Page 6 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER FOUR

Finn

Well, fuck.

I think I might be having a stroke.

Not from the race or the adrenaline, but from the absolute mindfuck who is tearing down the track right now.

Allen Crews.

Bracing my elbows on my knees, I force my gaze away from the rider in blue to the leaderboard where my name still blinks at the top.

It won’t last, it never does. I’m not winning shit, haven’t touched a World Cup win in years, and let’s be real, I’d probably break a hip trying to get there at this point, but that’s fine, it’s not why I’m here.

Still, for now, I’m in the hot seat, which is a wonder by itself, considering how hard it was to concentrate after that.

At most races the hot seat is nothing fancy, just a shaded setup near the finish, three seats lined up like a podium for the fastest so far.

First place gets the middle, second and third flank on either side.

You sit there, every muscle tensed, pretending to relax while the mountain decides whether you’re staying or getting the boot. It’s purgatory with a view .

The metal beneath me creaks as I shift, stretching my fingers out against my thighs, and the crowd hums around me, a restless energy vibrating through the finish corral. The announcer is hyping up the run, but I’m not listening, my thoughts too loud as I watch the track.

I’d been suspicious from the moment I laid eyes on the rookie. That face had itched at my memory, like a song lyric I couldn’t quite place but knew I should remember. Too-familiar molten caramel eyes, a straight nose, full lips.

I know that face.

I know those eyes.

Because years ago, they used to seek me out across pits and podiums. Always bright, always wide and close to awe, like I was a goddamn rock star. Today, they did not look at me in awe, more like I was a speed bump in their way.

The face isn’t as young anymore, not as soft, or as baby-faced. The edges are sharper, the expression harder. It was different enough that I believed it was just a really fucking weird family resemblance. Dane has the same eyes, after all, the same nose too. I almost dismissed it. Almost.

Until that hiccup.

And now I’m watching Allen Crews rip through this track with a riding style I’ve only ever seen from one person in my entire career. A reckless, fearless, seventeen-year-old girl who wanted to be like her big brother so badly that she never learned how to be afraid.

Alaina.

My baby girl.

No one else rides like that, no one else threads the line between control and chaos so precisely, with a rhythm so wild it shouldn’t work, but always does. Or at least, it did until it didn’t.

If I’m good at something, it’s catching the rhythm of a racer. Some riders are all technical, all skill and precision, like a well-rehearsed riff. Others are raw power, more thrash than melody.

Alaina is “ Still Waiting” by Sum 41. Fast, reckless, but there’s control in the madness. More go than technique, but that doesn’t mean she lacks skill. It just means she lets instinct lead the way.

I watch her hit the next section, a brutal rhythm of rocks, uneven landings, and a drop that forces most riders to check their speed, but not her.

She stays off the brakes, lets momentum do the work, trusting her suspension to take the hit.

Then, fuck me , she whips the back end of her bike midair, adjusting her line mid-flight like it’s just another Tuesday.

It’s a move that should have sent her over the bars, a move that only works when you know exactly what the hell you’re doing.

She’s good, way better than she was at seventeen, and even better than most of the guys out here.

Better than me for sure.

I can put down a solid time, maybe even shake things up for a minute, but I’ve been in this sport long enough to know where I stand.

Fourth place. Always. And yeah, that’s not bad, but let’s be real, only the top three actually count.

Hell, most days it feels like only first really matters.

Everything else just blurs into almost, and I’m just barely never quite slow enough to drop into irrelevance.

Some of the guys here live and die by the win like it’s the only thing that matters, and without it, they’re nothing. I’ve never been that guy. I don’t race for the title, the paycheck, or the trophies.

I race because it’s music. There’s something about flying down a track, finding the perfect line, keeping tempo with the dirt under my tires that makes me feel alive.

And that’s why I can’t leave.

I don’t know who I would be without downhill racing.

Everyone calls me Grandpa Greer because at thirty- four, I’m the oldest racer on the circuit.

They joke about it, but they’re not wrong.

My body is a busted rental that’s creaky, taped together, and way past its prime.

My knees ache before I even clip in, my back has more knots than a racecourse in Val di Sole, and don’t get me started on my wrists.

I know my time is up, but I’ve got something worth hanging on for.

