Page 122 of Broken Breath
I really hope he’s not doping.
He pulls down the goggles, and I take it as my cue to let go of him. Pulling on my helmet, I swing a leg over Dad’s bike, the engine grumbling beneath me like it’s waiting for an excuse to run. I gesture for Mini Crews to do the same with mine.
He approaches it hesitantly, eyes flicking over the frame. “Is that yours?”
“How’d you know?”
He gestures to the twenty-one painted on the side, before he throws a leg over clean, settles into the seat, and grips the handlebars.
Right. The number, leftover from a time when I was proud to slap my mark on everything, when I thought being seen mattered.
Now it just feels loud.
“Throttle’s here.” I tap the right handle. “Brake’s on the front lever, back brake’s the foot peg. Clutch on the left.”
“I know how bikes work, Mason.”
Cocky indeed.
“Yeah, but you mess up the clutch here, it’s your ass.”
He shoots me a look through the clear goggles but nods in understanding, fingers adjusting on the grips, and foot tapping at the rear brake to feel it out. I rev my engine, the growl filling the air, and after a beat, he follows.
We ride slowly, side by side through the woods, following the dirt path that winds toward the track. He’s cautious at first, stiff in the seat, a little jerky with the throttle, but by the time we hit the edge of the course, he’s already moving more smoothly, adjusting his weight on the corners like he’s been doing this for longer than ten minutes.
“Stay loose in the shoulders,” I call over the noise of the engines. “Let the bike move under you. Don’t fight it. Just like on the trail.”
He jerks his head in a nod, and we take off.
On the first lap, I keep it easy, leading him through the lines, pointing out where to lean into the berms and where the jumps roll up.
On the second lap, I push a little harder, and he keeps right on my tail. By the third, he’slaughingloud, full-bellied, unrestrained joy, and it catches me off guard.
I’ve never heard him laugh like that before, never even seen him smile like he means it. He’s usually all sharp edges, tucked into himself, quiet and broody, like the weight of the world is welded to his back.
But now?He’s weightless.
And his joy is filling up my chest too.
That laugh rings out again as he hits a small jump, lands a little crooked, but recovers clean, and shit, I can’t help but laugh too. It’s contagious and fun.
And it feels like riding with a friend.
Maybe I’ve been a moody prick with the weight of theworld on my shoulders, too, and forgot how it feels to do something like this. Something easy.
We’re cruising into another lap, dust kicking up behind us, when he takes the kicker too fast. His back tire clips sideways, and the whole bike bucks beneath him like it’s trying to throw him clear, but he doesn’t bail. He holds on too long, and the bike goes down.Hard.
He crashes onto his side, the machine landing right on top of him, pinning him half under the frame.
“Fuck!” I cut hard to the inside of the track, throttle wide open, and tear across the dirt as fast as I can. I kill Dad’s bike mid-slide, letting it fall wherever, and sprint the last stretch toward Mini Crews.
He’s already trying to scramble up, swearing under his breath, and pushing at the bike like it’s more of an inconvenience than a goddamn two-wheeled anvil crushing his ribs.
“Hold still,” I bark at him as I grab the bars and yank up the motocross bike, setting it down just off the track.
“Shit,fuck.” Mini Crews lurches to his feet and pulls off his helmet, brushing dirt off his sleeves, but his attention is focused on the bike’s side panel. “I’m so sorry. Did I scratch anything?”
I stare at him in disbelief and yank off my helmet. “That…” I point at the bike that’s still half-wedged in the dirt. “That isninetykilos of steel that just fell on top of you, and you’re worried about it being scratched?”
