Page 119 of Broken Breath
But I’m standing here, heart in my throat, palms sweating, stomach cramping from pain and all the what-ifs clawing through my head.
“You know…” the official says, not looking up from his clipboard, “…. not doing the test just makes you look suspicious. You riders act like refusing is safer, but it never is. You do the urine test, and we compare it with blood later if there’s anything off. Easy as that.”
“Or…” I say sharply, “… we couldjustdo the blood as we’re supposed to. With the kidney issue. Like it was documented.”
He huffs at me, clearly losing patience.
Another rider is called in, another bottle cap is unscrewed, and there’s another splash of sound I try not to hear. Then there’s a thundering of footsteps from outside.
Thank fuck.
Dane skids to a stop just inside the threshold, breathing like he just ran a full stage uphill in jeans. His hair is flattened on one side, and he’s clutching his tablet ashe coughs violently into the crook of his arm, nearly folding in half.
“Step back,” the official snaps. “We have riders here who can’t get sick.”
“Sorry,” Dane rasps, trying not to wheeze. “Here. Allen Crews has an approved medical exemption on file. All anti-doping tests are to be conducted via blood, no exceptions.”
He holds out his tablet, a document already pulled up on screen, turning it toward the official and leaning against the door frame, probably to help him keep upright.
Shit.
The guy takes it with a sigh, scans it quickly, and makes a noise in his throat that sounds suspiciously likeugh, fine.He frowns and mutters into his walkie-talkie, radioing someone from the anti-doping team.
Only then do I breathe.
Not fully.
But enough to stay standing.
Dane’s face is pale and clammy, the tension in his shoulders wound tight, but his eyes are on me when I look at him.
“Thank you,” I murmur, voice barely above a whisper.
“Anytime, Speedbump.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Mason
The motocross bikes are almost ready, but my focus is shit, because the first person to not treat me like scum might be doping.
Even if he’s not, Mini Crews is definitely hiding something.
“You can’t stop staring at that kid, can you?” Dad’s voice cuts through the pit’s quiet hum.
He’s crouched beside the back tire of my bike, checking the chain tension with methodical hands. He’s already got grease on his knuckles and a smear across his forearm, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
That serene expression is almost enough to draw my focus back to this side of the parking lot, dragging it away from the vehicle three spaces over. I know that smile well. Or, I used to.
The calm before the throttle.
Austria has one of the best motocross tracks, full of hidden, winding dirt trails tucked into the forest beside the mountain we’re racing down. Letting loose on thembetween qualifying and the race is something I always look forward to. It’s tradition, a way to shake out the nerves.
So, I should be focused on that, but instead, I keep stealing glances at Mini Crews.
I grunt and finally drag my gaze away. “I think he’s doping.”
Dad stops mid-check on my bike chain to glance up at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
