Page 75 of Twisted Trails (Rogue Riders Duet #2)

His smirk softens into something almost tender. “Good.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He kisses me sweetly before murmuring against my lips. “Kick our asses, Bambi. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

I’ve already got everything I ever wanted, but yeah.

Let’s go win a World Cup.

Mason walks off toward the gate just as I grab my bike, and the world goes quiet, the way it always does when a race is this close. My heart is thudding hard, but it’s not from fear. Not pain. It’s readiness.

I roll forward and line up behind him and Luc, tires crackling over the hard-packed gravel. The start gate looms ahead like a guillotine, and I take a long, deep breath.

I take my helmet off my handlebars. It’s matte black like the others, but mine is a little different. Painted pink and blue wildflowers curl around the top like a crown. Finn did that for me before the first race last season.

My fingers tighten around the straps, and I slide the helmet on, then pull the goggles down, setting them in place with a familiar plop. The sound steadies me.

Just like seeing us all in the same colors always does. Our tricot is black with a pink wildflower pattern throughout, and the names and numbers printed across our backs are inked in blue, just like the big RR sprawled across our chests.

I focus on the Payne and the 21 stitched across Mason’s back and let out a slow breath just as he glances over his shoulder.

He flashes me a quick smile before tugging on his helmet.

Luc is already at the gate, the Delacroix and 69 on his back stretching to its limit as he crouches into position, ready to launch .

I smile when I think about what’s written on my back.

11.

Big and proud above Crews .

Luc drops in with a shout that echoes through the trees, and Mason steps up next.

He doesn’t say anything, just turns his head again for one last look.

I can’t see his eyes through his mirrored goggles, but I feel that look.

It’s a touch. A promise. Then he’s gone, too, tires spinning into the first corner.

My turn.

The gate locks with a heavy clunk that echoes in my bones, and my final five seconds start with a beep.

Inhale.

My hands wrap tightly around the grips.

Exhale.

I shift my weight, lean in, every muscle coiled, ready.

Inhale.

The last beep rings out.

And I launch on an exhale.

Everything narrows to the trail in front of me, and the world tunnels into dirt, speed, and instinct as wind roars in my ears.

God, I love this.

The bike moves beneath me like it knows what I want before I do. We’re not fighting each other anymore, we’re synced. Every shift, corner, and second are fluid. I trust it now. I trust me now.

The pain that used to own me doesn’t have a say today. It’s quiet.

For once, it’s just me .

And I’m fast.

The crowd is everywhere, lining the course, screaming my name. I hear it— Alaina! Eleven! Crew s ! —but it folds into the pulse in my veins and becomes part of the air rushing past.

I carve every turn, crush every root, and then I rush toward the jump.

That jump.

The one that almost killed me.

The one that crushed bone, trust, and time.

Today I’m the one crushing it.

I send it clean and fucking fly.

My braid snaps behind me, wind-tossed and wild, and joy bubbles up so fast I can’t hold it back. I let out the girliest, most ridiculous squeal of pure, unfiltered delight, because I’m here. I’m still here, and I get to feel this.

This speed, this freedom, this love for the ride, for the people waiting at the finish, for myself.

I’m so damn glad I didn’t kill myself.

So glad I was strong enough to hold on, brave enough to reach for the hands that kept reaching back. Willing enough to give myself the grace to fall, break, and rage, and still choose to get back up.

No one really wants to go. Most just don’t know how to stay .

But I stayed, and I know, no matter what happens when my tires hit dirt again, I’ll be okay, because now, even when my breath catches, even when it breaks, I trust myself to keep breathing.

I land clean, wheels down, and my bike holds. I hold.

Then I’m tearing through the final section. Legs burning, arms locked, everything screaming forward until I blast through the finish line. The sound of the crowd is so loud it’s almost a wall of noise I have to ride through.

I glance over my shoulder, and the board flashes green.

Green.

I don’t even see the time, don’t know who came second or third, because before I can process any of it, I’m lifted, pulled from my bike and into the air before I’m sat on strong shoulders.

Luc is on one side, Mason is on the other, both gripping my legs, both screaming their heads off. I clutch at their hair to steady myself, laughing breathlessly, body still shaking from the ride. Finn is right there, too, reaching up to take my hand and squeeze it hard.

“Holy shit, you did it, baby girl!” he shouts, eyes watery, but face cracked wide open in the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on him.

Otis barrels in with a whoop, tossing his helmet in the air. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

I grin down at him, then pull off my helmet and scan the sea of noise, movement, and sweat-streaked color, searching for our black, pink, and blue.

And there it is.

All our people. All in our colors.

Dane, standing behind the barrier, Piper tucked into his side, her little baby bump cradled under his palm. His eyes are shining, and a little teary, and my eyes burn in answer.

Next to them, Jim has an arm wrapped around élise, both of them beaming.

Finn’s parents are there, too, flanking Kevin and Rachel, who are still in their kits, still dirty from the junior race.

They both won the overall in their divisions today, and next year, they’re coming up to race elite with us.

Maybe I won’t be the only woman racing the men’s field anymore.

Rachel is a fast little witch, and I love her for it.

Then my eyes land on my dad, standing just beside the group, awkward as hell in the same team shirt as the rest, but two sizes too big, drowning in blue, black, and pink and wildflowers. It couldn’t be further from his usual suits and polished shoes.

But he’s here .

He came to every race he could this and last season, and the ones he missed, he called afterward to ask how it went. He still funds the team without us needing to look for other sponsors, granting us the freedom to lead it exactly as we want.

Hell, when Luc demanded we get a portable Kaiserschmarrn station because his soul cannot race without proper nourishment , Dad didn’t even blink and just ordered one for the bus.

He’s trying, and I think, slowly, I’m starting to forgive him. Not just for what he did or didn’t do, but for not being the family I needed back then. Because now, he’s the one making this possible.

This team.

These people.

This family.

The Rogue Riders.

The speaker barely manages to cut through the roar of cowbells, cheers, and what I’m pretty sure is someone sobbing into a vuvuzela.

“Alaina Crews wins the men’s elite overall in Snowshoe by two-tenths of a second for the Rogue Riders, followed by Luc Delacroix and Mason Payne in third!”

A fresh wave of sound crashes over us like a damn tsunami as the crowd erupts.

I gasp as my head snaps toward the big screen again to see the numbers confirm it.

0.2 seconds. That’s all it was.

But wait.

Mason is third?

He is, and also just 0.3 seconds behind Luc.

I throw my head back and howl with laughter, then glance down at Mason, who’s still gripping my thigh like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.

He’s smiling, technically , but his eyes are pure panic, and he’s looking a little green around the nose.

Luc, meanwhile, is losing his mind, laughing so hard I can feel him shaking under me.

“What’s so funny, Delacroix?” Finn calls over the noise of the crowd.

Luc doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, you know, mon ami . Some people race for glory, some for pride, and some race very hard to avoid losing their ass virginity.”

Mason lets out a wounded groan, burying his face in my leg, and I nearly collapse from laughing.

We’re soaked in sweat, champagne, and someone’s tears—possibly mine, definitely Mason’s—but none of that matters.

This matters.

This chaos.

This joy.

This win.

This life.

My lungs still forget how to breathe sometimes.

When the crowd roars.

When the dirt hits just right.

When the past sneaks in and tries to steal the moment.

But I find my breath again.

Every damn time.

None of them fixed me. I’m not something to fix, but they stayed through the blood, rage, wreckage, and through every version of me I had to become just to survive.

Even when that meant falling in love with a guy who had socks for a dick.

They stayed.

And somehow…

They loved me back to life.