Page 168 of Twisted Trails
The crowd at the finish of Mont-Sainte-Anne screams my fake name like I just won the whole damn race, but when I look up at the board, I feelnothing.
Yeah, I’m sitting in first,for now.But that time is not going to hold.
The run was clean, sure. Fast enough. But not podium-fast. Not Raine-fast. Not Mason-fast. And definitely not me at my best fast.
Canada has always been good to me. The slope, the air that tastes like pine, but the dirt today was a mess, loose as hell, and barely held together. A whisper of a misstep and you’re sliding out. Even with Finn’s new grip mod and that perfect glove he gave me yesterday, I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth.
They helped me qualify fourth. I guess that’s probably where I’ll land today too.Right outside the podium.
I’m supposed to walk over to the hot seat now, sit down, and let the cameras pan to me while the crowd screams for Allen Crews, but it feels more like I’m walking to my own fucking execution.
Dramatic.I know.
But I can’t help it.
Every step I take under the sun feels like another spotlight on me. Now that I’ve finally decided what I want, now that I’m hell-bent on making it out of this with my identity still my own, every cheer, every camera, and every shout of a name that isn’t really mine is suffocating.
Maybe it’s good,safer,that I won’t make the podium today, but fuck, I’m stillme.Still Alaina, the sour loser, no matter how much the plan changed. Not getting the run I wanted fucking irks me, and I feel like crying.
From relief, maybe. Or disappointment.
Both.
Just one more race, Alaina.
It’ll be fine.You’re fine.
I scan the finish area, ignoring the crumbling inside me, and look for Dane, ready to hand off my bike and do what’s expected of me.
A flash of blue catches my eye. It’smyblue.
Dane and Piper, Finn, his parents, Rachel, and Kevin. They’re all standing there with ‘Crews’ printed bold on their chests and my ‘7’ stitched over their hearts.
They’re here wearing my color, cheering for me.
I force a smile even though they probably won’t see it under my helmet. Mustering all the energy I can, I fake it for the cameras, for them and Dane when I roll over and hand him my bike.
He taps my helmet like he always does and tells me, “Good job.”
“Thanks.”
I wave and nod to everyone before calling it enough and walking stiff-legged to the hot seat where Ifinallyrip off the helmet and set it down between my feet. The air hits my sweat-damphair and face, and I blink against the sun and the burn behind my eyes.
I stare up at the screen just in time to see Raine drop in. He cuts through the trees with that smooth, fucking effortless style that makes my stomach knot. His lines are tight, aggressive, and confident.
Too confident.
I hold my breath anyway.Hope is a bitch that doesn’t die easily.
But when his second split flashes green, overtaking mine, that breath doesn’t release.
It’s not a surprise, but it still hits like a punch to the ribs. Just because I decided to let go of the revenge doesn’t mean this part is easier.
The scene that played out in my head a thousand times—me, standing at the top of the podium, helmet off, telling him it was me all along while the world gasped and the cameras flashed—poof.
Gone. Burned up in a cloud of dust.
He crosses the finish line, and I’m not just hollow anymore.
