Page 8 of Broken Breath (Rogue Riders Duet #1)

CHAPTER FIVE

Alaina

Finn disappears into the crowd like he wasn’t just sitting next to me, trying to peel back my skin with his stare to see what’s underneath.

But he didn’t.

Or, I don’t think he did.

I thought for sure he would say something after the hiccup, but maybe it was just the disruption that startled him, a weird sound in a high-pressure moment. Maybe he forgot that was even a thing I used to do. It’s been years, and it’s not like I was ever important to him in the first place.

Not like he was to me.

I shake the thought off and dig my gloved fingers into my knee pads to focus as the speaker crackles overhead.

“At the top, the final rider of the day, number sixty-nine. Luc Delacroix!”

The crowd erupts in a sea of voices shouting his name. “Luc, Luc, Luc!” The syllables bounce off the mountains, reverberating through the finish corral.

“French fry,” Raine mutters under his breath, making me stiffen, and my fingers curl into my gloves .

What an asshole.

I fucking hate that Raine is sitting in first right now, and he beat my time. It makes my stomach twist with something bitter.

Breathe, Alaina.

This is fine.

It’s just the first race of the season, and the World Cup isn’t about a single win. It’s about consistency and points, not only podiums. It’s not over.

A win earns 250 points. Second place gets 200, third 175, fourth 150, and so on. Only the top ten riders score points.

Winning a World Cup race is great, sure. It gives you prestige, prize money, and bragging rights, but I’m not here for a single victory. I’m here for the overall.

Even if I don’t win every race, staying on the podium can still get me the title. It all depends on how the others ride. Finishing third today would put me on 175 points. It’s a gap, but a manageable one.

I let out a slow breath, steadying myself.

This is fine.

Remember the long game.

Shifting slightly in the seat, I try to balance my weight on my good side, ignoring the sharp pull deep in my hip.

Fuck, this is harder than I remembered. The smaller races I competed in to qualify for the World Cup were child’s play compared to this track.

I knew it would be tough and brutal, but I didn’t think my body would be screaming at me so hard.

Every muscle aches, and my bones feel like they will rattle apart.

My old injury is like a rusted nail buried in my bones, pressing deeper with every impact. A pain that flares when I push too hard and then lingers, whispering reminders with every breath that I’m only held together by metal and sheer fucking stubbornness.

People with hardware like mine probably aren’t supposed to compete in elite-level sports, and definitely not one of the hardest sports in the world. Oh well.

I shift again, just slightly, trying not to wince and keeping my face blank. No one notices because no one ever notices. Although Dane probably would.

Which is exactly why he can’t. For the past few months, I’ve made sure he thinks I’ve got it under control, that I know my limits and won’t push myself past the breaking point. He should know better. He raised me.

Breaking myself in half to prove a point is practically a family trait.

“What a run from Delacroix!” The announcer’s voice booms through the air, startling me. “He’s proven he’s ready for a new season on top!”

Luc comes flying into the last third of the track but then almost crashes, making Isaac jolt in his seat, fists gripping his thighs as he leans forward. The whole row rattles with the movement, the metal chair beneath me jerking hard enough to send a fresh bolt of pain ripping through my hip.

I’m going to need even more pain meds after this.

I should probably be worried about that.

I’ve been popping Naproxen like Tic Tacs for months, years really, pretending it still works, pretending I’m not already skating on the edge, and the over-the-counter stuff is enough to keep me moving.

It’s not , but at least it won’t trip a doping screen.

I just need to make it through this season.

I’ll patch it with pills, stitch it with grit, and hold it together with duct tape and denial if I have to.

One more season.

After that, it’s over anyway .

“ Come on, you bloody bastard,” Mason mutters under his breath, snapping me out of my thoughts.

I glance at him, drawn to the low rasp of his voice, my gaze catching on the sharp cut of his profile.

He’s got a strong jaw with dark stubble, dark eyes narrowed in focus, and lips pressed together.

He looks good, so intense as his gaze is on the leaderboard, and mine follows, only to find that Luc is one second behind Raine.

Yeah, come on, Luc.

Of course, it would be better for me if he weren’t beating my time, but I’d take him beating me over Raine taking the win any day.

He will beat him. He has to.

I watch the screen showing Luc on the track, the way he moves. It’s fast, reckless, and effortless. The Flying Frenchman. It’s easy to see why everybody calls him that. His tires barely seem to touch the ground, and gravity doesn’t apply to him.

