Page 67 of Twisted Trails (Rogue Riders Duet #2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Mason

The last run. The final shot.

I feel every race living in my bones, and standing at the top of Snowshoe, I know they’ve all come down to this.

The wind up here cuts through the pads like it knows it’s the end of the season as I shift on my feet and flex my hands inside my gloves, trying not to think about how close the points are.

How one crash could blow it, but one clean line could win it all.

Luc paces like a caged animal beside me, and Otis is buzzing so hard I can feel it through the dirt.

He turns toward us with a grin stretched across his face. “Can you imagine me getting third here? Third!”

Luc chuckles, even as his eyes flick to the starting gate. “Oh, you will, mon ami .”

Alaina is disqualified, Finn is done, and Raine is gone, which means Otis is now a top-three rider. He wouldn’t stand here otherwise, but he still deserves every bit of it.

Otis hops in place on his bike, then spins his bars with a flick. “Whatever happens, I just want you guys to know I can’t wait to be one team next year. ”

Luc and I share a glance that’s loaded with quiet understanding.

“Same,” I say, and it’s not just lip service.

Luc was surrounded by fans last year but always felt alone.

I was alone.

Otis gets the nod from the official, rolls up to the gate, and lets loose a whoop of excitement as he drops in.

Luc pulls in a slow breath, but before he puts on his helmet, he turns to me. “You good?”

I force a smile. “Send it, Delacroix .”

He gives me an offended look. “The hell?” He grabs my chin guard and tugs me toward him. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Ah, shite.

I should’ve known he wouldn’t just let the fake smile go. That’s not who he is. Who we are.

I don’t want to tell him what’s been bugging me since yesterday, what kept me up all night, but if I don’t say anything, he’ll drop in distracted, wondering what I held back from him, and I don’t want that.

We all learned the lesson of what can happen when you face the mountain like that with Finn and Alaina.

“What if I win?” The words are barely more than a whisper.

Luc grins, relief and joy shining in his eyes. “Then you win.”

“No, I mean,” I pull my goggles up so he can see my eyes. “What if I win the race and the overall? I’d be taking your shot at becoming a legend, snatching the winning four World Cups in a row from you.”

Luc shrugs. “I’m already legendary.”

I huff and shove his shoulder, and his smile turns heated .

“Maybe you will, or maybe I’ll win and take the overall from you.

” He leans in a little closer. “This is sport, Mase. It’s about the better man winning.

This is what we live for, and I don’t want this…

” he gestures between us, “… to ever turn ugly. I want our rivalry to stay right here where it belongs. On the track.”

His hand moves to my chest, pressing right over my heart. “But off it? In the evening? You’re still the man I want climbing into my bed. You’re still the one who fucks me into forgetting how to breathe, and I’m still gonna be the one who drives you mad.”

A breath punches out of me, somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

God, this man.

He holds my eyes. “Out there, it’s you against me, but in here?” He taps my chest twice. “It’s us against the world, and nothing’s gonna change that. If you win, I’ll love it for you, but I won’t make it easy for you either, Pretty Boy.”

I smile, because how could I not? “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

Luc’s grin softens, less devil-may-care and more real. His eyes shine, something unspoken breaking free. “I love you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like he’s been waiting to say it for ages but couldn’t hold it in a second longer.

Shite, did he just?

Okay then.

“I love you too.”

His breath catches.

“I’ll be happy for you, too, you know. If you win.” I brush my fingers through the back of his hair, tugging him a little closer. “But don’t think I’m not gonna give you a fucking chase, baby.”

He chuckles and pulls my chin guard down to get to my lips, leaning in and tilting his head like he’s about to kiss me. His mouth brushes close enough that my breath stutters. I lean back instinctively, flicking a glance toward the UCI official at the start gate who’s watching us.

Luc laughs at the face I’m making, full of mirth. “I’ll tell the world if you let me. I’m not ashamed of this or us. Or you.” His gloved hand drifts down and brushes against mine. “You’re my man. Everyone should know that. Just like everyone should know Alaina’s ours.”

I stare at him. At this idiot who barreled into my life like a French hurricane, tossing everything upside down, with no intention of ever leaving. Who annoyed the hell out of me every time we spoke, and who I once swore I’d never let close because getting close meant getting hurt.

Now he’s the reason I’m standing here with hope in my chest and laughter on my lips. He’s one of the reasons I don’t feel like a pariah anymore. He’s loud, messy, and infuriating, but he’s mine .

