Page 74 of Twisted Trails (Rogue Riders Duet #2)

ONE AND A HALF YEARS LATER

Alaina

Hiccup.

Fuck.

A chuckle follows the sound my traitorous diaphragm just made, and my head whips left, my short braid swinging like it wants to throw hands for me.

“What?” Otis asks, already halfway to looking guilty, like I’ve caught him with a hand in the cookie jar. Which, knowing him, wouldn’t be a stretch.

“You laughed,” I accuse.

“No, that was a concerned wheeze.”

“Cool. Thanks. Really feeling the team spirit.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes dropping back to his front wheel, but he’s back to grinning.

“Shut up and spin,” I grumble, trying to swallow the lump crawling up my throat. It’s just nerves. That’s all. Big race jitters. Normal shit. At least for me.

Except there’s nothing normal about today.

We’re all lined up on the rollers at the top of the hill, warming up for the final World Cup race of the season.

Snowshoe .

Luc is to my right, legs spinning smooth and fast, sunglasses perched on his nose like we’re just on holiday.

Mason is next to him, jaw locked, eyes forward, already in the zone, and in front of us, arms crossed, cap pulled low, is Finn, in full team manager mode.

He’s stone-faced and watching everything, but when he catches me looking, his mouth twitches.

He steps up to my side, hooks a finger around the end of the braid that barely brushes my collarbone, and tugs. “Relax, baby girl.”

Luc glances over, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, but his grin is all too visible as he rests his elbows on his bars. “ Petite, are you nervous?”

“Nope. Not one bit.”

If the French menace smells blood, he’ll pounce, and that’s not happening right now.

He smirks anyway, like he knows I’m lying.

Because I am nervous.

So damn nervous.

Last season was my first racing in the men’s elite league as myself, and I was still recovering and figuring out how far I could push my body without breaking it again. Somehow, I still managed to place fourth in the overall.

Fourth.

The only three riders ahead of me were the ones warming up beside me now.

My team.

This year, there is no ghostly weight pressing against my ribs every time I draw breath.

There’s still pain, and there always will be pain, but it’s the kind I manage, not the kind that manages me.

The medications are down to a whisper on the worst days, and the crash lives more in scar tissue than nightmares now.

Which is all thanks to my therapist. She’s so good, I made sure the guys could talk to her, too, and they all jumped at the opportunity. And yeah, we all still spiral sometimes, but now we spiral together. We catch each other. We choose to talk.

This season, we’re all in top form. Mentally and physically, and so close in points, that the outcome of this race will decide the overall winner.

Otis is sitting comfortably in fourth, and he’s glowing like a Labrador who just got adopted. He’s not even pretending to be mad about missing the podium. He’s just happy to be here, and I’m still so damn glad to have him on this team.

Luc won the overall last season—his fourth, even if not in a row—and became the legend he was always destined to be in this sport. Mason was right behind him, and Otis pulled third.

But this year?

Maybe, maybe— it’s mine.

I know this track better than both of them and have ridden it more times than all of them combined. I’ve bled on it, sobbed on it, healed on it. I made peace with the ghosts here, and I’m not afraid anymore.

But I’m still fucking nervous.

Finn narrows his eyes at me. “You sure you’re good?”

I nod. “Yeah.” But another hiccup escapes before I can stop it.

He catches my chin, his thumb gliding across my bottom lip in that maddening way that makes my breath hitch, and he leans in, close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath.

“ Breathe ,” he murmurs. “You’re fine.”

He’s trying to look all confident, calm, and devastatingly hot, and it would be working, except a tiny pink nose twitches beside his ear, followed by a second, and a third, and then a fourth.

I bite my lip, hard, to keep the laugh down, because while Finn is being all heroic and steady, his hoodie is doing its best to strangle him under the combined weight of four tiny rats.

Luc was very sure Bristol was a boy when he bought him for Mason’s birthday.

Spoiler alert—s he is not.

Honestly, it’s on brand. I mean, this is the same man who thought I was a guy for the better part of a season.

Thanks to that little misjudgment , we’ve got rats everywhere . Everyone has one now. It’s like a plague but adorable.

Mine is named Phoenix, a little white and dark brown fluffball who’s currently curled into the crook of Finn’s neck, nestled right up against Quebec, his all-white rat with a superiority complex. Their mom and dad are sleeping beside them, as if Finn is just another spot for a race-day nap.

And they’re not the only ones.

Piper has one. So does Dane, though he pretends he doesn’t like his, even though we all heard him coo at it last week. Otis usually carries his around like a lucky charm, tucked in his pocket whenever he’s not racing.

