. No flagged notes. No UCI clearance filed.”

“I can go get him. Dane, my manager. He has the documents. Just let me…”

I move to turn, already halfway to the door, when his hand closes around my arm.

“Once an athlete is notified of a doping test, they’re not permitted to leave. It’s a WADA rule. You step out now, it’s logged as a refusal, and a refusal means automatic disqualification, Crews.”

My stomach lurches as a hot wave of panic shoots up my spine, hotter than the pain that’s been gnawing at me all day. The walls feel too close, the air too thin, and my skin starts to crawl.

“No. I can’t. I lost a kidney. You can’t ask me to…”

“You can provide a urine sample now,” the official says evenly. “And if there’s a medical issue, we’ll follow up with a blood test. That’s the standard protocol when something seems off.”

“I can’t!” My voice cracks on the last word. “I’m not supposed to . I’m flagged for blood testing only.”

“Not according to my list.”

“Can I at least call my manager?” I ask, already digging my phone out of my hoodie pocket. “Please.”

He hesitates, then nods once. “One call. He needs to come here himself with the documentation. No phone confirmations.”

The relief has me nearly sagging to the floor. “Thank you!”

I hit Dane’s contact and hold the phone to my ear.

One ring.

Two.

Voicemail.

Shit.

He’s probably asleep again. Cold, dead to the world, of course , he is. My hand drops to my side slowly, and my heart pounds in my ears. “He’s not picking up, but I can’t do this. Please? I need the blood test, it’s a medical issue.”

“Then we’ll follow up . But right now, I need a urine sample. Like I said, it’s this or it gets reported as a refusal.”

Mason seals his sample and places it on the tray, his face set in that unreadable scowl he wears as he walks to the sink to wash his hands.

When he goes to leave, I reach out before I can think, fingers curling into the sleeve of his hoodie. “Mason, wait.”

His eyes flick to me, and his brow furrows, the crease between them deepening as he takes in the room.

The official, the tension, my visible distress that I’m too panicked to mask.

He looks at my hand bunched around his sleeve before his eyes come up to mine again.

They’re not soft, but not cruel either. Just wary.

I turn to the official, swallowing hard. “If he goes, if he gets my manager, can we wait for him? Just a few minutes? ”

The official exhales hard, already tired of this conversation, and checks his watch. “Five minutes. Tops. Then you’re pissing in this cup, Crews.”

I look back at Mason. “Please. Can you go grab Dane for me? Tell him to bring the medical exemption. He’s in the bus.”

Mason scans me like he’s trying to figure out what I’m hiding, and yeah, it probably looks pretty sketchy. He holds my gaze for one more long, silent beat, then he dips his chin, turns, and takes off at a sprint.

The official walks back out and calls out another name, motioning for the rider to step in. The guy walks past me, all easy swagger and zero anxiety, and takes the empty urinal like it’s no big deal.

Because it isn’t, for them.

But I’m standing here, heart in my throat, palms sweating, stomach cramping from pain and all the what-ifs clawing through my head.

“You know…” the official says, not looking up from his clipboard, “…. not doing the test just makes you look suspicious. You riders act like refusing is safer, but it never is. You do the urine test, and we compare it with blood later if there’s anything off. Easy as that.”

“ Or …” I say sharply, “… we could just do the blood as we’re supposed to. With the kidney issue. Like it was documented.”

He huffs at me, clearly losing patience.

Another rider is called in, another bottle cap is unscrewed, and there’s another splash of sound I try not to hear. Then there’s a thundering of footsteps from outside.

Thank fuck.

Dane skids to a stop just inside the threshold, breathing like he just ran a full stage uphill in jeans. His hair is flattened on one side, and he’s clutching his tablet as he coughs violently into the crook of his arm, nearly folding in half.

“Step back,” the official snaps. “We have riders here who can’t get sick.”

“Sorry,” Dane rasps, trying not to wheeze. “Here. Allen Crews has an approved medical exemption on file. All anti-doping tests are to be conducted via blood, no exceptions.”

He holds out his tablet, a document already pulled up on screen, turning it toward the official and leaning against the door frame, probably to help him keep upright.

Shit.

The guy takes it with a sigh, scans it quickly, and makes a noise in his throat that sounds suspiciously like ugh, fine. He frowns and mutters into his walkie-talkie, radioing someone from the anti-doping team.

Only then do I breathe.

Not fully.

But enough to stay standing.

Dane’s face is pale and clammy, the tension in his shoulders wound tight, but his eyes are on me when I look at him.

“Thank you,” I murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

“Anytime, Speedbump.”