Fuck it.

I grab his face and kiss him deep, fast, and shameless, making him hum against my lips, and when I pull back, he’s glowing like a fucking sunrise.

“Try to keep up, Payne .”

“Only if you give me something to chase, Delacroix .”

The official clears his throat and steps forward. “Sixty-nine, you’re up.”

“I still can’t believe you picked that number,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’re such a walking cliché.”

Luc’s grin turns wicked as he tugs on his helmet and snaps his goggles into place. “I’ll show you how cliché I can be after the finish line.”

I choke on a laugh. “ Christ on a bike. ”

“Nope. Just Luc.”

He starts rolling forward, hips swaying like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. He glances over his shoulder, voice a low purr. “Try not to think about doing my number while you’re riding.”

I watch him drop in, heart pounding, blood singing.

One more run.

Let’s-fucking-go, Delacroix.

The crowd goes wild for him, a wall of chainsaws, cowbells, and cheers sounding, and before I know it, it’s my turn.

Everything Dad and I have bled and broken for—carried on our backs for an entire fucking season—all comes down to this.

I roll forward, eyes locked on the line ahead as the wind cuts across my pads and tries to crawl under my skin. It’s colder up here than it should be, or maybe that’s just my nerves trying to jump out of my body.

My fingers twitch around the grips as I try to even out my short bursts of breath into something more controlled. I flex my legs once, twice.

The official nods, and the countdown starts.

Three.

Two.

One!

I drop.

“ Go in high, brake before the second root, hop the dip, trust the exit.”

Finn’s advice echoes in my brain above the static and adrenaline.

The first corner is slick, but I take it high, tires biting just enough. The second root section flows beneath me like I’ve already memorized the rhythm because I have.

I let the trail do the talking, letting muscle memory, Greer’s expertise, and instinct carry me through the next section, over the loose rock, into the first drop.

I land clean and fast. So fast, it’s even a shock to me.

The trail narrows, then opens up into a sweeping chute, and the sound hits me all at once.

The crowd.

It’s like someone turns the volume up, and suddenly the air is filled with voices yelling my number.

My name.

I almost lose the line right there.

They aren’t whispers. No muttered comments or snide remarks.

They’re cheering .

For me.

“Payne! Payne! Payne!”

The effect is as eerie as it is astonishing.

I dig in harder, pushing through the next few turns with everything I’ve got, trading in my fury for confidence and force, every nerve wired to the dirt.

I can feel how fast I am. How good this run is.

Midway through a pedal stroke, there’s a loud snap before something gives, and then there’s slack where there shouldn’t be any.

No fucking way.

I glance down and find my chain loose and flailing, dancing near my crank.

“ Shite .”

That’s the only second I get to curse fate and the universe because I have to make a fast decision.

Pedaling is off the table, but I have more momentum than ever. Shifting my weight, I balance my feet on the pedals and let the bike glide. I’ve got no drive now, nothing to push into, but I’ve still got lines.

I’ve still got flow.

Keep rollin’, rollin’, rollin’.

Oh, fuck you, Finn Greer . I could’ve listened to your damn melody theory without having to take it so literally.

I crouch lower and lean into the rhythm, pumping into every transition like my life depends on it, using every root and rut to build speed, not lose it.

I hit a berm so clean I nearly forget I’m chainless, until the flats remind me that there’s no more help coming.

I’ve got what I’ve got, and if I lose it, I’m done.

But I’m not thinking about losing.

I’m thinking about that time in Val di Sole, about the way I kissed the mud halfway down the track, how my shoulder popped out of place, and how I finished that run with pain screaming through every inch of me. I still won, and if I could do that ?

I can win this.

The track gets meaner as it descends, and my lungs are clawing at my ribs, my legs are numb, my arms are on fire. It’s a physical track on a good day, but this is something else. I’m bleeding air out of my fucking eyes, but I don’t slow. I can’t, because there it is.

The drop. Her drop.

The one that broke her and almost stole her away from me.

“This one’s for you, Bambi,” I whisper, and lean hard over my bars, so I hit it full-send, no brakes.

I fly for a few seconds before the impact on the other side punches the air straight out of my lungs.

My suspension compresses so hard it nearly rebounds me off the trail, but I hold it, and fuck, I don’t even want to imagine what it felt like for her when the bike gave out underneath her right here.