Page 46 of Broken Breath
It’s the only thing that keeps me from breaking apart right here on the trail.
Once I’m sure I won’t unravel, I suck in a breath and force my eyes open, just as someone else comes flying down the track in a blur of pink.
Luc Delacroix blasts past like gravity is just a suggestion, tires snarling, bike practically howling, as he cuts through the silence like a goddamn war cry.
Jesus.
Wind slaps me as he rips by, and when he makes it farther down the track, another rider actually stumbles, and someone swears.
It’s the third time he’s done that today with no warning, no chill. Just full send as if he’s alone on the track and racing ghosts no one else can see. By the time I blink again, he’s already vanished into the trees.
I don’t care that he’s acting like a fucking ass again, not really, but I should probably keep an eye out so I don’t end up as roadkill. I have a feeling he’d happily run me over, especially after yesterday.
Which, yeah. That got a little heated.
Dane gave me an earful afterward. Pulled me aside like a disappointed dad and asked if I had some kind of death wish that had me mouthing off toLuc-fucking-Delacroix.
“You know he’s unpredictable, and he doesn’t forget when someone pisses him off.”
It’d been a surprise to me, too, the impulse to step in when Luc came down like a storm on Mason, and that’s on me, but the asshole is not getting under my skin.
Even if my pulse spikes every time I hear the distinct rattle of that pink bike coming up behind me.
Before the next lap, I duck into the locker area and chugback another dose of painkillers. Bracing a hand on the wall, I wait for the nausea to settle and hope they kick in fast.
The binder is too tight today, biting into my ribs every time I try to take a full breath. The ache was bad enough that I skipped my chest guard just to make it bearable. Kind of worked until the nausea kicked in. Now I’m also regretting eating that sad excuse for a cereal bar I found half-mummified in the back of a kitchen drawer this morning.
Dane is out grabbing groceries, but who knows what he’ll come back with. Neither of us speaks Polish. We could end up with five kinds of pickled fish or worse, just pickles.
Ew.
That’s all the time I allow myself before I head back out, pretending nothing is wrong.
Once I hit the trail again, the edge finally dulls enough that I can breathe a little.
Thank fuck.
Poland is a newer location for the World Cup, and it has a weirdly addictive kind of dirt that’s chalky and loose in places, but soft enough that it gives just a little. The whole track has this unexpected flow to it. Even though I’ve never raced it before, it just clicks.
Or maybe I’m just too stubborn to let it throw me.
I reach the entrance of the rock garden again, eyeing the jagged stones spaced just far enough apart to make you doubt your suspension and life choices. My first pass was clean, but I want another go.
So, I unclip, swing off, and start the hike back up, pushing my bike beside me. Every step sends a jolt through my hip, and the nausea kicks up a notch, but I keep going. By the time I reach the top, someone else is already up there.
Mason Payne.
He’s clad head to toe in black and perched on his bike,still as a shadow. His full-face helmet and mirrored goggles hide everything, but I know it’s him. I knew before I even really looked.
I hoist my bike up beside where he is sitting on his and nod. He doesn’t say anything, but he does make space for me, and we watch in silence as riders rattle through the rock garden below. I track each line, feeling Mason’s presence like a storm cloud hovering by my side, unmoving and not close enough to touch me, butthere.
And somehow, that’s comforting.
That’s how it felt the other night in the parking lot, too, when he brought a wrench I didn’t have without a word, just appearing out of the dark with exactly what I needed. He didn’t even look at me funny or comment on me tearing apart my bike in the middle of the night.
He justhelped.
Would he have done that if he knew who I was?
