Page 7 of Broken Breath
The clatter of cables and metal fills the station as Dane and I step into the gondola, the doors sliding shut behind us. It rocks slightly as it ascends, climbing higher into the thick, gray sky. My bike is mounted outside, its blue frame streaked with dirt from practice runs.
I tried to clean it earlier, but we’re in Fort William, Scotland, and the dirt here sticks like crazy.
It’s the first of seven stops in this year’s World Cup. After this, it’s Poland, then Austria, France, Italy, Canada, and finally, Snowshoe, West Virginia.
The place where I crashed. The last World Cup I raced.
And home.
I close my eyes for a moment and imagine myself on the parcel of land Dad bought for us when Dane and I were both climbing the racing ranks. It was probably another thing to keep us out of his hair. Still, I’m grateful, because that land became ours.
We built our own downhill track there, and it’s brutal, the kind of track that pushes you past your limits every single ride. The house we built at the top of the hill isn’t a mansion or some over-the-top villa like Dad’s poky penthouse in Washington DC, but it has a glorious view.
Our house is a home, big and open, built from wood and stone, and with enough rooms to fit an entire race team, even though only Dane and I live there. Rustic luxury, Dad’sreal estate agent called it once, wrinkling her nose like she was too good for it, but Dane and I never cared about fancy things. Our house and track are all we need. And for the last seven years, it’s where I’ve trained like a maniac. So maybe it’s fitting that the final race is in the bike park next to it, at the place where I almost died.
And the place where I’ll be resurrected.
Full circle.
I open my eyes and see that the gondola has climbed high enough that the treetops have thinned, revealing the racecourse. My helmet thunks against the plastic window when I lean forward for a better look, making Dane huff a laugh next to me.
So graceful.
Riders are already on the track, moving as streaks of color against the gray-brown earth, carving down the descents, and hammering over the rock gardens with zero respect for their bones.
I’m a little late, but it doesn’t matter. I qualified in the top four, which means I have time.
The Downhill World Cup isn’t like motocross or F1. There’s no shoulder-to-shoulder chaos or pack charging down the track. It’s one rider at a time against the clock. You get one run, one shot to lay it all down.
Qualifying sets the order. The fastest qualifier drops last, which means the pressure only intensifies as the day goes on. Everyone is watching you, and you know exactly what time you have to beat.
“Nervous?” Dane asks as he watches me, his arms crossed.
I snort. “Please.”
I’m so fucking anxious I could projectile vomit with enough force to drill a hole through this window.
The gondola docks at the top, and I grab my bike fromits side before we step out into controlled chaos. Riders crowd the summit station, most already clipped into their bikes, which sit on stationary rollers, legs spinning.
All of them are men.
And I don’t just recognize these guys, Iknowthem. I’ve spent the last seven years watching every race, every highlight reel, every behind-the-scenes clip I could get my hands on.
Dane used to call it an obsession, said I knew more about half these riders than their team managers, but it wasn’t obsession, it was preparation. While I trained, I also studied and learned how my competitors tick, what rattles them, what fires them up, how they ride when they’re leading versus chasing. I’ve seen their breakdowns, their comebacks, their bad crashes, and miraculous saves. I know who looks over their shoulder too much and who never does.
I didn’t come here blind.
Dane listed me as twenty, not my real age of twenty-four, and so far, no one has looked twice. Thanks to my disguise, I look like just another rookie with a baby face racing his first elite World Cup.
Mechanics hover nearby, making last-minute adjustments. Spotters murmur over line choices to their riders, pointing at imaginary sections of the course, tracing the air with their fingers, and I breathe in all the energy, tension, and weight of everything about to happen.
God, I missed this particular World Cup pre-race chaos.
“Ready?” Dane asks in a low tone beside me.
I nod, and we weave through the people. I can’t stop my eyes from wandering and looking for Raine, though, and sure enough, I find him within seconds.
Isaac is locked in on his warm-up, his legs pumping on the trainer and face set in concentration until he glances upand sees Dane. His rhythm stumbles, showing a fraction of hesitation that shouldn’t mean anything but feels like a tiny victory anyway.
