Page 108 of Rogue Riders Duet

Jesus.

I press my thighs together against the ache between them and scoop my phone off the bed where it’s fallen from my hoodie pocket. The screen flashes to life, and my heart sinks. “Shit. We’re late for track walk.”

He groans and flops back down dramatically. “Fuck track walk. C’mere. We were making progress. I was about to emotionally support you into next week.”

“I gotta go.” I’m already sliding on my shoes. “This is not how I get kicked off the circuit. Not by skipping a mandatory track walk to make out with a French himbo in bed with a rat.”

“Wow. Rude to Toulouse and me. That was premium-grade cuddling.” Luc lifts his head again, blinking at me. “Wait, did you just say we were about to make out?”

Yes. And if I stay in this room one second longer, I will crawl back into that bed and make some very bad decisions.

“No. See you later, Delacroix.”

“Coward,” he calls after me as I yank open the door and nearly collide with a chest.

“Whoa,” the guy says, blinking down at me with his hand raised in a fist, mid-knock. Otis Fisher, top ten rider and one of Luc’s teammates, probably here to drag his fearless leader out of bed.

We both freeze.

He stares. I stare back and watch how his brows lift. “I was looking for Delacroix…”

I nod, brushing past him. “In bed.”

“Wait… that’s who you’ve been talking about?” I hear Otis ask right before the door closes, somewhere between shocked and delighted, but I don’t stick around to hear Luc’s response.

The lobby is already buzzing with riders, backpacks slung over their shoulders. I break into a sprint, ignoring how flustered I must look.

Dane is out cold in his bunk when I slip into the bus, which is a relief. I don’t have the emotional capacity to revisit last night’s fight or explain why I look like this.

Does he know I kissed his best friend? Will he be able to tell somehow?

Fuck.

I take the fastest cold shower known to man, two minutes, tops. As I towel off, I notice something strange. My hip doesn’t ache as much as usual. The pain is still there but dulled, like someone turned the volume down a little.

Huh.

Maybe it was the soft bed.

Or the warm company.

That thought sends an unwelcome tingle back between my thighs and somewhere stupid in my chest. I shove it down, hard, and take a couple of painkillers anyway, just in case. I’m not about to jinx a good morning.

Then it’s the binder, a roll of socks, and a fresh hoodie with the hood up. Armor locked.

I grab a bottle of water, an energy drink, and an apple from the refrigerator and shove everything into a drawstring backpack. Then I hesitate, open the refrigerator again, take another bottle, and grab a sticky note from the notepad wedged by the stove.

Off to track walk. Drink water.

I stick the note on the bottle, then set it carefully on the little shelf next to Dane’s bunk, within arm’s reach for when he wakes up. He doesn’t even stir.

The gondola station is at the edge of the pits, part of the ultra-modern setup that screams Austria’s racing royalty. After France, this is the biggest downhill stronghold in Europe, and it shows.

The gondolas are small, four-person max, but I catch an empty one and slide in alone, tucking into the corner.

As it climbs, the view hits—rugged peaks, trees like splintered glass. I trace the track lines carved into the slopes like veins, and the buzz in my bones builds again, the one I understand.

Past Alaina loved riding here.