Page 20 of Broken Breath
I shake the thought off and dig my gloved fingers into my knee pads to focus as the speaker crackles overhead.
“At the top, the final rider of the day, number sixty-nine. Luc Delacroix!”
The crowd erupts in a sea of voices shouting his name.“Luc, Luc, Luc!”The syllables bounce off the mountains, reverberating through the finish corral.
“French fry,” Raine mutters under his breath, making me stiffen, and my fingers curl into my gloves.
What an asshole.
I fucking hate that Raine is sitting in first right now, and he beat my time. It makes my stomach twist with something bitter.
Breathe, Alaina.
This is fine.
It’s just the first race of the season, and the World Cup isn’t about a single win. It’s about consistency and points, not only podiums. It’s not over.
A win earns 250 points. Second place gets 200, third 175, fourth 150, and so on. Only the top ten riders score points.
Winning a World Cup race is great, sure. It gives you prestige, prize money, and bragging rights, but I’m not here for a single victory. I’m here for the overall.
Even if I don’t win every race, staying on the podium can still get me the title. It all depends on how the others ride. Finishing third today would put me on 175 points. It’s a gap, but a manageable one.
I let out a slow breath, steadying myself.
This is fine.
Remember the long game.
Shifting slightly in the seat, I try to balance my weight on my good side, ignoring the sharp pull deep in my hip. Fuck, this is harder than I remembered. The smaller races I competed in to qualify for the World Cup were child’s play compared to this track. I knew it would be tough and brutal, but I didn’t think my body would be screaming at me so hard. Every muscle aches, and my bones feel like they will rattle apart.
My old injury is like a rusted nail buried in my bones, pressing deeper with every impact. A pain that flares when I push too hard and then lingers, whispering reminders withevery breath that I’m only held together by metal and sheer fucking stubbornness.
People with hardware like mine probably aren’t supposed to compete in elite-level sports, and definitely not one of the hardest sports in the world.Oh well.
I shift again, just slightly, trying not to wince and keeping my face blank. No one notices because no oneevernotices. Although Dane probably would.
Which is exactly why he can’t. For the past few months, I’ve made sure he thinks I’ve got it under control, that I know my limits and won’t push myself past the breaking point. He should know better.He raised me.
Breaking myself in half to prove a point is practically a family trait.
“What a run from Delacroix!” The announcer’s voice booms through the air, startling me. “He’s proven he’s ready for a new season on top!”
Luc comes flying into the last third of the track but then almost crashes, making Isaac jolt in his seat, fists gripping his thighs as he leans forward. The whole row rattles with the movement, the metal chair beneath me jerking hard enough to send a fresh bolt of pain ripping through my hip.
I’m going to need even more pain meds after this. I should probably be worried about that. I’ve been popping Naproxen like Tic Tacs for months, years really, pretending it still works, pretending I’m not already skating on the edge, and the over-the-counter stuff is enough to keep me moving.It’s not, but at least it won’t trip a doping screen.
I just need to make it through this season.
I’ll patch it with pills, stitch it with grit, and hold it together with duct tape and denial if I have to.
One more season.
After that, it’s over anyway.
“Come on,you bloody bastard,” Mason mutters under his breath, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I glance at him, drawn to the low rasp of his voice, my gaze catching on the sharp cut of his profile. He’s got a strong jaw with dark stubble, dark eyes narrowed in focus, and lips pressed together. He looks good, so intense as his gaze is on the leaderboard, and mine follows, only to find that Luc is one second behind Raine.
