Page 70 of Twisted Trails (Rogue Riders Duet #2)

I remember the soul-crushing panic when I’d thought something had happened to Mason’s bike that day four months ago, holding my breath as I waited for his bike to snap in two like mine had because of Isla’s sabotage.

But then Finn pointed out that it was the chain, and we got to watch in awe at how Mason handled the setback.

Like a world-class pro.

Thinking of Isla doesn’t fill me with the same rage it used to. Not even close.

She and her brother came clean, and they did self-report everything to the authorities, as they promised.

They took the consequences too—heavy fines, court-mandated apologies, financial compensation, and a fat slab of probation.

Isla was lucky to avoid formal charges and jail time, mostly because she was a minor when it all happened, but also because I told Dad’s lawyers not to push it too hard.

She’s a bitch, and she deserves everything she got, but I’m not cruel enough to wish a life in prison on her, even for attempted murder. That was never the point. I never wanted bars for them, I wanted exposure. Humiliation. And that? She got in spades.

Isaac called me a few weeks ago to apologize in person. I almost didn’t pick up, but I did, and we talked for over an hour.

He told me that on the day I crashed, he found Isla crouched next to my bike.

He went over to see what she was doing, but she walked off and claimed she hadn’t touched anything.

He tried to check, and that’s probably what I saw.

But when nothing looked obviously wrong, and he started worrying about being seen near my setup, he shrugged it off.

When I crashed, he knew it was because of her, but he stayed quiet.

He was scared of what would happen to her if he told somebody what he knew.

He thought that with us leaving the circuit, he could just turn a blind eye and forget about it.

But then he found out just how far Isla had gone with Mason, plus lying to him about Luc, and he could no longer carry the guilt that had already eaten at him for years.

Even when she told him that most of it was because she thought she was helping him .

He works as a health coach now, and Isla is back home with their family, going to therapy. I told him that if he ever came back to the circuit, I’d be okay with it. I don’t think I’d be fine if Isla did, but he wasn’t the bad guy, even if he’s a fucking dick.

He just got caught in the wreckage of what she did, and I understand that kind of devotion between siblings. How far you’ll go to protect them and how it can become toxic too.

I can forgive Isaac for loving his sister, and I can forgive her too. Not for her sake, but for mine. To finally unclench my fists and let go of the wreckage I’ve been white-knuckling for years. To carve out enough space in my chest to dream again .

Enough space for hope.

Even if the UCI never lets me race again, fuck it .

They can’t stop me from working. Jim already told me he was fine with me being the second mechanic on the team, saying he’ll train me some more when he visits in a few weeks.

He’s staying with élise right now—something about helping her repair her car—but he swore he’d carve out time for the team once things “settled.” Whatever that means.

I’ll learn it all, one bolt, one brake bleed, one busted derailleur at a time, and when I’m strong enough, I’ll get back on the bike too. Not to race or to win, but to ride.

There’s a knock on the door, and Luc snorts. “Isn’t it still the holidays? Who the fuck’s knocking now?”

Mason shakes his head. “It’s January seventh. Normal people started working days ago.”

Luc scoffs. “Normal people. Since when do you hang out with normal people? Who the hell comes up here in the middle of winter, through all this snow?”

“Guess I’ll get it if no one else will.” Finn sighs, already heading toward the door.

I hear low murmurs, two voices, maybe more, before Finn comes back in, looking a little surprised. “We’ve got guests.”

“Who?” I ask because Luc is right, we don’t exactly have friends outside our small circle.

“Officials from the UCI.”

I chuckle and glance up at Mason with a crooked smile. “They definitely want to talk to you.”

He shrugs. “I don’t think so. I’ve had enough emails and calls to last a lifetime. They wouldn’t come all this way just to talk about it again.”

Mason standing up to the UCI and refusing to stay silent forced their hand.

They’ve hired professionals to put new systems in place.

People who actually give a damn about rider well-being— all riders.

Juniors, Elites, Privateers. There’s finally a real safe space to talk about sexual assault, bullying, and mental health.

A place that listens and acts when something is wrong.

It’s the right move, the only move, and I’m so damn proud of Mason for making it happen and for shaking the sport awake.

“They asked to talk to you, Al,” Finn says quietly, something wary in his voice, making my stomach drop.

Fuck.

Can they stop me from working with the team, after all?

