Page 64 of Broken Breath
“Don’t,” I say, but it’s barely audible.
Mini Crews tilts his head. “What?”
“Don’tsaythat. Don’t look at me like that. I don’t need pity. I don’t need you standing up for me like I’m some wounded dog that can’t fight his own battles.”
His eyes widen, lips parting in preparation to speak, but I keep going. Louder. Maybe if I shout loud enough, it’ll drown out everything else.
“I don’t need you to take my side, do you understand? Didn’t bloody ask for that. I didn’t ask you to get between me and Delacroix, and I sure as hell didn’t ask you to look at me like I’m something broken that needs fixing. I don’t need this.”
My chest heaves as I grit out, “I neednobody.”
The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s thick.
Mini Crews shifts his weight. “Good thing I am a nobody, then.”
That little shit.
The balls on him.
I spin on my heel and bolt.
It’s not a graceful exit, not some cool, composed retreat. Irunout of the gym like a fucking coward, away from the heat in my throat and the crack in my chest. I don’t stop until the air outside hits like punishment, scraping through my lungs.
I stand there alone, breathing hard.
And I don’t look back.
Because if he follows, I’ll either say too much or nothing at all.
And either one of them might break me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Alaina
My nerves are on fire, and my skin hums with energy at the top of the mountain. Rain clouds are crawling over the peaks, hanging ready and waiting for the go signal to drop hell on us.
In a last-minute scramble, the organizers bumped the men’s race closer to the women’s, trying to squeeze both in before the storm breaks. They’ll let us race through rain with no problem, but this storm is packing heavy winds and lightning, and apparentlythat’swhere they finally draw the line.
Which means everyone is up here now.
The combined athletes warm up or pace the cramped space. Mechanics hiss into radios, tires squeak, rollers clatter, and a faceless stranger yells about a missing goggle lens. Instead of breathing in fresh mountain air, my senses are bombarded with the smell of wet chain oil and tension.
And damp socks.
Reminding me of the two socks rolled up in my boxers.
Which are not wet,thank God.
I’m on my bike, legs spinning, sweat prickling under myjersey, absentmindedly rubbing my hand over my chest guard and the too-tight binder below as I warm up. Wearing it so often is taking its toll on my boobs, and they fucking hurt.
But hey, what’s new?
Finn pedals beside me, chatting away with Dane, who has that permanent stone-faced expression he’s worn like armor since we rejoined the circuit.
I try to mimic the look, hoping to mask the pain behind the binder and everywhere else, but it’s getting harder.
I love that Dane has his best friend back, I do, but I swear, if Finn makes another charming joke that pulls my brain out of the zone I’ve been clawing my way into, I might snap.