Right now, his is with Jim, who’s not only obsessed with his own little guy, but also with everyone’s . He even built them a full-on rat palace in the new team bus, complete with hammocks, tunnels, and a damn miniature ramp system.

It’s excessive but also kind of amazing.

After the Great Rat Surprise of the season, we made sure they were all fixed. Spayed. Neutered. Whatever the official term is for making sure Luc never accidentally starts a rodent dynasty again.

And that honestly feels like the most responsible thing this team has ever done.

Finn grins at my laughter before he brushes his nose against mine, and the weight of everything suddenly goes quiet.

“Kick their asses,” he whispers, and then he kisses me so soft and certain that everything stills. Well, until?—

“Hey!” Luc calls out, feigning outrage. “I heard that!”

Mason snorts. “Yeah, Greer. Way to stay professional. Very motivational. Inspiring for all your athletes. You’re so not playing favorites.”

Finn smirks, unbothered, and peels himself away from me. Then he steps over to Otis and holds out a fist. “Hit that.”

Otis fist bumps him with way too much enthusiasm. He loves the Offspring song Finn chose as his melody.

“I’m heading down now,” Finn announces, reaching out to steal Luc’s sunglasses right off his face and sliding them on as he backs toward the gondola station. “Gotta be at the finish when you maniacs come through.”

“Hey!” Luc calls after him. “What about us , coach? No pep talk? Nothing inspirational?”

Finn lifts his hand lazily and flips Luc off over his shoulder without breaking stride. “There’s your inspiration.”

Luc cups his hands around his mouth. “We love you, too, Papi !”

I’m still snickering when an official walks over, headset crackling. “Fisher’s up next. Delacroix, Payne, Crews, you’re on deck.”

“Okay, let’s do this, team!” Otis hops off his bike with a little flair and struts with it toward the start line after the official.

I watch him go, a fond smirk tugging at my lips.

Hiccup.

Dammit.

Mason turns, eyebrows raised. “For real? You’re that nervous?”

I shoot him a glare. “You’re not?”

He shrugs like we’re about to hit a practice lap instead of the final World Cup race. “Not really. I’m just here to have fun, honestly.”

“Fun we will have.” Luc chuckles. “How about we make it a little more fun, though?”

Mason looks intrigued. “What are you saying?”

“Let’s up the stakes.”

I groan. “You guys are children .”

Since we all started racing under the same team banner and actually like each other, our competitive streaks needed a new outlet. Which means now everything is a bet. Who pulls the best line. Who qualifies highest. Who wins.

Anything to keep the fire burning.

Luc tilts his head innocently. “Loser takes it in the ass tonight.”

Mason’s head jerks toward him. “ No. ”

But Luc is already hopping off his bike, laughing as he swings it off the roller. “Sounds like you better not get third, hmm, Payne?”

“Is it even a bet when you enjoy the punishment?” Mason scoffs, but Luc is already sauntering off, yelling over his shoulder.

“To finish first, you have to finish first!”

“Don’t let him do that,” Mason pleads, turning to me, eyes wide with mild panic.

I laugh. “Sounds like you really should win today. ”

Luc glances back to see why we’re not following and yells again, “Don’t worry, Pretty Boy, I’ll bring the lube!”

Mason’s eyes widen even more at that, and I bark out a laugh, but when I don’t step in, defend him, or try to bargain for a different bet, he just sighs, gets off his bike, and shakes his head.

I hiccup once more, and Mason steps in front of me, locking his dark eyes with mine. He lifts one hand, cups my cheek gently, and lets his thumb glide across my cheekbone.

I hiccup again, and he chuckles.

“If I’m going in third today…” he murmurs, eyes locked on my lips, “… and I’ve got to take it up the ass, then the only thing I’m gonna take is that pink dildo. And only by your hand.”

My eyes go wide, and heat floods my face, and, yeah, lower . My thighs press together on instinct, and suddenly I’m very aware of the absence of the socks I don’t need anymore.

Mason watches my reaction like he’s cataloging every detail. His smirk sharpens into something dangerous. “Will you be a good girl and do that for me?”

Fuck.

He knows exactly what he’s doing, knows how to get under my skin. I’m almost sure he’s doing it to throw me off my game, to make sure he won’t finish third today, so I open my mouth to accuse him when it hits me.

He is doing it on purpose but not for the reason I thought.

“You said that to distract me,” I mutter.

He brushes his thumb along my cheek again, slower this time. “Did it work?”

I wait for a beat, but the nerves don’t come back. At least, not more than what’s normal before a race, and the urge to hiccup is gone .

A small, real smile tugs at my lips. “Yeah. It did.”