Page 135 of Twisted Trails
I was bitching about it to Piper earlier, during our physio session after the race, and she listened without a word, until she asked the question I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
“What will happen if you don’t beat Raine?”
I didn’t have an answer.
And that scared the shit out of me.
Can Allen Crews disappear without me outing myself?
Can I let go of the revenge that brought me here if I’m not good enough to pull it off?
The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t want to stop breathing, no matter the outcome, and that feels like a win.
Even when everything else about my racing career doesn’t.
I shift my hand from Toulouse’s head to Mason’s knee, running my thumb over the scuffed hem of his shorts. He doesn’t open his eyes, just hums a little and tightens his fingers around the side of my neck, anchoring me there. Not speaking, just being here, and maybe that’s the answer.
Maybe I don’t have to have it all figured out yet, and it’s okay to sit here in the shade, pressed against the man who rebuilt himself from ashes and made space for me in the wreckage. Maybe it’s okay to rest for a second.
Piper did a session with Mason too. She volunteered even though she didn’t have to, and I canfeelthe difference in him. There’s a new softness in the way he touches me, his default scowl replaced with a little smile playing on his lips. Shifting behind me, he lets out a long, contented breath, like he finallybelongsin his own body again. He’s blooming, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The tension that’s been wound around his spine since the start of the season is finally loosening.
So whydo I still feel like shit about that fucking fifth place?
Luc had his session with Piper last, and she told me he said he’d grab a shower before coming by, but it’s been forever, and he still hasn’t shown up. No texts. No calls. Just empty space and silence where he usually is.
And Finn is nowhere either. He didn’t race today, since he didn’t make it to qualifying, and I haven’t seen him since the finish line. A prickle of guilt builds behind my ribs at the thought.
He gave up his race so I could ride.
Before I can spiral deeper into it, thatshittyold car he was driving in France sputters up the gravel and parks beside the bus.
We all look toward it, and I sigh. Of course, he needed to buy a car. We didn’t let him drive with us in the bus, and his team bus hit the road to Italy the day after my crash in Les Gets.
The guilt invades me completely then.
It’s always guilt with him. Always this sticky, swallowing thing I can’t crawl out of, no matter how much I try.
The passenger door flies open, and Luc practically launches himself out, arms overflowing with greasy cardboard boxes and a triumphant grin on his face.
“Viva l’Italia!” he yells as if we’re standing in the streets of Rome and not behind a half-scorched race bus in a dusty gravel lot.
Mason’s thigh shakes under my cheek as he cracks up. “What does that even mean?”
Luc shrugs, kicking the door shut behind him. “The fuck I know. I just really love pizza.”
Finn climbs out of the driver’s side a second later, hair messy, sleeves rolled up his forearms in a way that makes my mouth go dry. He’s carrying more boxes, his expressionsoft, but his eyes flick straight to me like he canfeelthe pit I’ve been sinking into.
I sit up when Luc starts tossing pizza boxes at everyone, then collapses in a heap beside Mason and me. He presses a kiss to my cheek that makes my whole body flash hot before he steals Toulouse from me with an exaggerated kiss to the rat’s head and sets him on his shoulder like he’s part of his outfit. Toulouse blinks sleepily and yawns, unimpressed.
I stare at the pizza. “What’s all this?”
“We’re celebrating,” he says simply. “Pretty Boy’s first World Cup win this season.”
Mason huffs. “Only managed it thanks tohim.” He nods his chin toward Finn, whose eyes are on the ground as he sits down and tears a slice free.
“You’re still the one who rode,” he mumbles. “Still the one who won that shit.”
