Page 68 of Rogue Riders Duet

God, even the UCI are dickheads.

“Course. And I told you last time, I’m Dane,” my brother answers.

“Sure,” Jim says with a noncommittal grunt. Without further ado, he drops Mason’s bike into the tight little gap on my other side. Not quite Luc-level intrusive, but still way too close.

Mason glances toward a quieter corner behind us. “There’s another spot back there.”

Jim waves him off. “I’m not hauling this bloody bike around again like a mule when there’s a perfectly good space here. Sit down.”

Mason mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse but drops onto his bike next to me anyway. Our shoulders don’t touch, but they’re close. So close that if I breathe too deeply, we might accidentally share air.

I glance at him. He glances at me. And we both snap our eyes back down to our handlebars like teenagers in a rom-com who accidentally brushed hands.

This is so fucking embarrassing.

Jim’s voice cuts through my spiraling as he asks Dane, “He already in the zone? Or can he talk?”

I lift my head. “What’s up?”

Jim beams. “Good to meet you, mate. I’m Jim. Heard a lot about you.”

Mason groans under his breath, and yeah, that’s definitely a twitch at the corner of Jim’s mouth, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. At me? At Mason? I have no idea. I just sit there and try to remember how to breathe normally.

“Right,” Jim says after a beat when he realizes I won’t give him an answer. “I’ll let you concentrate.”

Silence falls over our group, and it’s not the good kind. It’s the heavy, smothering kind that makes your ears ring from the pressure of trying too hard not to exist. The awkwardness makes me even more nervous, which results, of course, in another hiccup.

Luc chuckles beside me just as Finn snorts, and I don’t even need to look to know he’s smiling. And, cherry on the fucking cake, Mason lets out this sharp little breath, almost a laugh. Almost.

Just perfect.

I stare down at my handlebars, my cheeks blazing, and then, like clockwork, I hiccup again.

Kill. Me. Now.

FOURTEEN

Wind slices through the trees, the sound needle-thin and biting through my helmet vents. The storm the UCI has been nervy about is almost here, clouds bruising darker by the second. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a low growl that vibrates through the soles of my shoes.

My back hurts, even though I had a long physio session yesterday, and I shift my weight, restless as I look around for him. I don’t know why I care this much. Why I keep trying to get a better look at Petit Crews, hoping I’ll find something in the curve of his shoulders that will make this gnawing feeling make sense.

The holding area at the top of the mountain is a cramped stretch of packed dirt bordered by pine trees and temporary fencing. We are lined up in order of qualifying, spaced out by staggered markers. A metal start gate squats at the edge of the drop-in ramp, one rider at a time feeding into it as the UCI crew barks out countdowns over tinny radios.

I angle to the side, trying to see around Raine’s oversized fucking helmet, but all I get is the back of Petit’s.

Greer has already dropped in, so Payne is at the gate, all stiff-backed, with a just-as-stiff Petit Crews next in line.

I didn’t get to talk to him after the physio session, didn’t get to ask how it went, or say something that might’ve meant something, like asking about the scars on his stomach and hip.

But would he have told me anything real anyway?

I’d trusted him, opening up about my temper, about things I don’t share with anyone, but what does he do? Fucking ghosts me.

At qualifying yesterday, our eyes met across the pit, and I thought he might say something, but he just looked away and then walked off like I wasn’t even there. And then today, he tells me we’re not friends.

What the actual fuck?

As if I didn’t carry him across the lot. As if I wasn’t decent for once. Merde, I was ready to give up my physio slot for him. And I know I wouldn’t have qualified first if I hadn’t gotten my back loosened up before. Whether he realizes it or not, I might’ve sacrificed a potential win for him.