Page 50 of Broken Breath
It’s the kind of tired you can’t sleep off but seeps into your blood, your breath, and your thoughts.
I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how easy it would be to stop.
Just stopdoing, stopbeing. Slip off the trail one day and let the speed take me.
Let the mountain win.
I shove my hoodie down, covering the ribs the binder has already left raw, and press the heel of my hands into my eyes like I can squeeze the thoughts out.
Not yet.
I still have shit to do.
People talk about purpose like it’s this beautiful thing that lifts you, but they don’t tell you what it’s like when purpose is the only thing holding you upright. When revenge is all that’s left, when the thought of crossing that finish line ahead of Raine is the only reason you make it out of bed because there’s nothing after.
All that’s waiting for me on the other side of the podium is more silence, pain, and pretending to be okay.
I can’t keep on pretending.
Sometimes I wonder whether the crash took something I’m still chasing. I think I died out there, and this is just the version of me that kept moving.
I should have died.
Every night, I stare at that cracked ceiling, and everythought presses too hard, while all I want is for the ache tostop.
At least when I’m flying down the trail, and I go fast enough, I can outrun all of this.Even if only for a minute.
My stomach growls loud enough to echo off the metal walls, reminding me that I’ve got nothing left in me—no food, energy, or hope, apparently.
I let out a breath through my nose and rest my arm over my eyes.
Perfect.
Starving, hollow, and spiraling into the void.Again.
Will Dane ever get back from whatever grocery store rabbit hole he fell into?
Maybe he’ll give me a quick back rub, too, to loosen the tightness in my shoulders before tomorrow. I’d even settle for one of those cheap massage guns.
A knock sounds at the bus door, and I sit up slowly, hoodie falling over my thighs. I consider changing, but I’m betting it’s just Dane, arms full of mysterious Polish snack packs and too much protein powder to unlock the door himself.
On bare feet, I pad over and flip the release, not even checking who’s outside. The folding doors creak open, revealing Luc Delacroix standing on the step. A sound of annoyance escapes my throat as I immediately go to shove the lever back and close it, but his hand flies out, catching the edge before the doors can fold shut. “Hey, wait.”
I freeze for a beat, then sigh and pull the lever again, letting the doors unfold fully, and narrow my eyes at him. In my deep voice, I ask, “What do you want, Delacroix?”
My gaze trails down as I actuallylookat him. He’s not in race gear. Not even close.
He’s showered, with damp hair still clinging to his forehead, and he’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that stretchesjust enough across his chest to make it obvious he works hard for every podium he stands on. His arms are bare, and the tattoos curling down his biceps and forearms are on full display. And then there’s the shorts.
Pink.
Some obnoxiously perfect pastel that should look ridiculous but doesn’t. Not on him.
God, he’s so fucking hot.
A tingling feeling spreads between my thighs, and I press them together as heat crawls up the back of my neck, making metooaware of what I’m wearing.
No binder, no socks in my boxers. Just an oversized hoodie that covers my soft sleep shorts underneath, probably making it look like I’m not wearing anything at all. I feel exposed.Feminine.
