Page 14 of Broken Breath
Not from the race or the adrenaline, but from the absolute mindfuck who is tearing down the track right now.
AllenCrews.
Bracing my elbows on my knees, I force my gaze away from the rider in blue to the leaderboard where my name still blinks at the top.
It won’t last, it never does. I’m not winning shit, haven’t touched a World Cup win in years, and let’s be real, I’d probably break a hip trying to get there at this point, but that’s fine, it’s not why I’m here. Still, for now, I’m in the hot seat, which is a wonder by itself, considering how hard it was to concentrate afterthat.
At most races the hot seat is nothing fancy, just a shaded setup near the finish, three seats lined up like a podium for the fastest so far. First place gets the middle, second and third flank on either side. You sit there, every muscle tensed, pretending to relax while the mountain decides whether you’re staying or getting the boot. It’s purgatory with a view.
The metal beneath me creaks as I shift, stretching my fingers out against my thighs, and the crowd hums around me, a restless energy vibrating through the finish corral. The announcer is hyping up the run, but I’m not listening, my thoughts too loud as I watch the track.
I’d been suspicious from the moment I laid eyes on the rookie. That face had itched at my memory, like a song lyric I couldn’t quite place but knew I should remember. Too-familiar molten caramel eyes, a straight nose, full lips.
I know that face.
I knowthose eyes.
Because years ago, they used to seek me out across pits and podiums. Always bright, always wide and close to awe, like I was a goddamn rock star. Today, they did not look at me in awe, more like I was aspeed bumpin their way.
The face isn’t as young anymore, not as soft, or as baby-faced. The edges are sharper, the expression harder. It was different enough that I believed it was just a really fucking weird family resemblance. Dane has the same eyes, after all, the same nose too. I almost dismissed it. Almost.
Until that hiccup.
And now I’m watchingAllenCrews rip through this track with a riding style I’ve only ever seen from one person in my entire career. A reckless, fearless, seventeen-year-old girl who wanted to be like her big brother so badly that she never learned how to be afraid.
Alaina.
My baby girl.
No one else rides like that, no one else threads the line between control and chaos so precisely, with a rhythm so wild it shouldn’t work, but always does. Or at least, it diduntil it didn’t.
If I’m good at something, it’s catching the rhythm of a racer. Some riders are all technical, all skill and precision,like a well-rehearsed riff. Others are raw power, more thrash than melody.
Alaina is “Still Waiting”by Sum 41. Fast,reckless,but there’s control in the madness. Moregothan technique, but that doesn’t mean she lacks skill. It just means she lets instinct lead the way.
I watch her hit the next section, a brutal rhythm of rocks, uneven landings, and a drop that forces most riders to check their speed, but not her. She stays off the brakes, lets momentum do the work, trusting her suspension to take the hit. Then,fuck me, she whips the back end of her bike midair, adjusting her line mid-flight like it’s just another Tuesday. It’s a move that should have sent her over the bars, a move that only works when you know exactly what the hell you’re doing. She’s good, way better than she was at seventeen, and even better than most of the guys out here.
Better than me for sure.
I can put down a solid time, maybe even shake things up for a minute, but I’ve been in this sport long enough to know where I stand. Fourth place. Always. And yeah, that’s not bad, but let’s be real, only the top three actually count. Hell, most days it feels like onlyfirstreally matters. Everything else just blurs into almost, and I’m just barely never quite slow enough to drop into irrelevance.
Some of the guys here live and die by the win like it’s the only thing that matters, and without it, they’re nothing. I’ve never been that guy. I don’t race for the title, the paycheck, or the trophies.
I race because it’s music. There’s something about flying down a track, finding the perfect line, keeping tempo with the dirt under my tires that makes me feel alive.
And that’s why I can’t leave.
I don’t know who I would be without downhill racing.
Everyone calls meGrandpa Greerbecause at thirty-four, I’m the oldest racer on the circuit. They joke about it, but they’re not wrong. My body is a busted rental that’s creaky, taped together, and way past its prime. My knees ache before I even clip in, my back has more knots than a racecourse in Val di Sole, and don’t get me started on my wrists.
I know my time is up,but I’ve got something worth hanging on for.
I exhale, eyes snapping back to the track just in time to catch Alaina, no,Allen, soaring off a drop with that signature mix of control and recklessness. Pure Crews style. Must be something in the blood.
Dane was “Can’t Stop”by Red Hot Chili Peppers, smooth, clean, fast, but never desperate. He made it look easy, as if he wasn’t even trying.
That’s why we fit so well. We were on the track to have fun. Fun first, competition second.
