Page 220 of Twisted Trails
“You said that to distract me,” I mutter.
He brushes his thumb along my cheek again, slower this time. “Did it work?”
I wait for a beat, but the nerves don’t come back. At least, not more than what’s normal before a race, and the urge to hiccup is gone.
A small, real smile tugs at my lips. “Yeah. It did.”
His smirk softens into something almost tender. “Good.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He kisses me sweetly before murmuring against my lips. “Kick our asses, Bambi. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I’ve already got everything I ever wanted, but yeah.
Let’s go win a World Cup.
Mason walks off toward the gate just as I grab my bike, and the world goes quiet, the way it always does when a race is this close. My heart is thudding hard, but it’s not from fear. Not pain. It’s readiness.
I roll forward and line up behind him and Luc, tires crackling over the hard-packed gravel. The start gate looms ahead like a guillotine, and I take a long, deep breath.
I take my helmet off my handlebars. It’s matte black like the others, but mine is a little different. Painted pink and blue wildflowers curl around the top like a crown. Finn did that for me before the first race last season.
My fingers tighten around the straps, and I slide the helmet on, then pull the goggles down, setting them in place with a familiar plop. The sound steadies me.
Just like seeing us all in the same colors always does. Our tricot is black with a pink wildflower pattern throughout, and the names and numbers printed across our backs are inked in blue, just like the bigRRsprawled across our chests.
I focus on thePayneand the21stitched across Mason’s back and let out a slow breath just as he glances over his shoulder. He flashes me a quick smile before tugging on his helmet. Luc is already at the gate, theDelacroixand69on his back stretching to its limit as he crouches into position, ready to launch.
I smile when I think about what’s written on my back.
11.
Big and proud aboveCrews.
Luc drops in with a shout that echoes through the trees, and Mason steps up next. He doesn’t say anything, just turns his head again for one last look. I can’t see his eyes through his mirrored goggles, but I feel that look. It’s a touch.A promise.Then he’s gone, too, tires spinning into the first corner.
My turn.
The gate locks with a heavyclunkthat echoes in my bones, and my final five seconds start with a beep.
Inhale.
My hands wrap tightly around the grips.
Exhale.
I shift my weight, lean in, every muscle coiled, ready.
Inhale.
The last beep rings out.
And I launch on anexhale.
Everything narrows to the trail in front of me, and the world tunnels into dirt, speed, and instinct as wind roars in my ears.
