Page 217 of Twisted Trails
Fuck.
A chuckle follows the sound my traitorous diaphragm just made, and my head whips left, my short braid swinging like it wants to throw hands for me.
“What?” Otis asks, already halfway to looking guilty, like I’ve caught him with a hand in the cookie jar. Which, knowing him, wouldn’t be a stretch.
“You laughed,” I accuse.
“No, that was a concerned wheeze.”
“Cool. Thanks. Really feeling the team spirit.”
“Sorry,” he mutters, eyes dropping back to his front wheel, but he’s back to grinning.
“Shut up and spin,” I grumble, trying to swallow the lump crawling up my throat. It’s just nerves. That’s all. Big race jitters. Normal shit. At least for me.
Except there’s nothing normal about today.
We’re all lined up on the rollers at the top of the hill, warming up for the final World Cup race of the season.
Snowshoe.
Luc is to my right, legs spinning smooth and fast, sunglasses perched on his nose like we’re just on holiday. Mason is next to him, jaw locked, eyes forward, already in the zone, and in front of us, arms crossed, cap pulled low, is Finn, in full team manager mode. He’s stone-faced and watching everything, but when he catches me looking, his mouth twitches.
He steps up to my side, hooks a finger around the end of the braid that barely brushes my collarbone, and tugs. “Relax, baby girl.”
Luc glances over, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses, but his grin is all too visible as he rests his elbows on his bars. “Petite,are you nervous?”
“Nope. Not one bit.”
If the French menace smells blood, he’ll pounce, and that’s not happening right now.
He smirks anyway, like he knows I’m lying.
BecauseI amnervous.
So damn nervous.
Last season was my first racing in the men’s elite league as myself, and I was still recovering and figuring out how far I could push my body without breaking it again. Somehow, I still managed to place fourth in the overall.
Fourth.
The only three riders ahead of me were the ones warming up beside me now.
My team.
This year, there is no ghostly weight pressing against my ribs every time I draw breath. There’s still pain, and there always will be pain, but it’s the kind I manage, not the kind that manages me. The medications are down to a whisper on the worst days, and the crash lives more in scar tissue than nightmares now.
Which is all thanks to my therapist. She’s so good, Imade sure the guys could talk to her, too, and they all jumped at the opportunity. And yeah, we all still spiral sometimes, but now we spiral together. We catch each other. We choose to talk.
This season, we’re all in top form. Mentally and physically, and so close in points, that the outcome of this race will decide the overall winner.
Otis is sitting comfortably in fourth, and he’s glowing like a Labrador who just got adopted. He’s not even pretending to be mad about missing the podium. He’s just happy to be here, and I’m still so damn glad to have him on this team.
Luc won the overall last season—his fourth, even if not in a row—and became the legend he was always destined to be in this sport. Mason was right behind him, and Otis pulled third.
But this year?
Maybe, maybe—it’s mine.