I exhale, eyes snapping back to the track just in time to catch Alaina, no, Allen , soaring off a drop with that signature mix of control and recklessness. Pure Crews style. Must be something in the blood.

Dane was “ Can’t Stop” by Red Hot Chili Peppers, smooth, clean, fast, but never desperate. He made it look easy, as if he wasn’t even trying.

That’s why we fit so well. We were on the track to have fun. Fun first, competition second.

I’d say I’m “ Fat Lip ” by Sum 41. I never had that killer instinct to win. I just want to be here, to live in the sound of it, to exist in the song.

But right now, Alaina is coming for the win, and judging by the way she’s tearing this course apart, she’s not planning on leaving without it.

The speakers overhead crackle before the announcer’s voice booms through the air. “What a run! Looks like this Crews is keeping the family legacy alive! Number seven is throwing in the flair here.”

What the hell are you doing, baby girl?

The final section of the track is brutal, but she threads through the rock garden, barely braking, and then she’s at the final stretch in a full sprint. She pedals harder, milking every last drop of speed until she launches off the final drop and lands so cleanly it’s insane.

“This is not just a World Cup debut, it’s a statement! The rookie has arrived!”

The crowd roars as she crosses the line, but she barely reacts. No fist pump or celebration, not even a glance at the screen, but I look at it.

And holy shit.

She just ripped a run so fast it blew mine out of the water.

Alaina brakes hard, tires skidding, dust kicking up like a goddamn smoke bomb.

Then she swings her leg over the bike and rolls it toward Dane, who’s waiting off to the side.

He just takes it, grinning, tapping the top of her helmet as he always used to, and nothing has changed, like this is still normal for them.

But nothing about this is fucking normal.

She finally pulls off the helmet, shaking out short, sweaty hair, her breathing still sharp. Sweat darkens the neck of her jersey, and there’s dust streaked across her arms, matching mine, as she walks toward the hot seat.

I shift over, making space for her in the middle seat, the one reserved for the rider who is currently sitting on top of the leader board.

I slide into the second spot, which has already been vacated by the guy who was just a little slower than me.

He waits a beat for the former third-place holder to get up, then drops into that seat without a word as the last guy disappears into the crowd.

Alaina drops onto the chair beside me, but I don’t say anything at first. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.

Seven years .

Seven years since Dane left.

Seven years since the Crews name vanished from the circuit.

In the moments between practice runs, in hotel rooms where the silence was too loud, in bars when the others laughed too hard and I wasn’t quite drunk enough to forget, and in those quiet spaces between races, I always wondered about them.

What they were doing, or where they were. If they were happy.

I sure as fuck never saw this coming, though.

The way she sits now, right fucking here, next to me, breathing the same post-run adrenaline, feels like a glitch in reality.

I keep stealing glances at her out of the corner of my eye, taking in what should have been obvious when I first laid eyes on her on top of the mountain.

She’s still small, but not in the way she was at seventeen. She’s filled out with some mad muscles. Alaina pushes up her jersey’s sleeves, and my gaze catches on her forearms. Black ink. A tattoo sleeve of flowers, spanning both arms, climbing up her skin.

Wildflowers.

Of course.

“Good job, rookie,” I tell her, testing, watching her for the slightest reaction, but she doesn’t even look at me.

She just gives me a sharp nod, eyes fixed on the leaderboard. She’s still panting, her breath coming in sharp through parted lips, and my gaze flicks downward, a passing glance.

She’s flat.

My brain hiccups.

She’s not supposed to be flat. Even the seventeen-year-old version of Alaina wasn’t flat, not that I was watching or noticing.

Fuck, no.

She was a kid, Dane’s baby sister. Yeah, I knew she had a crush on me back then. I mean, how could I not? But it had been cute. Funny.

Flattering .

And I was sure she’d grow out of it. Eventually, she’d meet someone, get a boyfriend, and move on.

Her eyes flick up sharply, like she can feel me staring, and when her gaze meets mine, there’s nothing soft in it as she frowns.

Yeah.

She definitely grew out of it.

I should stop staring, but before I can even figure out how the fuck I feel about any of it, the crowd starts to murmur, and we both turn to see Payne flying through the last part of the track.