Page 71 of Broken Breath
My dick is confused, my brain is fucking fried, and by the time I finally hit the last sprint, I already know I’ve fucked it up.
I push on anyway, driving hard, my legs screaming and vision tunneling, but when I cross the finish line and glance over my shoulder, the time is red.
Not green.
Red.
I blink slowly, once, twice, like maybe I misread it, and the numbers will flicker, glitch, right themselves. Maybe the display is wrong, and it’s in another language today? Red means first, and everything is fine.
But it’s not.
I pull to a shaky stop, my lungs heaving, the sharp ache in my chest blooming into something colder. The crowd’s roar filters in like static, disjointed and too far away.
Cheers.
Cowbells.
People yelling Raine’s name.
The scent of ozone sharpens in the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil.
The camera guy who was aiming at my finish, pivots to follow Raine as he throws himself out of the hot seat and into the spotlight like it was always his to claim, but it was supposed to be mine. Itismine.
Why isn’t it mine?
The slow creep of failure snakes through my blood. It climbs into my throat and settles behind my eyes. I try to swallow it down, but I can’t.
I scan the pit for my own media guy, my crew,someone.
But they’re not looking at me.
Because I’m not even second. Or third.
My gaze swings to the hot seat. Raine is gone, of course. ButPetitis still there, stiff-backed in the second-place chair, next to Payne in third. Crews is watching me, our eyes meet, and I brace for the dismissal, the indifference, but he doesn’t look away. Heseesme.
He’s frowning and doesn’t look smug or triumphant, just confused, almost asking,What the fuck happened to you?
And I wish I knew.
I wish I had an answer that didn’t make me feel like I’m slipping, like the part of me that was made for this—this fire, speed, and fame—is fading. I was built for the spotlight, for the storm. Today, I was a flash without fire, a spotlight with no soul, and noise with no note.
I drag my gaze down over him, like I’m trying to find balance in the shape of his body, the curve of his shoulder, and the tension in his jaw. I drink him in, and I huff when I catch myself doing it.
Looks like you happened, Petit.
And the fact that you wouldn’t even look at me until now.
I glance at the big screen and see that the camera that should be pointed at me is locked on Raine’s smirking, golden-boy face. The crowd is still cheering for him as I stand there for a beat too long, helmet still on, frozen in the shadow of someone else’s moment.
My gaze drifts back, and I findPetitagain through the blur of color and motion. Then, the first raindrop hits. Right on my goggle lens, smearing everything out of focus, and it feels like the sky has been holding its breath, waiting for this exact second to exhale.
The clouds open, and the rain falls hard. Fast. A downpour with purpose. It seems even the storm knows I lost. Allaround me, chaos erupts. Fans scream and scatter, techs rush to protect equipment, and tents flap under the sudden weight of water. Boots thud against the ground, gear bags are dragged, and the shouted orders bounce between earpieces and panic.
And I just stand there.
I peel off my helmet with numb fingers and let it dangle at my side as I tip my head back, allowing the rain to hit me full in the face. It drips off my lashes, streams down my cheeks, and soaks through my jersey until the fabric clings like shame.
I push my tongue out. Catch a drop.
