Hadley shifts beside me, restless now, picking up on the tension even if she doesn’t understand it.
“Is he going again?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer, but my voice isn’t as steady as I want it to be.
Because something isn’t right.
Not with the ride.
Not with the equipment.
Not with the way everything suddenly feels like it’s slipping just enough to matter.
And as Jace steps closer to the chute again, hand bracing against the rail, attention locked in like he’s about to put himself right back into it.
My breath catches.
Because this time…
it doesn’t feel like a controlled risk.
It feels like something’s about to go very, very wrong.
Chapter eleven
This Isn't Random
Jace
The moment that rider hits the dirt, something shifts in a way I can’t ignore, and it has nothing to do with adrenaline or the kind of edge that comes from stepping out of the arena.
I’ve been around this long enough to know the difference between a bad ride and something that doesn’t sit right, and what just happened doesn’t fall into the first category no matter how clean anyone tries to make it look.
The crew moves like it’s routine, resetting the chute, checking the gate, getting ready to roll straight into the next ride. I don’t step back with the rest of them. I move in instead, closing the distance with a steady pace that doesn’t draw attention but doesn’t leave room to be ignored either.
“Hold up a second,” I say, keeping my tone even as I reach the rail.
The handler glances over, already half-turned back to the gate. “We’re on a rotation,” he says, like that should end the conversation before it starts.
“I’m not stopping the show,” I reply, resting my forearm against the metal and leaning in just enough to get a better look. “I’m asking you to cycle that latch again.”
There’s a beat where he considers pushing back, then something in my expression must settle it because he reaches for the release arm and resets it.
I watch closely this time.
The motion should be smooth, a clean release and reset with no hesitation. Instead there’s a hitch, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice unless they were looking for it. The metal catches just slightly before it snaps into place.
That’s all it takes.
“Again,” I say.
He does it, slower this time, and the same thing happens.
I nod once to myself, then reach down and press the latch with my thumb, feeling the resistance firsthand. “That delay,” I say,more to confirm it than explain it, “that’s enough to throw a rider off before the gate even opens clean.”
The handler shrugs, but it’s tighter now. “It held.”
“Barely,” I answer, straightening. “And barely doesn’t cut it out here.”