I ease off Mason’s lap and smooth down my hair. It’s a mess, awkward now, at a weird length, and always in my eyes as I grow it back out, but I don’t have time to care.

Finn takes my hand and gives it a squeeze as we walk to the door, where two officials are standing just outside the threshold in the cold.

“Miss Crews,” the older one says, his breath visible in the air.

“Good morning,” I answer, trying hard to sound polite and not let my voice shake. Finn’s hand in mine helps. I can’t mess this up, not for me, and especially not for the rest of them. “Would you like to come in? I can get you some coffee or something.”

“No thanks,” the younger one says, glancing at his clipboard. “This’ll be a short visit. We don’t want to keep you long, but we have an offer.”

I tilt my head. “An offer?”

What the?

“Have you been keeping up with our socials?” Mr. Clipboard asks.

I snort. “Not since my team manager made me block all of you.”

Finn huffs a laugh and squeezes my hand, because yeah, he so made me do that after he caught me doom-scrolling at two in the morning, shoulders clenched and jaw tight, muttering replies I’d never send.

He sat on my phone until I agreed to delete the apps, but part of me still remembers every word, post, comment thread, and sweaty Reddit theory and rage-filled Facebook rant.

Half the world called me a fraud, the other half called me a feminist icon.

Some thought I was the reason the sport was falling apart.

Some said I’d just saved it, but no matter what they thought of me , whether I was brave or manipulative or both, it was clear who the real clown in this circus was.

The UCI.

They became the meme, the punchline, because it didn’t matter if people were screaming that I cheated or cheering me on— the UCI let it happen.

“We just announced that there will be some changes next season, since there were some… let’s say, developments,” the older UCI guy adds.

“Cut the bullshit. Just say what you came to say,” Luc says from behind me.

I turn to find him and Mason standing right there, both rats nestled in Luc’s hood, looking just as curious as their daddies.

The guy sighs. “There was a petition, signed by the entire men’s elite field.”

My stomach flips. “Okay.”

“They’re refusing to start next season if you’re not allowed to race.”

Holy shit?

“Wait. You mean, I can go back to the women’s division?”

“No,” the older official says. “They’re asking for you to stay in men’s elite. ”

My ears ring so loudly that everybody around me must hear it too. “I… what?”

“Yeah,” the younger one mutters. “That’s exactly how I reacted.”

The older one ignores him. “We’ve had internal discussions. Even if that’s what the whole male field advocates for, we can’t make a one-time exception just for you, so we’ve created a new rule. Any woman who consistently qualifies within the top three men’s elite time range can start with the men.”

Luc reaches up to hold my upper arms. “That’s no one but her.”

The guy shrugs. “Exactly.”

I turn to look at the men behind me, one by one. “Did you do that?”

“I’d love to say yes, but it was all Otis,” Mason says, clearing his throat.

“We just signed the petition when he brought it around and called some of the other riders.” Luc shrugs.

I stare at him as my brain struggles to catch up. Otis did this. Otis.

I’m buying that man a new bike and a year’s supply of trail snacks.

“Yes, thank you for that, Mr. Delacroix,” Mr. Clipboard mutters. “Thanks to your phone calls, the entire top ten is now threatening to boycott and go on a social media rampage.”

Finn chuckles under his breath.

“So…” I cross my arms. “You need me, or you don’t have a next season.”

The older rep nods. “We’d like to offer you an official elite men’s start position. You’d still have to qualify to race, but?—”

Luc cuts him off. “We all know she will. ”

I lift my chin. “I’m still recovering. I had hip surgery. I’m not at full strength, and I’m not sure if I’d make the required time in the men’s top three this season.”

“Stop sabotaging yourself,” Mason whispers in my ear. “You know you can do it.”

“You proved you’re able to race the times last season,” the UCI guy adds with a nod.

“That’s enough to allow you to start this season.

The marketing team’s already spinning it.

You’ll be the face of reform. Mr. Payne’s been pushing for systemic change, and we’re not pretending we didn’t screw this up. ”

“So you’re going to profit off the same trauma you ignored,” Finn mutters.

“Correct,” the rep says flatly. “We all messed this up.” He looks at me. “And now we’re trying to do better, but it would be a much better look if we did that together . You’ve said you love this sport. So do we. And the UCI is willing to step up.” He pauses again. “Will you? ”