Page 44 of Rogue Riders Duet

I had wondered when he left, but not enough to do anything about it.

“Mon ami…” I start, reaching for some kind of reset button.

“I’m not your fucking friend, Delacroix.”

And with that, he heads straight down the track for Dane and the rookie.

Cool. Very cool.

That’s two for two.

I run a hand down my face and huff out a laugh. “Well, Toulouse, looks like it’s just you and me again.”

Who needs actual friends when you’ve got a rat that bites strangers and a mother who calls twice a week to ask whether you’re still alive?

I glance back toward Payne, still standing on the track, silent and stormy. At least with him, I know I’m not the problem.

Toulouse’s whiskers tickle my cheek, and I pet him lightly, just to feel something.

“You’re the only one that gets me, mon amour,” I whisper, tapping his nose. “The only one.”

He squeaks, then curls closer.

And I pretend that’s enough.

It has to be until I can find the right kind of noise again.

I’ve given up on the right kind of silence completely.

TEN

Practice is chaos in the best way.

There’s no timing or pressure, just the mountain, the track, and the flood of riders chasing lines. You ride down, stop where you want, hike back up, ride the same section again if it pissed you off the first time. No one cares because it’s mutual respect, unspoken rules, and adrenaline-coded chaos.

I’ve hit the track four times already, and I’m still vibrating from the rush. My legs burn, my lungs hurt, and pretty much everything in my body does right now, but I want more. There’s a gnawing edge of nausea curling low in my gut, probably from the meds, the heat, or just pushing too hard.

But I don’t care.

I need another run.

If I don’t keep the adrenaline pumping, I’ll start to feel my body, and that’s a big no.

I round a corner and slow my pace, legs still buzzing from the last stretch. Finn is standing near a brutal section of the course with three juniors from his team surrounding him. Their bikes rest against trees, and their helmets are off, as they give him all their attention. He’s pointing to a section with a long, gloved finger, then traces something through the air.

I can’t hear what he’s saying from here, but I don’t need to. I know exactly how he’s explaining it.

I had the luxury of that once—Finn Greer looking out for me.

Finn never rushes, never talks you down, but eases you into understanding. He gives you space to fail without ever making you feel small for trying.

And I missed the feeling for seven years straight.

He listens with his whole body, like whatever you’re saying might be the most important thing in the world, like you might be, and when you’re seventeen and everything feels too big, too much, that kind of attention means everything.

He was always there when it mattered, but never loud about it. He showed up without being asked, brought water before I even knew I was thirsty, and yeah, maybe he was my brother’s best friend and too old, too off-limits, too everything.

It didn’t matter.