Page 61 of Over the Limit

“Like you’d fucking know.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” I lift my hands up in surrender. “Look, Rossi. We have a race to prepare for. Can we go back to that for now? I’m sorry you and Blair are going through whatever it is you’re going through, but we need to table it until after the checkered flag. You good with that?”

See, Johann? I’m putting my teammate first. Putting the team first.

“Whatever, Evans.” The muscle tics in his jaw and the tendons in his neck go taut. “Blair and I have an understanding and lines we don’t cross. There’s history there you know nothing about.”

No doubt he can see the skepticism in my expression. My poker face can’t mask this one. I don’t want to know about your history, mate. I give zero fucks.

“Blair . . . she’s different. She’s okay with all this. With me being me.”

I snort and think of Blair’s analogy about being a toy on the shelf. I recall the hurt in her eyes, and it infuriates me. “Or maybe she wasn’t?”

“What the fuck? You’re supposed to be on my side. Teammates and all that.”

Do not engage. Step the fuck back. Nothing you say is going to change his delusions of grandeur.

The team.

The race.

Deep breath and plaster on a smile.

“Okay, teammate,” I say, forcing as much false cheer into my voice and expression as I can. “Time to focus. Get our prep in. Get shit done.”

“Yeah. Whatever,” he grumbles and then turns, slamming his door.

I roll my eyes. Such a prick.

But shutting the door doesn’t shut him out like I’d hoped it would. He’s already in my head. His words. His arrogance. His fucking entitled arse.

I slip my headphones on and take a seat to chill out, but I’m restless. Antsy. Needing to move but wanting to avoid the crowds amassing everywhere outside.

And now I feel trapped.

She’s texted me. A daily countdown.

And rather than pick up and invite the chaos I created, I punished myself for it. I hiked the hills above Monaco. I did a century on my road bike. I beat the shit out of myself in the gym.

Then I forced myself into the simulator for hours upon hours until my eyes hurt and my tailbone ached.

Anything and everything to drill into my head what’s important. The work. The team. The championship I crave.

And yet when I close my eyes and lean my head back, it’s her I fucking see.

It’s her I still fucking want.

It’s Blair—the only distraction I’ve ever allowed in my career. Fuck if I have a clue what to do about it. My new damn habit.

I gave us twenty-one days to cool things off. To make sure we understand the consequences and the possible fallout.

And it just doesn’t seem to fucking matter in my head.

If I give in to what I want—her—my disloyalty to my teammate ruins my team.

If I hold out then my distraction over Blair does.

It’s a no-fucking-win situation I’m rather sick of being honorable about.