Page 71 of Rogue Riders Duet

The slow creep of failure snakes through my blood. It climbs into my throat and settles behind my eyes. I try to swallow it down, but I can’t.

I scan the pit for my own media guy, my crew, someone.

But they’re not looking at me.

Because I’m not even second. Or third.

My gaze swings to the hot seat. Raine is gone, of course. But Petit is still there, stiff-backed in the second-place chair, next to Payne in third. Crews is watching me, our eyes meet, and I brace for the dismissal, the indifference, but he doesn’t look away. He sees me.

He’s frowning and doesn’t look smug or triumphant, just confused, almost asking, What the fuck happened to you?

And I wish I knew.

I wish I had an answer that didn’t make me feel like I’m slipping, like the part of me that was made for this—this fire, speed, and fame—is fading. I was built for the spotlight, for the storm. Today, I was a flash without fire, a spotlight with no soul, and noise with no note.

I drag my gaze down over him, like I’m trying to find balance in the shape of his body, the curve of his shoulder, and the tension in his jaw. I drink him in, and I huff when I catch myself doing it.

Looks like you happened, Petit.

And the fact that you wouldn’t even look at me until now.

I glance at the big screen and see that the camera that should be pointed at me is locked on Raine’s smirking, golden-boy face. The crowd is still cheering for him as I stand there for a beat too long, helmet still on, frozen in the shadow of someone else’s moment.

My gaze drifts back, and I find Petit again through the blur of color and motion. Then, the first raindrop hits. Right on my goggle lens, smearing everything out of focus, and it feels like the sky has been holding its breath, waiting for this exact second to exhale.

The clouds open, and the rain falls hard. Fast. A downpour with purpose. It seems even the storm knows I lost. All around me, chaos erupts. Fans scream and scatter, techs rush to protect equipment, and tents flap under the sudden weight of water. Boots thud against the ground, gear bags are dragged, and the shouted orders bounce between earpieces and panic.

And I just stand there.

I peel off my helmet with numb fingers and let it dangle at my side as I tip my head back, allowing the rain to hit me full in the face. It drips off my lashes, streams down my cheeks, and soaks through my jersey until the fabric clings like shame.

I push my tongue out. Catch a drop.

It tastes like home.

Like Bonneville.

Like summer days before anyone knew my name.

Bombing hills with no brakes and no plan, laughing until my stomach hurt, free in a way that didn’t come with contracts or qualifiers, back before Luc Delacroix™ was a brand. Before I became something people expected to perform, to shine, to never fucking fall apart.

The sound of the storm rushes in my ears. Wind, water, and something high-pitched and thin, like tinnitus. But maybe that’s already living inside me, a scream that never quite makes it out.

I always thought I had control. Of the bike. Of the brand.

Of myself.

But now, everything is slipping.

I kind of want to cry.

And just when I think I actually might, as the static threatens to shatter something deep in my chest, that other sound cuts through.

Hiccup.

That stupid, nervous, adorable little hiccup that’s been haunting me since he let it slip. And just like that, I want to punch a wall. Or fuck something. Or maybe lie down and let the rain rinse this version of me away, the one who’s not fast enough.

Not enough.