Page 28 of Broken Breath
The fact that he’s talking kindly to me shouldn’t make my stomach flip, but it does. A quiet, traitorous flutter that betrays just how starved I’ve been for simple decency.
God, I’m so broken.
I want more.
Lowering myself to the ground, I lean against the bus’s wheel. It’s bloody cold, but there’s no point leaving, at least not until I get the tool back.
That’s what I tell myself.
Biting on his flashlight, he directs it downward and gets to work. Now that he has the correct wrench, it’s clear he actually knows what he’s doing.More or less.
And I’m impressed because not many rookies this green know how to deal with a bracket failure. The flashlight wobblesas he mutters under his breath to himself, and I frown at him.
Weird as hell, this one.
I saw him without the helmet for the first time in the hot seat today, and he looked off. I already knew he was shorter than the average rider, and a little too skinny, but his face wasn’t what I expected.
Where I expected smugness, maybe a cocky grin for edging me off the podium, I got nothing, even when I stared him down, ready for it.
But he just looked at me. No gloating. No malice. Just curiosity?
I tried to brush it off, but I kept thinking about that look. When I wasn’t replaying all my failures last night, eyes open, staring at the van’s roof, I replayed that. Pathetic, I know.
He was jittery as hell on the podium, then gave the world’s most awkward post-race interview, his voice cracking like he was twelve and twitching like he was wearing someone else’s skin, before finally just bolting.
Maybe he’s a late bloomer?
And I get that. Hell, Iwasthat. My first year on the circuit, I was just another skinny kid who didn’t belong. No one talked to me until I earned my spot. That first World Cup run with the elite? Fucking terrifying. All eyes on you, waiting for you to choke. A year later, I won the World Cup overall, and everybody else was left choking on it.
Maybe that’s part of why I’m helping him too. He reminds me of me, before everything fell apart. Underneath all the awkward twitching and cracked voice bullshit, the kid canride.
He’s a cocky little bastard when he’s on his bike, and I can respect that.
When he finishes working on his bike, he hands the wrench back without a word. My fingers close around the cold metal, and I start to get to my feet. I need to get out of here, to leave this here now, before it becomes another regret.
But then he sinks beside me, leaning his back against the wheel like it’s some kind of unspoken invitation, and for some reason, I sit back down.
Maybe it’s the fact that I haven’t shared space with anyone in almost a year. Figures that this twitchy kid with his too-big hoodie and stripped bracket is the first person who doesn’t recoil from me.
So, we sit, our breath curling in the air in front of us.
I forgot silence could be this peaceful, and fuck me, I want it to last just a little longer.
I’ve had worse company, especially by myself.
The sky slowly changes, pink bleeding in like someone took a blade to the dark. I glance at him, but he stares straight ahead, his face still half in shadow. Now that I’m this close, I see the exhaustion in his jaw and the lines around his mouth that seem too deep for his age, giving me the feeling he doesn’t sleep much either.
When the world around us brightens, bringing our surroundings into view, the silence stays just a little bit longer.
With every passing minute, the air becomes less suffocating. I glance at him again, and he grimaces, rubbing his hip mindlessly.
My bones ache in response.
Maybe, for just this moment, we’re both holding up the same kind of broken.
I don’t move until my van does, signaling that Dad is up. My body might ache, but something inside me is lighter as I push to my feet, brushing my hands on my shorts out ofhabit. Mini Crews stands, too, and we face each other wordlessly.
Just like before, he holds my gaze.
