Page 166 of Broken Breath
I nod shakily and follow him as he pushes off. We cycle slowly toward the trees, weaving away from the other racers, each pedal matching my choppy, labored breaths.
As soon as we’re swallowed by green, Mason pulls to the side, getting off his bike and motioning for me to do the same. I ditch the bike clumsily, nearly tripping over my own feet, and stagger toward a tree, hands clawing at my chest.
I gasp, trying andfightingto get air in, but it’s useless. My lungs won’t expand, and my ribs feel locked, welded tight. Panic scrapes up my throat.
This isn’t what I came here for.This is all wrong.
I came here to destroy Raine, to finish what I started, to make him pay, for me, for Dane, foreverything.
I’d just been riding the high of my run but lost it just as quickly.
I’m not here to fall for them. For guys who’ll turn their backs on me once the truth comes out, and not to seepeople I once admired, respected,andthought Iloved,look at me like I’m their greatest fuckup. I was supposed to keep my distance, keep my heart locked up.
I’m not here to lose focus.
Not here to blur the lines until I don’t even recognizethe girl who walked into this season with her fists clenched and her jaw set.
I was supposed to stay cold.
Stick to the plan.
And now I’m spiraling,failing, drowning in secrets and stolen kisses and the weight of every lie I’ve told.
Taking the overall World Cup from Raine was the only thing that was ever supposed to matter, the last thing to matter, and I’ve failed Dane and myself.
Mason’s footsteps crunch softly behind me, and then his hand is there, cupping the back of my neck. “Breathe.”
“I’mtrying,” I rasp out. “I’mfucking trying!I can’t…”
I choke on my words as I clutch at the hem of my jersey, seconds away from tearing it and the binder off to give myself room for air again.
“Okay.Okay,” he soothes, still in that calm, gruff voice. “Then don’t try. Just listen to me and do as I say.”
I manage to nod before squeezing my eyes shut so hard it hurts.
“Up,” he says softly, pulling my shoulder back.
My knees almost buckle as I straighten, but then I feel his other hand on my stomach, and he draws me gently back into him.
“I know you said you don’t like people touching your chest,” Mason murmurs, breath warm against my ear. “But I think it might help. Can I?”
My hands shake as I curl my fingers around his wrist, then guide him to my chest, settling his palm flat against my sternum, right above the binder, where it’s safe.
“Good, feel my hand, and breathe with it. That’s all you have to do.” Mason inhales slowly, his chest lifts behind my back, and the hand on my sternum rises with it.
I mimic him, drawing in a breath to match his, themotion pulling his palm higher. My ribs ache with the stretch, but I manage it.
“Now exhale,” he murmurs as his hand presses gently inward, just enough to guide me. “Let it go. All of it.”
I breathe out, shakily but steadier than before. My body stutters, still trembling, but it listens to him more than it ever listens to me.
Like it trusts him more than I trust myself anymore.
Mason breathes in, and his palm lifts, my breathing following. He exhales, and his hand presses in again, a subtle cue, and I let go.
We keep going like that, his body leading mine, his hand teaching me how to feel air again.
“In and out.” His other hand is still on my stomach, holding me together. “Inhale and exhale.” His breath is at my neck, and slowly,slowly, the vice around my ribs loosens. “Breathe for me, Bambi. You’re doing such a good job.”
