Page 149 of Bend

The next half hour disappears into adjustments.

Small ones. Nothing overly dramatic when they’ve barely had enough time on these bikes to establish what’s machine, what’s road and what’s just the Isle of Man being completely fucking unlike anywhere else they’ve ridden.

I’m leaning over Wolfe’s front end when one of the sponsor mechanics steps closer, looking down at the setup sheet beside my hand.

“You’re taking compression out already?”

“A little.”

“They’ve barely run the baseline.”

“They ran it all morning.”

“Not at full pace.”

“Which is why I’m making a small change, not rebuilding the fork.”

He looks at the sheet again, then toward Andre on the other side of the bay.

“Andre, you sure you want her moving away from the baseline this early?”

I straighten. There it is. Not enough to openly question me, just enough to skip straight past me and look for Andre’s approval instead.

I’m already opening my mouth, ready to explain exactly why I want the change, but Andre doesn’t even glance up from Talon’s bike before answering.

“If Echo wants it changed, change it.”

The mechanic pauses. “I’m just saying these setups came directly from—”

“And I’m saying she knows my fucking riders.”

Andre finally glances over.

Not at him.

At me.

“You comfortable with it?”

“Yeah.”

“Then do it.”

That’s it.

He goes straight back to work. Simple as that. There's no big speech, or show of defending me. Andre doesn’t hover while I explain myself or double-check the numbers because I’m new or because these bikes belong to someone else.

He trusts me.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the woman he hired because he desperately needed another set of hands and became someone he expects to know what the fuck she’s doing.

The realization lands strangely hard.

****

That night, the house finally goes quiet sometime after midnight.

Not completely.