Page 119 of Rogue Riders Duet

Even if he’s not, Mini Crews is definitely hiding something.

“You can’t stop staring at that kid, can you?” Dad’s voice cuts through the pit’s quiet hum.

He’s crouched beside the back tire of my bike, checking the chain tension with methodical hands. He’s already got grease on his knuckles and a smear across his forearm, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

That serene expression is almost enough to draw my focus back to this side of the parking lot, dragging it away from the vehicle three spaces over. I know that smile well. Or, I used to.

The calm before the throttle.

Austria has one of the best motocross tracks, full of hidden, winding dirt trails tucked into the forest beside the mountain we’re racing down. Letting loose on them between qualifying and the race is something I always look forward to. It’s tradition, a way to shake out the nerves.

So, I should be focused on that, but instead, I keep stealing glances at Mini Crews.

I grunt and finally drag my gaze away. “I think he’s doping.”

Dad stops mid-check on my bike chain to glance up at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I rub the back of my neck. “He was fucking sus yesterday with the doping test.”

Dad straightens and tosses the rag over his shoulder. “That’s a hell of an accusation.”

I shrug one shoulder, but it all feels heavy. It would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? Like how that wiry little bastard managed to take first place in qualifying today, with me and Luc behind him in second and third.

My gaze goes straight to him again, trying to puzzle it out. He’s sitting on the ground in front of his bus, his back leaning against the side panel, his head tilted back, eyes closed. His arms lay limp at his sides, hands resting on his knees, letting the sunlight catch on the sharp line of his jaw.

Before he fell asleep, he spent an hour tinkering with his bike, tightening bolts that didn’t need it and checking tire pressure at least three times, and now he’s just sitting there sleeping?

What the fuck is going on with him?

Why isn’t he inside the bus in his damn bed?

I glance at the bus again and remember how it smelled when I stepped in there yesterday. Stale air, sickness clinging to the walls, like the whole place was sweating out Dane’s fever. The guy looked half-dead, pale as chalk.

Yeah, okay. Maybe I wouldn’t want to sit in there either.

Dad clears his throat, drawing my attention back to him. “What exactly happened to make you think that?”

“We had to do doping tests yesterday. He stalled, hard. Kept insisting he wanted to do blood, refused to piss in a cup.”

His eyebrows rise. “Did he say why?”

“Apparently, he’s only got one kidney.”

“Ah.” He nods, like that explains everything.

But it doesn’t, not for me. “Still acted sus as fuck.”

Dad sighs, that long-suffering sound he’s perfected after a lifetime of dealing with me. “Mason, blood tests are more accurate than urine. If he is hiding something, choosing that method wouldn’t do him any favors. And you should maybe consider that you might be jumping to conclusions because of… well…” He throws his arms out, encompassing so much in the single gesture. “Anyway, we worry when we care, is all.”

I ignore the insinuations. “Unless they figured something out,” I mutter. “Something that only shows up in urine.”

Dad shoots me a look. “Right. Because the Crews boys have figured out some doping scheme that the UCI and WADA haven’t caught onto yet.”

I glare at the bus again. “I don’t know. They’ve got money.”

Dad follows my gaze, then snorts. “Sure looks like it.” His eyes skim over the dented side panels, the duct-taped window, and the faint oil stain under one wheel. “Real picture of luxury.”

Fair. No one was surprised when that heap blew a tire, even though I figured it’d be the engine that gave out first.