Page 207 of Twisted Trails
“Officials from the UCI.”
I chuckle and glance up at Mason with a crooked smile. “They definitely want to talk to you.”
He shrugs. “I don’t think so. I’ve had enough emails and calls to last a lifetime. They wouldn’t come all this way just to talk about it again.”
Mason standing up to the UCI and refusing to stay silent forced their hand. They’ve hired professionals to put new systems in place. People who actually give a damnabout rider well-being—allriders. Juniors, Elites, Privateers. There’s finally a real safe space to talk about sexual assault, bullying, and mental health. A place that listensandacts when something is wrong.
It’s the right move, theonlymove, and I’m so damn proud of Mason for making it happen and for shaking the sport awake.
“They asked to talk to you, Al,” Finn says quietly, something wary in his voice, making my stomach drop.
Fuck.
Can they stop me from working with the team, after all?
I ease off Mason’s lap and smooth down my hair. It’s a mess, awkward now, at a weird length, and always in my eyes as I grow it back out, but I don’t have time to care.
Finn takes my hand and gives it a squeeze as we walk to the door, where two officials are standing just outside the threshold in the cold.
“Miss Crews,” the older one says, his breath visible in the air.
“Good morning,” I answer, trying hard to sound polite and not let my voice shake. Finn’s hand in mine helps. Ican’tmess this up, not for me, and especially not for the rest of them. “Would you like to come in? I can get you some coffee or something.”
“No thanks,” the younger one says, glancing at his clipboard. “This’ll be a short visit. We don’t want to keep you long, but we have an offer.”
I tilt my head. “An offer?”
What the?
“Have you been keeping up with our socials?” Mr. Clipboard asks.
I snort. “Not since my team manager made me block all of you.”
Finn huffs a laugh and squeezes my hand, because yeah, heso made me do that after he caught me doom-scrolling at two in the morning, shoulders clenched and jaw tight, muttering replies I’d never send. He sat on my phone until I agreed to delete the apps, but part of me still remembers every word, post, comment thread, and sweaty Reddit theory and rage-filled Facebook rant.
Half the world called me a fraud, the other half called me a feminist icon. Some thought I was the reason the sport was falling apart. Some said I’d just saved it, but no matter what they thought ofme, whether I was brave or manipulative or both, it was clear who the real clown in this circus was.
The UCI.
They became the meme, the punchline, because it didn’t matter if people were screaming that I cheated or cheering me on—the UCIlet it happen.
“We just announced that there will be some changes next season, since there were some… let’s say, developments,” the older UCI guy adds.
“Cut the bullshit. Just say what you came to say,” Luc says from behind me.
I turn to find him and Mason standing right there, both rats nestled in Luc’s hood, looking just as curious as their daddies.
The guy sighs. “There was a petition, signed by the entire men’s elite field.”
My stomach flips. “Okay.”
“They’re refusing to start next season if you’re not allowed to race.”
Holy shit?
“Wait. You mean, I can go back to the women’s division?”
“No,” the older official says. “They’re asking for you tostayin men’s elite.”
