Page 131 of Twisted Trails
I close my eyes as everything threatens to overwhelm me.
Breathe, Alaina.
When I open them again, I paste on my best smug smile. “Sounds like I can’t crash, then.”
Lucsnorts, but Mason elbows him in the gut. “Stop encouraging her.”
“I’m sorry, Pretty Boy.” Luc just throws an arm around him and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I wasn’t. She’s just sofeisty.”
Mason shoves him off. “Stop it.”
“You’re feisty too.” Luc grins wider. “Mon Dieu, you guys make mehorny.”
Dane groans. “Didn’t need to hear that.”
Luc claps him on the shoulder. “Désolé,” he says, not sorry at all. Then he turns to me, and I meet his gaze, showing him everything I’ve got. The fight. The desperation. The silent plea that saysdon’t let this be the end for me.
He reads it, and his teasing grin fades into something much more real. Then he spins back to the group with a shrug, voice dripping with faux innocence.
“Okay,oui, that all sounds very dramatic and medical and horrifying. But let’s be honest, this sport is dangerous as hell no matter what we do. Any of us could break something every time we drop in. So ifma Petitecan’t ride without the tape, maybe we let her try itwiththe tape. It’s DH, and we all follow the twenty/eighty rule.”
Otis squints. “What rule?”
“Twenty percent skill. Eighty percent balls.”
Mason groans as Dane mutters, “Jesus Christ,”but I laugh out loud.
God, I love this idiot.
Footsteps pound up the gravel behind us, and we all turn as Finn barrels into view—no helmet, no bike, not even in his racing kit. Just a pair of shorts, a wrinkled black shirt, and a look on his face that says he’s been chasing time and finally caught it by the throat.
He skids to a stop next to us, chest heaving. “Sorry,” he pants. “Took longer than I thought. The UCI are assholes, but they just approved it last minute.”
Luc whistles low. “You look like you sprinted through hell,mon frère.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, looking him over. My heart is already thumping, because something in his tone—hopeful, breathless, andaimed at me—has my blood buzzing.
Finn holds out something between his hands. It looks like a modified grip made of rubber with a strange matte finish and a hook extending from one side.
“I was talking with Jim,” he explains, catching his breath. “We worked on a prototype. For you. For your hand.”
My mouth goes dry as I stare at it, athim.
“You what?” My voice catches before it even leaves my throat.
“I rode it yesterday,” he explains. “It works. It’s stable, and it’ll release under impact, but the UCI needed to sign it off, and, well, they finally did.” Finn steps toward my bike and me. “Can I?”
I nod, anticipating the raw dread of him messing with my bike, but it never comes. Somehow,himtouchingmybike doesn’t feel wrong. Maybe because he’s not taking it from me, he’s giving something back.
Or maybe it’s just because it’s Finn.
He crouches beside my bike, pulls a screwdriver from his pocket, and starts removing my left grip. I don’t even pretend to care about the tool or the mechanics, I just watch him and the way his brows furrow when he concentrates and how he bites the inside of his cheek.
He slides the new grip on, positioning it so the hook curves gently upward. The top of the grip is textured, almost fuzzy, and the angle of the hook makes sense now. It’s designed to press over the knuckles, holding down my hand.
Then he reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a thick glove.
“It’s the only thing I could get on short notice.” He rubs the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. “It’s a ski glove, so it’s not ideal, but I already called my mom. She’s sewing you a proper one out of a bike glove. You’ll have it before Canada.”