Most of us calculate our lines and strategize every move. We pick apart the track before we drop in, dissecting it to the second, knowing exactly how to attack each turn, rock, and drop.

Luc once said in an interview that he doesn’t think when he rides. No plans. No overanalyzing. Just instinct. And it’s apparent right now to everyone watching, especially in comparison to the rest of us. We fight the course, while Luc doesn’t fight it at all.

He flies.

Like the track bends for him, not the other way around.

The crowd roars, eating it up. Somewhere behind me, a girl shrieks, “I’d let him ruin my life!”

I snort. Yeah, well, he probably would.

Luc is getting faster, shaving off fractions of a second, inching closer to Raine’s time, but it’s not enough. My knee bounces slightly as he eats up the track. Then comes the final jump, and Luc fucking takes it, and not just the jump, he flies way too far and clears the next drop with it too.

What the fuck?

“Did he just…” Mason exhales sharply.

Isaac shoots to his feet, yanking at his hair. “Son of a bitch.”

Mason and I stand, too, as the crowd erupts, the noise turning deafening, and my lips twitch, a grin threatening to break free. Luc found a line no one else even considered, and it just bought him two whole seconds.

“That’s it!” The speakers crackle, the announcer’s voice barely cutting through the roar of the crowd as Luc carries the speed straight into the finish area. “Luc Delacroix takes the first win of the season and claims the World Cup title in Fort William!”

I snap my gaze to the screen. One second faster than Raine.

Fucking maniac.

Luc slams on the brakes, his back tire skidding out as he lets go of his bike, sending it clattering to the ground.

His arms shoot into the air, his chest heaving, and the finish corral explodes around him.

Media, cameras, and fans surge forward, grabbing at him, slapping his shoulders, shoving microphones in his face.

He soaks it up, bouncing on his feet and hyped as hell, obviously eating up every second of it.

Stupid, reckless bastard. I’d already thought he was hot, but this just made him fucking scorching.

I glance at Raine, who looks furious, but before I can revel in it, I feel eyes on the side of my face, and when I turn, I find Mason looking at me. His dark hair is a mess, falling over his forehead, damp with sweat from his helmet, but his deep brown gaze latches onto mine and holds it.

I don’t look away. Instead, I meet his stare, searching.

Do you remember me?

The moment stretches, uninterrupted for too long, while everyone around us celebrates. Cowbells, revving chainsaws, people shouting over each other, it’s so damn loud, and everybody is in motion, except Mason and me.

Then, just barely, his brows pull together before he jerks his head away and stomps off. Pushing his way through the chaos, he disappears into the throng of bodies around Luc, leaving me standing alone.

My chest flutters, breath catching on nothing, like I’m inhaling through a pinhole, and the pain in my hip reminds me again that I’m not as invincible as I thought.

I scan the crowd, but Dane isn’t where I expect him to be, making my heart kick even harder. He was just there, I know he was. I just handed him my bike.

He was right fucking there, standing by the fence, watching, and now he’s not.

Where the fuck is he?

My pulse slams in my ears as my gaze jumps from face to face, searching for familiar shoulders, a worn Team Crews hoodie, a flash of dark hair.

Nothing, just people. Too many fucking people. Faces blur together, shifting, moving, pressing too close, until a streak of blue catches my eye. My bike .

But it’s not standing anymore, it’s on the ground. Lying between shifting bodies, half-hidden and knocked over beneath the chaos. My stomach drops.

No, he wouldn’t.

Dane knows. He fucking knows. Knows what that means to me, what it did to me. He knows that leaving my bike, even for a second, isn’t just careless, it’s the only thing in the world that truly, deeply, completely terrifies me.

And yet, there it is, on its side, abandoned.

Splintered carbon.

Blood slicking my gloves.

Lungs screaming.

I can’t breathe.

My air is gone, and everything inside me seizes as my ribs clamp down. Noise crashes into me and presses against my skull but doesn’t reach me because I’m somewhere else. There isn’t any air there, either.

But there is pain.

So much pain.

That’s the first thing I feel.

A deep, crushing ache that pulses through my body, dull and distant at first, coming from somewhere outside me. Then sharp. So fucking sharp. It slices through me, spreading outward from my ribs, hip, and leg from fucking everywhere.

I can’t move.

I try. I think I try, but nothing happens.

My arms don’t work. My legs don’t work.

Fuck.